Thursday, March 09, 2006
Purring and hoo-ing, bobbing up and down.
I would like to share with you something that really made a mark on my day. One night, a while ago, we had some heavy rain that lasted for about 20 minutes, followed by the odd sprinkle until the sun reappeared. On the verge of the downpour ending, a funny thing happened. As the rain was still thrashing, beating and rolling around on the roof upon the building that makes up the left wall of my alley – the sun started to show through, as if nervously peeping to see what it looked like when it rained. As the downpour was hitting the spouting so hard, it caused the water to bounce back up 30 centimetres or so until the water was so thick in the air, that at any one moment it was at just the right consistency to create a rainbow – although it wasn’t quite a rainbow – it was like a bright light, a refraction of vast colours with the an intensity equalling the strength of a small sun. You couldn’t look at it for very long before needing to turn away, allowing your eyes to recover.
When the rain stopped, so too did the light. I thought little of it for the next few days, and did nothing about it until I was lying on my back one afternoon, contemplating if a pigeon would taste more like a chicken or a duck – then unexpectedly, one of the very birds lands upon the spouting, on the same spot of the rainbow. Not something to get too excited about – slight coincidence right? But then another one joins it – to its left. They start purring or hoo-ing away – whatever sound it is they make, bobbing their heads up and down in perfect unison, somewhat ritually. When one bird’s head was up, the other bird’s was down. Up and down, up and down, purring and hoo-ing. This became quite amusing – and continued for some time until they were joined by two more on the first birds left. More joined, this time on it’s right, and then more and more, until the whole spouting was covered with pigeons. Purring and hoo-ing, bobbing up and down, they were making noise so inconceivably loud, you couldn’t have heard yourself unless you shouted. At this stage I had risen, walking back and forth down the length of my alley trying to ascertain the most accurate number of birds as possible. There must have been over 300 of them and some were now even gathered on the adjacent spouting upon the other building, and they too bobbed up and down just as rhythmically and consistently as the first ones. Then, with a suddenness to scare even the most hard-boiled Horror enthusiast, they pissed off – startled by the Town bell signalling Noon – in a great gust of feathers, foul air and a rain of beige coloured bird shit.
The next day it occurred again much in the same way, which made the event even more puzzling. There was the same number of birds which always started with that one, individual, rogue pigeon – followed closely by few more, which were followed by another few, again and again until there were enough pigeons present, to establish your own flock of international Carrier Pigeons. Again, they did the same thing as the day before – purring and hoo-ing, bobbing up and down rhythmically until they would abandon their perches again, sacred off by the noon bell.
Once this had happened everyday for more than a week – the walls of my alleyway turning a milky white from the build up of faeces, I decided to finally take a look and see what was up there – I was extremely fascinated to know what exactly was in the spouting. It became a favourite drinking game of mine, I’d have a swig of my bottle (whatever it may be) get up from my cardboard mattress, point at the spouting and shout, “If you don’t come down, I’m gonna hurl a turd up there!” And then I would sit back down, take another swig, think of another new insult and point and shout again.
As the guy who owned the building made and sold pillows, which bore this seemingly holy gathering place for pigeons – getting onto the roof would be as easy as urinating on a hotdog stand on a pavement only 3 feet below. Lets look at the likeliness of a Man who sells pillows for a living turning out to be anything other than a weak, compromising middle aged softy – my assumption was partly right.
Dressed in a nice Suit top that I found caught in the wire mesh of a drainpipe I approached the owner of the building and told him that my son, who had visited friends in the building across the street, had thrown a Playstation controller upon his roof, in a state of deep frustration and aggression. The owner was suspicious, the fat within his lower eyelid, which twinged sceptically upon observing me contained a larger volume of fat then the entire contents of my neck. He complied. I followed him up to the roof where he watched me snoop around, acting like I knew the general whereabouts of where controller would be. After milling around the front section of the roof closest to the road, I made my way to the spouting covered with Pigeons – purring and hoo-ing, bobbing up and down. This time they all departed as a result of my obtrusiveness, and although it sounds rather silly, I got a sense that the birds were more than aggravated as they left – several swooping, spitting and shitting on me (Up until then, I had no idea Pigeons could spit – unless…it was something else entirely?). Kneeling down, I could see what it was – the object precisely in the spot of the intense coloured light, the pigeon’s obsession. It was, in fact, another pigeon – A fat pigeon, with a yellow crest and white feathers.
