Crows’ Feet And Pasta – a menu for #Spring

Prima Rosa – yes the first rose. It is indeed the Spring and where there was nothing, suddenly there are primroses. Suddenly I draw them in through my senses and into my pagan soul. The crows fight savagely over sticks with which to build their nests. I get up at dawn to boil pasta to provide my noble scavengers with a romantic novelist’s breakfast. I love these birds. I think I worship them. In my children’s story Alf The Workshop Dog, all the wisdom of the world is stored in the crows. They are the default battery  on the motherboard of consciousness. (Did you ever wonder if digital language just has to reflect inescapable symmetries by way of metaphor and semi conductor?)

My friend H.B.

They have watched our futile struggles from the high trees since the dawn of conscious time. They have the DNA of dinosaurs, the politics of parliaments, the sheen of pimps, the stab of spike and claw, the stamp of merciless truth. Regular readers will recognise the photo of HB, my court favourite. Last week he showed up for breakfast bedraggled and desperate with hunger, only able to half hop on one leg. The others crows attacked him – such is the nature of the universe. I moved in close and for a moment he looked me in the eye. The other birds retreated or flapped off. He held my gaze and ate on. I circled keeping the others at bay. Finally he had eaten his fill. He took off back to his nest and fed some food to his mate. 

For the next two days he came, limping but stronger. He flew close by me before landing almost at my feet. Rivals moved in and he seemed to check me out for complicity. The others stayed away while he ate his Walmart fusilli and dog meat mash. Oooh, I’m a right cordon bleu you know!

Stark, stark. My kind has watched your species and bared your bones

Yesterday and today he has stayed up in his nest. He seems to be feeding on some agricultural land to the south of me. He has always been one to avoid the crush and shemozzle.  I watch him. He sat on my TV aerial while I hung out some washing. He watches me. He is still a bit lame but coping. He seems to have eggs in the nest. This universe has no mercy but it does support intelligence and the will to survive. Maybe just this once I have made a tiny tiny difference. Just maybe, beyond all the falseness of words and the dynamics of physics, some glue of friendship has some moral gravity or some value.

Emma Thinx: Friendship is an island. Ditch the swimming lesson.

Mutton Dressed As Ram

Oh yes – I’ve been following the Boston police radio scanners and the Twitter feeds. I can know everything – except why and how all the awfulness of life can ever be converted to love, pleasure and and happiness. Of this I know nothing and thus I am at one in ignorance with the great statesmen, the priests and the tormented dispensers of sorrow alike.

Chance me a crack, blow me a wind and I’ll seed you a life

All the same, today the sun came out. Indeed Oh to be in England now that April’s there  – to quote Robert Browning. I often wonder if cruelty truly is the unique realm of mankind. Nature is indifferent to suffering, but takes no satisfaction from it either. If (as I do suspect) we may well be the only intelligent life in the universe – how unique is our cruelty to one another. 

Will you just shut up and admire my bloody innocence!

These thoughts fell upon me as I walked in fields near the house in the UK. As I photographed a lamb for a nice schmaltzy blog-pic, the mother arrived to stare me down. To be frank, she was rather terrifying. She had that awful righteous “j’accuse” expression worn by French teachers returning my French homework, now more red ink than blue.(I used to quip to Madame Guillotine that at least by dipping my essay in red she had made a revolutionary tricolor of my efforts. I don’t think she liked me).  

Mutton dressed as Ram. 

I really MUST learn some French grammar by the way. Although I’ve gabbled away for years and years among French folk, I don’t have an inkling of la grammaire. (Between you and me, for many years when the French ticked me off for the faults of ma grammaire, I always rose to her defence by proclaiming that my grandmother  was at least as good as theirs.) A few days ago in England I found myself in a femaelstrom of adolescent student bile over the use of the double reflexive subjunctive tense in secondary clauses following an indirect dative objet. I may have tripped over my subordinate sub clause of comprehension in explaining this matter clearly. Pardonnez-moi mes amis! (Oooh – I do miss home!)

Emma thinx: Scanners shaketh man.