Dust On My Boots Part 7
Dust On My Boots
Part 7:
This Life Is For The Birds
by Nazel Pickens
I couldn’t sleep again this morning. Usually, I slumber like a docile lactose-engorged satiated lil’ babe in dreamland pretty damn well through the night, but my much welcomed snoozlin’ repose can sadly end sooner than I would prefer. This morning arrived particularly early. I was tossin’ and turnin’ long before the sky started a-changin’ to pre-dawn indigos and lavenders. It was still pitch black. But for some strange reason my mind was not racing about all the complete lameness that surrounds us in Their world… in the arcs, reasons, histories, details, and just plane trash of Their manufactured and meaningless pile of garbage They call society. No, for a pleasant change, I was being spun awake with all of the things I enthusiastically wanted to do. Despite the piles of dirty snow still remaining in the shady corners, regardless of the just above freezing night-time temps, besides and maybe partly because of all the strenuous activities ahead for my continuously aging and already aching back, I was seasonally waking up and ready for it. Spring was in the air and I was gettin’ as excited as a lil’ bitty chickadee.
I have long felt that this life is for the birds. I mean that in the worst and the best ways possible, like everything really is… the worst and the best all wonderfully mixed-up and confusing until we arrogantly and clumsily place values on it all. Anyone who tells ya contrarily just can’t be trusted far as you can spit a watermelon seed and are best run off ‘fore they try to convince you otherwise. Yes, a bird’s life, that’s how I see it, and while I don’t particularly believe in reincarnation as they commonly try to sell it, if there is another shot at this dirty ol’ physical plane, well, damn, I’d wanna be a bird. I am not even very picky, just not a penguin or an ostrich, and definitely not a chicken. I want to flap my fancily-colored feathered wings (I’ve pretty much worn out black in this run through existence), catch a warm breeze, soar above it all, and shit without thinkin’ ‘bout it.
But, I’m not usually even close to bein’ a bird in this life, so back to my still delightful Springtime terrestrial endeavors. Time to get wet, muddy, sore, and blistered again. Time to shed the old dead skin and rebirth with freshness and vigor. Every time I plant a seed into soil and add some water to help encourage the infinite cycle again, every time a bud begins to protrude from a branch, every time the first goose call of the year hits the crisp morning air, every time…..well, almost anytime the non-human reality takes precedent in a situation, I can put things back into perspective, forget about Their miserable world and more fully embrace mine and ours. Spring is a powerful tonic I love to get drunk on. And that was my loose plan for the next chunk of time up here on the mountain.
So today, and for the foreseeable future, I would garden (a very general word for a whole bunch of wonderfully dirty stuff that, in my mind, mostly attempts to gently nudge and understand rather than control), enjoy myself and my people and my place, and fix and create all sorts of things. But my written words will take a different tone than the stark dark ruminations of Winter, the inflamed passions of Summer, or the nostalgic reflections of Autumn. They will be more nurturing, and dare I say, more hopeful. I spend so much time railing on all I despise, well, because there is so much of it that it gets pretty damn overwhelmin’, and because words themselves are mostly just cold, sharp, and nasty knives to carve up meat, dissect it, divvy it up, cut to the bone. But sometimes, when the elements are aligned just right they can also be used to try to explain the beauty all around and within us in the world. In this way especially, words usually fall way too short, much less potent than a kiss, more anemic than lookin’ into the eyes of those I love, the care I can give a friend, or any other authentic lived relational experience that is so much deeper than any random letters arranged on a stupid page (or infinitely worse, a screen). To those I care about and even love, you know who you are and how I feel ‘bout ya, not because of those shallow words, but because of our lives together. But still, sometimes, a few beautifully kind words help us along too. For this season of rebirth and green growth, those types of articulations would be my priority, if I even write them down at all rather than just move my lips and shake dem hips. So with that in mind, I decided to more fully live in this Springtime moment up here and not dwell on Them down there.
