Friday, November 4

Pigeons on my window sill

This one is here getting fatter each day. The other one, the girl pigeon sat on her egg for two whole days, guarding it ferociously. The third morning they were both gone, the egg and the girl pigeon. The crow ate the egg and I don't know what happened to the mom.

But I didn't get here to write about pigeons today.

What I had in mind was this revelation of sorts. No one falls in love in libraries or bookshops anymore. Those are things of yore that happened in films of 60's and 70's. There are few lost souls buried deep in their books, seeking a bit of quiet and solitude with the exceptions of that page on which their fingers rest. And a fleeting glance around the room and they notice that person there. A bit restless, a bit fidgety, mostly engrossed in the Volcano Lover, Sontag's novel.

These things don't happen much any more.

I'm listening to Charles Mingus belting out 'Take the train'. Wonderful wonderful jazz, you make a great accompaniment on the silentest day. You mesmerise my night. You make me want to get up and dance, oh you wonderful crooner! I step on it, in my tap dance shoes and fading tutu. I am a dancer again! I swish and baloosh and swing in the air, I jump high and what's more...I begin to fly...

No comments: