The Quick, The Lazy, and the Small Deaths

The Quick: I got nothin' but a title with no examples of quick to share. But I can't think of a better title, so let's just move on, noting my metaphor's lameness.

The Lazy: This morning, armed by my resolve to get this damn chapter ready to send off to the committee before Andrew gets home on Sunday night, I spent all morning working on it. I found a reference to a Bloom County cartoon that I had saved, (to read it, click the link) and delightedly added it to the definitions of media depictions of feminism. Now w/ graphics!

So now it's lunchtime. I've gotten a lot of work done and am proud of myself today. I always am when I get work done-- and on days when I work well, I ask myself why I don't do this everyday; it makes me feel so good to get some of the work done but I just can't help myself but to be lazy.

Small Deaths: But to add one of those moments of tiny tragedy that happen in life, last night, alerted by her intense and excited "meowl"s of having caught something, I found Tituba hovering over a tiny fledgling bird who had fallen out of a nest. Tituba definitely had to have found said bird after it fell-- she is not athletic and would not have found this bird in its nest. But she victoriously claimed it. The little blind thing, feathers still wet, could barely hold its head up and was opening its beak soundlessly. I scooped it up and hid it outside under some leaves. Too cowardly to put it out of its misery, but at least it wasn't tortured by a cat's intense desire to smack at something weaker and wiggly. This morning, I saw the momma and pappa cardinals that live nearby flitting about my back yard, whistling one high pitched note over and over again. Clearly looking for something. I know I'm anthropomorphizing the birds. They may very well have been searching for bugs to eat, and not their lost nestling.

I felt so guilty at not being able to do something about the little bird, but its proverbial goose was cooked as soon as it fell out of its nest. I don't even know where the nest was, but even if I did, putting it back in wouldn't have helped-- it surely reeked of cat and human habitation. It made me contemplate omens, and push any thought of omens resolutely out of mind as silly and superstitious crap. But lurking just behind the couch like the boogeyman ready to jump out and say "BOO!"

Nature's a bitch, man. And when I'm NOT working, I have entirely too much time on my hands to think about it.