It was just about the time I had decided this profoundly loose itinerary of the Now and had gotten goin’ in all of that delightfully dirty stuff that I heard the irritating sound of two-stroke engines revvin’ up in the distance, as they have tended to do on an almost daily basis these days, pulling me out of my blissful connection and vibrating my skull to no end. As I dropped my hoe to the ground to head towards the racket for a typical Nazel confrontation, a bee began hoverin’ ‘tween my eyes and started to buzz a tune that sounded something like: “Forget about all that noise, its a wonderful day and there is much you want to do and many games to play!”
A gang of frogs from the pond seemed to be in agreement with the bee as they began some sort of musical round or call-and-response ditty:
“Forget it!”
“Forget it!”
“Forget it!”
“Forget it!”
“Forget it!”
“Forget it!”
I sighed. Yes, I suppose as annoying as these kids are, they will pass, and better they be out in the Spring air, even if choking a bit on their own gaseous fumes, than sitting in their secluded rooms playing silly video games or performing shallowness on social media. With that I picked up my hoe and began to loosen some soil to plant some shaggy-eyed red potatoes. I dug and planted, amended and mulched, sweated and stretched, laughed and sang. I was occasionally joined by a welcomed companion, sometimes human, sometimes not. A few drops of rain playfully danced around from time to time, kissing my face and beckoning me to hum strange melodies. A gentle breeze caressed my cheek, telling me little secrets. A faint rainbow winked at me above the trees in a narrow view down the valley.
Just as I was ponderin’ where the golden end of this colorful arc might be headed — a friend’s house down the way, the source of our creek, maybe another time when the beaver roamed this valley in great numbers, perhaps some spot on the future scorched ground of this timeless place — when an airplane roared across the sky from north to south. I snapped out of reality and into Their abrasive and intrusive virality. I started thinkin’ ‘bout the lameness of air travel and the stupid reasons people give for its so-called necessity, even greatness, ick. I started to imagine the plane falling from the sky or bursting into shimmering smithereens. I started to write elaborate snotty obituaries in my head, when suddenly, off in the forest, my delinquent mental games were broken by a lil’ birdie, one whose name I could not name but in a voice that was more than familiar to me, singing a sweet song that seemed to call: “Here we are. Here we are, Heeeere weeee are!”
Like being awoken from a bad dream, I remembered who and where I was. After wiping sweat from my brow and sipping some nettle and rose hip tea, I called back to my feathered friend (a couple keys lower): “Here we are. Here we are, Heeeere weeee are!”
I took this lil’ birdie’s song to heart, sat on the wet grass and packed a pipe to smoke. I breathed in the sweet plant medicine and as I exhaled I saw the world and myself in luscious continuum and amazingly synchronistic wonder. Just when I was about to give the sky a big fat wet kiss, a deafening “BOOM!” followed by “rat-ta-tat-tat! rat-ta-tat-tat! rat-ta-tat-tat!” and another “BOOM!” came from my neighbors place down the hill across the creek. Now, I know we gotta fire off some rounds from time to time, but this tweaker piece-of-shit does it at all hours, in all directions, and I can only imagine all the lame and twisted reasons. I tossed my pipe aside and got up from the ground to go and have some words, and possibly some fists and maybe a boot, but I didn’t make it but two feet before hawk yelled at me with a high-pitched and authoritative “Naw! Naw!”
It was immediately followed by some dog howlin’ in the distance, “Are Are Arrrr yoooooooou?! Are Are Arrrr yoooooooou?!”
Then cricket, still awake from the previous evening’s festivities, added a sharp and thin fiddle scratch to the burgeoning spontaneous symphonic scene.
Lovely robin greeted with a simple but eloquent “Cheerio cheerio cheerio!”
“Very very very pleased to meet ya!” politely proclaimed chestnut-sided warbler.
Western meadowlark’s watery flute added another layer to the ever-flowing melody.
Then towhee responsibly reminded everyone to “Drink your Tea!”
Stout and somber mourning dove sounded, “ooo-OOO-ooo-ooo.”
Chickadee pronounced “HEE-HOO!”
