Monday, July 25, 2011

7.25.11 P.O.D. Coordinates: Pigeon Manifesto and Dislocation Express

When people say they hate pigeons, I want to ask them if they hate themselves, too
Michelle Tea. Pigeon Manifesto

This little matchbook sized chap is as close as I have gotten to a P.O.D. in Berkeley. (Thanks for the lend David Buuck, it will wing its way back to you soon.) Maybe Berkles is "too cruisey, slows them down". I don't know. But I almost wept when leaving SF today after work; a pigeon waited on the curb with me just before the light changed and we, wonky and mechanized, went in to the crush.

Even last weekend, a casserole, maybe a Hare Krishna leftover thing, was left out in the plaza below the Berkles apartment for like, the entire day, and there was no iridescent eating frenzy. Sad, bereft, birdless casserole. A tenuous, not entirely authentic desire to woo them to my roof deck, for then how will I walk barefoot after cheap wine at 4pm on the hot asphalt?

Pigeons are avian hobos. Hobos being these guys--Axis Dance teamed up with Dandelion Dancetheater to go a little steam punk.

(click to enlarge)

Hooverville, flying guitars and an overlay of internet dating narrative. Lines on the latter inducing an uncanny verisimilitude  as (if) I had written them just yesterday in my journal.

That and my own internal undersong of Blue, blue windows behind the stars, Helpless. To close the day quietly with the cat.

on Twitter

, where this blog lives now. because it can be read and posted to through that app, one-handed, on my back, by a body of water, or in the cool olive green light above my mattress. This is articulation my spine had not dreamed of before.

My blog lived on Tumblr for a minute

because it is so much easier to access from my phone. fallinginrealtime.tumblr This is the feed. No, I don't like it. I can't add another virtual box. I'll make due with Twitter.

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