Tuesday, May 15, 2012

The Missing Pheasants of Detriot

The pheasants. Their staccato as they flee from the smell of death. Their nest disturbed by the EMS and their stretcher recovering a body from the tall grass of the ruins on Brush Street. They are my punctum. They fly towards me in every memory I have ever had since I actually saw them. Dozens of wings beating against the early morning sun, as my car drove along the road beside the field. I have chewed on the bones of these birds. Urban hunters have fed me stews seasoned by their bones. As I walk back to Cass Street, I am reminded of my visit with the flock of pheasants so many years ago. They represent everything I have ever made, small parts of myself fleeing the inevitable. I still haven’t seen any pheasants. I wonder if they are all gone, having sensed the influx of the gentrifiers, the artists, the corporations buying up tracts of land that up until now were forgotten. A pheasant exodus. Admittedly I really miss them as I walk back to the corridor from the gallery. I miss the feeling of being in a forgotten place, and while part of me is glad that my steps feel safer here, I miss the adventure of each step facing chaos, potential danger and the mystery. I am unsure if this is a good thing. But I miss the wild pheasants and cannot seem to help it. I walk in my weird Reeboks stuck between the here and now, and another place I have constructed in my mind. I ask the empty fields and still standing houses to guide my steps- the ones that are happening in this here, and the ones that simeltaneously occur in the spirit world, laced with memories, made up stories and grief. My feet straddle two worlds. My heart. My everything. I come back to my Reeboks. Every five minutes. The snow is on my face, reminding me of my today, my breath, my now body. I walk into the Cass Cafe to meet my host for this trip. He is no one that I know – a friend of a friend – my awareness comes back to the here and now. I have been here before, in my teens, hanging out and feeling cool. But mostly, I am the me I am now. I want some soup.

1 comment:

Horace said...