Resurrection

Either the birds are all dead or it’s before dawn.

Keegan said the other day that she’d like to be a bird and I thought for a second about categories and kinds and Aristotle and the birdness of the bird and imagined the phenomenology of being-as-bird and said yeah, maybe I would, too. The only sound is the sound of the air conditioner humming as it conditions the air. Some nebulous thought about potential deeper meaning regarding conditioning and sense perception begins to form but disappears before it becomes coherent.

There is no light in the room but it’s not completely dark. I can differentiate between the the different shades of early morning: my black swamp of blankets, the flickering gradient of the window curtain, the ominous grey that pours in through the window. The black of the back of my eyelids and patternless, meaningless phosphenes.

I use my bedsheet as a curtain because it’s the best curtain I have and there’s a light outside my bedroom window that never shuts off despite my routine complaints to management. A brief thought, barely conscious, about that one Smiths song. I lay for a couple more minutes in my swamp, eyes closed, listening to the air conditioner. Another morning waking up like something out of Lovecraft rather than Jesus Christ.

I open my eyes and rise and think about how soon after me the birds will too. I put clothes on my body and headphones in my ears and listen to the day’s podcasts. Raw almonds for breakfast because I’m out of greek yogurt. A brief thought about did Aristotle eat yogurt. Almost worth googling, I think and then forget. The birds in Texas are like the squirrels in Newark, i.e., fucking dementors. They don’t so much sing as screech incomprehensible demonic mantras.

No screeching yet, though, in this predawn reprieve. I eat the almonds one by one and listen to Audio Dharma and as Andrea Fella points out she’s not pontificating here but maybe it is wise to keep death on our minds–maybe it is useful, you don’t have to believe me but maybe just try going through the day thinking about death and see how you feel–I take a second to process the obvious connection to Being and Time and wonder what did Heidegger know about Buddhism and to be honest the question is almost worth googling or writing a dissertation on but then another thought takes its place: has Morrissey ever read the gospel of Thomas.

The air conditioner is still humming. And it was nice to have family here but I am glad to be alone. And what does it take to be the son of god.

I put on my shoes and it’s like that one Bright Eyes song except it’s me, grotesquely lanky in a pink polo, blue denim and Clarks. Ethan is still asleep and his door is closed. I tie my shoes, grab my bike, head out the door, and pray the birds are kind to me today.

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