Water Under the Bird
It was a term I heard earlier this evening, told in the warm darkness of a nearby bonfire amongst neighbors. I smelled of gasoline and drying mulch, but I could smell dog above it all, like a lingering fart in an opera house. My neighbor, who owned the dog, was retelling a story of her weekly animal reclamation, this time about how she and her very young daughter had dicovered a yellow woodpecker that had been dealt a deathblow by some calamity, fowl or fair. The details flowed around me like long stories ironically do, but the gist of it involved her daughter's fondness for birds, and how they'd decided to bring this terminally-ill critter back to their house so it could die in either peace or a shoebox, I can't remember. Upon their arrival, my neighbor's husband was ready with a shovel, but their very young daughter begged off the burial for a day, using skills that will no doubt shape a nation through her doggedness and surgically-accurate button pushing. It's a skill most girls practice all their lives on their fathers, to the oft-unknowing detriment of later men in their paths. I'm not complaining, just observing. My sister absolutely owned my father for a while, and they both turned out alright.
So the bird was laid in state for the evening, and the next day my neighbors busied themselves with their daily routines, and the decomposing woodpecker was forgotten for most of the day... until their daughter remembered it, went to look at it in the back of their pickup, and reported to her mother that there was 'water under the bird.' Slight panic: don't touch the water, definitely don't drink it, shovel:earth :: Ike:Galveston, and bye-bye birdie. The daughter went back to life as usual, my neighbors hosed out their truck bed, and the evening went back to its regularity. They call them Wednesdays every week because, should something extraordinary-enough actually occur, only then would the day of the week be changed, I suppose. A national holiday or something. But a dead bird, that's just a bump in normalcy-especially for my neighbor, who tends to collect strays like I collect words... Seriously, here's a few:
comity
contumely
deracinated
ecdysiasts
misandrist
All great words, especially 'ecdysiasts.' If you know this word,
So the bird was laid in state for the evening, and the next day my neighbors busied themselves with their daily routines, and the decomposing woodpecker was forgotten for most of the day... until their daughter remembered it, went to look at it in the back of their pickup, and reported to her mother that there was 'water under the bird.' Slight panic: don't touch the water, definitely don't drink it, shovel:earth :: Ike:Galveston, and bye-bye birdie. The daughter went back to life as usual, my neighbors hosed out their truck bed, and the evening went back to its regularity. They call them Wednesdays every week because, should something extraordinary-enough actually occur, only then would the day of the week be changed, I suppose. A national holiday or something. But a dead bird, that's just a bump in normalcy-especially for my neighbor, who tends to collect strays like I collect words... Seriously, here's a few:
comity
contumely
deracinated
ecdysiasts
misandrist
All great words, especially 'ecdysiasts.' If you know this word,
I congratulate you: your vocabulary is either well-padded or you've had some reason to use it to your advantage before. Of all the words I use, the rare stuff is typically employed to cover my ass. Plus, let's be honest: it's a beautiful language, this English stuff we sling around. Sure, the French have their liquid tongue (but the Brazilians are lovelier still with that Portuguese stuff), and the birdsong of the Japanese is inspiring and intimidating, but I find my beloved English language to be astounding at times. The OED contains over 600,000 definitions in its hallowed pages, and Webster's says about 25,000 words are added annually to the stew. That's about 68 words a day, and we just keep going. Some words get left behind, like 'deracinated,' and some never get used enough, like 'comity.' But this is not a moral lecture, nor is it a babble on legal terms. This is about a neologism I heard this evening, 'water under the bird.' It's sticking with me, for the moment, until my mind alights upon another branch in my head. I keep thinking I should comment on the election, for one thing, but I'd rather leave that to the experts. Besides, I have enough to talk about as it is. But this evening, I listened to the unusual story of a dying woodpecker's peculiar legacy in the orange fade of a sweetgum fire as the stink of an otherwise-wasted Saturday hung upon me like it was glued on with late-summer humidity. Which it was.