A nazely “Mew mew mew!” came from big-headed nuthatch.
“Quick! Freeeeee-beeeeeeeer!” boisterously announced spirited flycatcher.
Meanwhile, red-headed woodpecker busily tapped a quick and steady rhythm from up a high pine, while horny grouses thumped a low and hollow-sounding primal beat in the huckleberry bushes and ever-party-poopin’ stellar jay screeched her annoying chatter of disapproval, to thankfully no avail.
Plump hermit thrush asked “Why don’t you come to me? Here I am right near you!”
And attention grabbin’ red-eyed vireo responded “Look at me, here I am, look at me, here I am!”
“What? What? What?” stammered in silly stutterin’ wood duck.
“See see see silly see!” blackburnian playfully warbled.
While his cousin, yellow-throated warbler, sang back “Sweet Sweet Sweeter than Sweet!”
Of course, thrasher playful mimicked and mocked it all in a deliciously delinquent vocalization that would make Weird Al proud.
And all sorts of other beeps, booms, caws, chatters, cheeps, chirps, chitters, clacks, clucks, crows, flutters, honks, gobbles, quacks, squawks, trills, twitters, and various birdie tweets spiraled around and filled the Spring air with an audio bouquet of dizzyin’ delight.
It seemed like all of these incredible lil’ critters were tryin’ their darndest to help me stay outta trouble and focused on myself and the immediacy of my two feet and all the senses they supported above them, and, of course the wonderful animation my forest friends were a part of all around me. And then, as the feathered chorus softened and slowed their song, that first lil’ bird soloed her sweet, profound, and eternal tune once again: “Here we are. Here we are, Heeeere weeee are!”
I sat back down, took another puff, and got back to my life up here on the mountain. I sang this song to my feathered friends (and a few skinned, furred, scaled, fibrous, mineralized, and all sorts of other kinda wrapped up ones too):
a lil bird came through the darkness
whispered of daylight to come
i knew right then we’d fly off together
she was my true and only one
with wings so soft and so tender
and a heart so pure and true
i could fly this whole world over
never find another one just like you
oh, lil bird flyin’ in the darkness
sing your sweet song to me
no other voice can melt my cold heart
no other song can set me free
well, the sky is just another prison
this world a fire’y burning hell
you got the key to set my soul free
free from this dark and cold cell
we’ll build a nest in a strong old oak tree
from scraps of long forgotten things
we’ll share it with our own little birdies
someday to spread their own little wings
oh, lil bird flyin’ in the darkness
sing your sweet song to me
no other voice can melt my cold heart
no other song can set me free
—————
Nazel Pickens, a cosmic-anarchist-cowboy with backwoods, home-spun, divergent, deviant, rebellious, sorrowful, cynical, silly, and celestial commentary on the world at large and his forever cluttered and dusty lil' place in it. Ol’ Nazel doesn’t have a cellphone (they’re gonna pry his rotary landline outta his cold dead hand) or internet connection, but he sure does have opinions about this psychotically alienated technophilic postmodern mess of a world and of his perpetual pursuit of authentic anarchic freedom, and loves to pound them out on his typewriter, some of which is available as the somewhat regularly reoccurring column “Dust On My Boots” from The Rogue Writers Guild’s online magazine (www.roguewritersguild.com). From essays to poems to rants to short stories to songs, Mr. Pickens emotes with words in the dust, and lets the wind take it all away. He sometimes joins forces with another voice in his head, Invecchiare Selvatico, who writes from a more sophisticated, sometimes more analytical, voice. They teamed up to put out a book, Black Blossoms At The End Of The World, available from underworldamusements.com.
Messages to be passed on to Nazel (and requests for a free catalog of his own distro) can be sent to PO BOX 316 Williams, OR 97544 or nazelpickens@gmail.com. Nazel also puts out music with his (now defunct, but hopefully someday reconstituted and resurrected) cosmic-outlaw-country band, which can be heard at: distilledspiritrebellion.bandcamp.com
