Bird Funeral, At Least You Know, A Public Notary
Dear Surreal Times People,
I miss my old friend Klip, I miss the flap of her wings. I ended up burying her three times but none felt right. By the final time, she began to fall apart and stink. I didn't like the smell; I don’t think Klip would have either. But I did it because I wouldn't let her become trash or eaten by some dumpster squids. And I didn't want to take her home. So for the final time, I found a nice place. I saw some storied objects laid out on the beach, I wrapped her and them up in her blanket, and dug a hole with a Castle-shaped pail I'd found. Lastly, I whispered a few kind words to myself and I hope to her, but I'd like to keep those for myself.
Like I'm following her shadow I still skip along the beach, I’ll talk to myself, I play tag with the local children, there's nothing like the wind in the sand and games with fellow little strangers. But the world has grown dark, and it is full of those who throw trash away. For now, I am trash too, but only till the gulls accept me. All the looks, at first I thought they watched me like I longingly watch the seagulls, wishing I could fly with them. But I know they are meant to hurt me and so they do.
I am the type who can see something and feel like I'm being held by it. I feel like a piece of gum on the ground who all the sand sticks to, even if I don't ask them to. Every little paper clip or bottle cap is like a careful fishing hook stabbed in my eye. Piercing the twinkley part as that sort of pastey liquid sloches out almost like a proud, sad tear. In honesty, it feels good at first. I like the fact that I can feel things, but then it just hurts. I could almost hear the bottle caps, or whatever it happens to be that day, screaming out to me as I stuff my fingers in my ears and try to just keep walking.
"you can't leave me, don't wanna be trash" " I just sink" "we're the same the two of us" "well it is part of love and you said you wanted that" "you said you were the gulled one" "one more bedtime story, the one about the antt you around." "Listen to me, You are not a bird!" "why did you take their name and toss out the one I gave you" “that Gulled one, they’re not someone I wasn”"that's not how I wanted it to happen, I'm sorry, but I'm glad it did" "why do people get scared" "hey you what are you doing back here"
And then I feel bad; it takes over me and every little thing I've ever heard just screams and cries and screams, until I can't even hear the screaming, every sound threaded through each other, and I'm lost in a blanket of noise. And it's not the same uppity front like that Inanimate Empathist, that type of guy makes me sick, he can't feel for others so he makes up stories about twigs. And pretends he's a CP Cavafy or Malcom X.
But anyway, I still pick the trash up. I put them in my satchel and ran along. It gets me more weird looks from people, but they don't know me. It helps a lot to send in these journals. I'm glad they can get published, and I'm glad I can continue them, for my friend, Klip, sleep tight buddy I think you people understand.
It's like, the other day, I was waiting for a bus, and some poor man, drunk out of his heart, walked up to me in a sad stupor and pulled out a knife. He looked at me with glazed-over eyes and said, "It's a pretty cool knife, huh? Give me something or it's yours." I didn't have any money, just my journals and my day’s bag of cans. I just stood there, like a rusty tin in the breeze, looking at him. After a while he just stupored back off. I haven't seen him since.
It may surprise you, but, in reality, I didn't think he really meant it. I knew when he would sober up he'd feel bad. It was scary in the moment, feeling like a leaf, so powerless, but you get used to that. What really hits you is the tragedy of how he was more sad than he was human, like how if you fill a coke can with skittles and cough syrup. Before long, all the coke rises and pours out. The feeling holds on to you your whole ride on the blue line back to wonderland.
Anyway I guess, I'll close this entry with a joke I saw on a bathroom stall.
"781 234 5689, for a good time. What do you call a person who is so lonely, they tie a bird to a string and dance with it?"
“A really bad dog walker.”
I liked that one, and this entry got a little dark, so I hope I left you all laughing.
Sincerely, the Gulled One
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See Also
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The Last Journals Of Klip The Seagull
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Obituary: The Gulled One Has Pecked the Bucket
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Gulled One Quiet No More
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