And so this summer ends. By mid-September, anything I meant to do before Fall that's left undone is shoved beneath the back deck, maybe covered by a tarp, and the list of projects is re-shuffled. I think about my dad at times like this, who went through this period of his life without a computer and with his only serious hobby being the Kansas City Chiefs... maybe he had it better than me at this point. After all, I take back the night by drinking more Rockstar than is ever necessary, and I have those instruments in the basement that are always calling me names until I pick them up and make them sing a different tune. So many other distractions, like Tivo and the new camera and a pile of criminally neglected books and CNN's e'er-tolling coverage of anything and Twitter and anything else I can busy my brain with these days and how does anything ever get done anymore?
I should call my Dad. Tomorrow, though. Tonight, let it all just wash away. Water under the bird, if you will.
And so this summer ends. By mid-September, anything I meant to do before Fall that's left undone is shoved beneath the back deck, maybe covered by a tarp, and the list of projects is re-shuffled. I think about my dad at times like this, who went through this period of his life without a computer and with his only serious hobby being the Kansas City Chiefs... maybe he had it better than me at this point. After all, I take back the night by drinking more Rockstar than is ever necessary, and I have those instruments in the basement that are always calling me names until I pick them up and make them sing a different tune. So many other distractions, like Tivo and the new camera and a pile of criminally neglected books and CNN's e'er-tolling coverage of anything and Twitter and anything else I can busy my brain with these days and how does anything ever get done anymore?
I should call my Dad. Tomorrow, though. Tonight, let it all just wash away. Water under the bird, if you will.
REACTIONSAscending | Descending
Sunday, 14 September 2008
You're first name's Bob, right? Bob Hagen? Or am I just remembering wrong? Very, very nicely written. Nice night for a gentle, wry smile. Thanks for sharing it with us.
By the way (along with Davo) you two were among the ones who wanted to see The Shiner-Spencer Report. I think maybe I've finally solved the transmission problems and a batch of editions of the report should be available now, or at least by tomorrow morning. The pictures really suprised me. I didn't realize that a) Louis Shiner was an African-American nor that b0 he swung enough weight to have a David Hockey publicity shot/painting -- whatever you call what Hockney does. And Spencer's about the roughest-looking human imaginable. But the stuff's caustic, funny and dead on target, I think.
Good job, Hagen.
By the way (along with Davo) you two were among the ones who wanted to see The Shiner-Spencer Report. I think maybe I've finally solved the transmission problems and a batch of editions of the report should be available now, or at least by tomorrow morning. The pictures really suprised me. I didn't realize that a) Louis Shiner was an African-American nor that b0 he swung enough weight to have a David Hockey publicity shot/painting -- whatever you call what Hockney does. And Spencer's about the roughest-looking human imaginable. But the stuff's caustic, funny and dead on target, I think.
Good job, Hagen.
Monday, 15 September 2008
By the way: I knew all the words, and I've taught 'ecydiast' to several of them.
Monday, 15 September 2008
Wait, which one are you, Spencer or Shiner? And when will we be able to read your reports?
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
I'm neither one of them, you stupid goddamned moe ron, Bob, no offense intended.
I got the publicity photos from somebody named Walter at Sterling Lord. I've put them on a Brink home page, assigned to The Shiner Spencer Report. I paid for the subscription, so I know the password and I can write out or read in from there. A column called "9-11" or maybe something like "The Impossible Is Easy" is in the jury docket. A couple that we received are on the MyBrink page for The Shiner Spencer Report.
Don't blame this shit on me.
I got the publicity photos from somebody named Walter at Sterling Lord. I've put them on a Brink home page, assigned to The Shiner Spencer Report. I paid for the subscription, so I know the password and I can write out or read in from there. A column called "9-11" or maybe something like "The Impossible Is Easy" is in the jury docket. A couple that we received are on the MyBrink page for The Shiner Spencer Report.
Don't blame this shit on me.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Mr. Weeyums, pull yer pants up. I was addressing The Shiner Spencer Report.
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