Become a Fan
This is for your benefit, sweet heart.
By J E Thill
Monday, April 01, 2002
Rated "PG" by the Author.
Here is my summary. Birds, smoke and steak.
Sometimes there is a small noise that bridges still life to real life. The difference is that still life doesn't yell at you for staying out all night or farting in bed.
I was standing out on the balcony of my girlfriend's apartment, smoking a cigarette and figuring out the tolls from Chicago to Wisconsin, wondering if I had gotten enough dimes.
The Hyde Park parakeets had woken me up early. I had rolled over to see my betrothed, sleeping quietly, snuggling a stuffed hippo that a friend of mine had given her for Christmas.
I gave her a quiet kiss on the hip and stumbled out of bed, stepping over her snoring dog into the bathroom.
I ran the water in the tub, making sure it would be hot enough to peal back the funk. I let it run a little to hot, sticking my hand in the water, pulling back a scalded nub and burning my ass on the old time radiator that broils steak at a slow 350 degrees.
The water had settled down and I slid in, feeling like Bugs Bunny bathing in the cannibals pot.
After a couple minutes of making Jack stew, I stepped out of the bathroom out onto the balcony to have that smoke you all were so interested in.
The parakeets were out fixing up their spring dens, piles of twigs and wrappers, pushing them into little holes of telephone poles.
The birds were huge, not like those sissy little jobs you get in the pet shop but huge meat eating, dingo stealing birds.
No one knows where they came from or how they survive in the jungles of Chicago, but they pull it together alright, making due
with what little there is to take.
It just got me to thinking about how they could nest up with just about anything, working the fast food wrappers, bits of Styrofoam, (I guess it was to keep the heat from getting out through the roof.) and junk that we had discarded over the last couple of nights.
It all kind of froze for me, giving that still life I had mentioned earlier.
It brings a tear to your eye when you think about all that great stuff we leave on the ground for our little birdy friends.
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|writing style brings to mind H. Bogart style and a book about a young man growing up in NY posh boarding school; can't remember the book's name and too lazy to get up and find it. i would read more of your writing for the sense of adventure, unrest and searching it brings out in me. i like the unusual perspective of seeing things most wouldn't take the time to notice.|
|Reviewed by Teri
|I'm a bit biased, but I still think it's good. I.. yeah. The ends come back around and surprise you when you're not looking for them.|