Now even I, a person with dwindling intelligence could tell, that this Pigeon was one of the higher, more significant Pigeons in it’s society – Probably a great pigeon, a leader or one with great social standing nonetheless. I didn’t know. Nor could I ever really be sure. (I should make a note that I wasn’t exactly sober at this stage.) The only thing that I gave a toot about, being an indigent, dirty bum, was what was in its mouth, the thing it presumably choked and died from: A Diamond Ring.
It made sense now – All of it. That intense light in the spouting was actually the refraction of sun light through the crystal diamond. The reason why I couldn’t see the Diamond after the rain had stopped was probably because the strength of the downpour had shifted the pigeon lower down the spouting. The gathering of hundreds of birds I attributed to the social standing and influence of the dead bird itself. As I said earlier, it looked to be a significant bird – surely missed – and this behaviour of the hundreds of others accompanying it well beyond its passing, was probably due to their inability to comprehend death, or an indication to the bond they shared with the creature when it was still alive. Jesus! The way I rattle on about Pigeons, You could mistake me for talking about a class of people.
Placing my body in front of my hands - In a way so the Pillow-guy couldn’t see what it was I had, or what I was doing, I slowly removed the ring from the Pigeons gaping mouth or beak. The ring was wedged in very firmly. With a firm grip and a sudden twist, I snapped the bird’s neck with unusual pleasure – stripping the bird of its poisoned apple and placed it calmly in my pocket.
Of all the things I imagined to be up there, not one came close to what I found. Sitting on my cardboard mattress eyeing the ring with a feeling of humble content, I made a promise to myself that I would never consider exchanging my treasure for any mere single pleasure – and with that thought, I ended my night.
And, it is with little delight that I reveal to you, for how short a time that promised remained. Noon the next day, itching for a drink, the ring took on the form of different appearance. Ignorant to its immediate magnificence and of the extraordinary context in which I obtained it – I could only see the ring as a means of acquiring something greater.
I have to end it by saying: As dim-witted as I am, the ring and I went upon a journey. And in a few words, I can tell you I returned home, conditionally fulfilled with a Roast Chicken in my left and a box of Johnnie Walker – with its golden liquid, in the other.
When the rain stopped, so too did the light. I thought little of it for the next few days, and did nothing about it until I was lying on my back one afternoon, contemplating if a pigeon would taste more like a chicken or a duck – then unexpectedly, one of the very birds lands upon the spouting, on the same spot of the rainbow. Not something to get too excited about – slight coincidence right? But then another one joins it – to its left. They start purring or hoo-ing away – whatever sound it is they make, bobbing their heads up and down in perfect unison, somewhat ritually. When one bird’s head was up, the other bird’s was down. Up and down, up and down, purring and hoo-ing. This became quite amusing – and continued for some time until they were joined by two more on the first birds left. More joined, this time on it’s right, and then more and more, until the whole spouting was covered with pigeons. Purring and hoo-ing, bobbing up and down, they were making noise so inconceivably loud, you couldn’t have heard yourself unless you shouted. At this stage I had risen, walking back and forth down the length of my alley trying to ascertain the most accurate number of birds as possible. There must have been over 300 of them and some were now even gathered on the adjacent spouting upon the other building, and they too bobbed up and down just as rhythmically and consistently as the first ones. Then, with a suddenness to scare even the most hard-boiled Horror enthusiast, they pissed off – startled by the Town bell signalling Noon – in a great gust of feathers, foul air and a rain of beige coloured bird shit.
The next day it occurred again much in the same way, which made the event even more puzzling. There was the same number of birds which always started with that one, individual, rogue pigeon – followed closely by few more, which were followed by another few, again and again until there were enough pigeons present, to establish your own flock of international Carrier Pigeons. Again, they did the same thing as the day before – purring and hoo-ing, bobbing up and down rhythmically until they would abandon their perches again, sacred off by the noon bell.
Once this had happened everyday for more than a week – the walls of my alleyway turning a milky white from the build up of faeces, I decided to finally take a look and see what was up there – I was extremely fascinated to know what exactly was in the spouting. It became a favourite drinking game of mine, I’d have a swig of my bottle (whatever it may be) get up from my cardboard mattress, point at the spouting and shout, “If you don’t come down, I’m gonna hurl a turd up there!” And then I would sit back down, take another swig, think of another new insult and point and shout again.
As the guy who owned the building made and sold pillows, which bore this seemingly holy gathering place for pigeons – getting onto the roof would be as easy as urinating on a hotdog stand on a pavement only 3 feet below. Lets look at the likeliness of a Man who sells pillows for a living turning out to be anything other than a weak, compromising middle aged softy – my assumption was partly right.
Dressed in a nice Suit top that I found caught in the wire mesh of a drainpipe I approached the owner of the building and told him that my son, who had visited friends in the building across the street, had thrown a Playstation controller upon his roof, in a state of deep frustration and aggression. The owner was suspicious, the fat within his lower eyelid, which twinged sceptically upon observing me contained a larger volume of fat then the entire contents of my neck. He complied. I followed him up to the roof where he watched me snoop around, acting like I knew the general whereabouts of where controller would be. After milling around the front section of the roof closest to the road, I made my way to the spouting covered with Pigeons – purring and hoo-ing, bobbing up and down. This time they all departed as a result of my obtrusiveness, and although it sounds rather silly, I got a sense that the birds were more than aggravated as they left – several swooping, spitting and shitting on me (Up until then, I had no idea Pigeons could spit – unless…it was something else entirely?). Kneeling down, I could see what it was – the object precisely in the spot of the intense coloured light, the pigeon’s obsession. It was, in fact, another pigeon – A fat pigeon, with a yellow crest and white feathers.
Now even I, a person with dwindling intelligence could tell, that this Pigeon was one of the higher, more significant Pigeons in it’s society – Probably a great pigeon, a leader or one with great social standing nonetheless. I didn’t know. Nor could I ever really be sure. (I should make a note that I wasn’t exactly sober at this stage.) The only thing that I gave a toot about, being an indigent, dirty bum, was what was in its mouth, the thing it presumably choked and died from: A Diamond Ring.
It made sense now – All of it. That intense light in the spouting was actually the refraction of sun light through the crystal diamond. The reason why I couldn’t see the Diamond after the rain had stopped was probably because the strength of the downpour had shifted the pigeon lower down the spouting. The gathering of hundreds of birds I attributed to the social standing and influence of the dead bird itself. As I said earlier, it looked to be a significant bird – surely missed – and this behaviour of the hundreds of others accompanying it well beyond its passing, was probably due to their inability to comprehend death, or an indication to the bond they shared with the creature when it was still alive. Jesus! The way I rattle on about Pigeons, You could mistake me for talking about a class of people.
Placing my body in front of my hands - In a way so the Pillow-guy couldn’t see what it was I had, or what I was doing, I slowly removed the ring from the Pigeons gaping mouth or beak. The ring was wedged in very firmly. With a firm grip and a sudden twist, I snapped the bird’s neck with unusual pleasure – stripping the bird of its poisoned apple and placed it calmly in my pocket.
Of all the things I imagined to be up there, not one came close to what I found. Sitting on my cardboard mattress eyeing the ring with a feeling of humble content, I made a promise to myself that I would never consider exchanging my treasure for any mere single pleasure – and with that thought, I ended my night.
And, it is with little delight that I reveal to you, for how short a time that promised remained. Noon the next day, itching for a drink, the ring took on the form of different appearance. Ignorant to its immediate magnificence and of the extraordinary context in which I obtained it – I could only see the ring as a means of acquiring something greater.
I have to end it by saying: As dim-witted as I am, the ring and I went upon a journey. And in a few words, I can tell you I returned home, conditionally fulfilled with a Roast Chicken in my left and a box of Johnnie Walker – with its golden liquid, in the other.
Composed by Joel at 12:57 pm 
ARAMAN PROOLKS
An atypical itinerant homeless man. Honest, entertaining and refreshingly original.
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