They’re to be found pretty much everywhere in the country. Especially in spring or in the middle of summer. If you go walking a lot, you’re bound to find one. Either a fledgeling fallen from the nest, or a juvenile attacked by a hawk or an adult riddled with shot. The causes are not your concern. The why and the wherefore. Rather than walling on, leaving the dead bird behind, you will stop and contemplate it.
Look closely at the dulled feathers, often covered with dust or a bit of earth. Observe its eye, coloured or whitish or eaten out, and the ants coming and going, and maybe a few maggots. Note it’s claws, quite still, abandoned, twisted. Look for the bones, so slender and so visible. Above all remark the whole attitude of abasement and loss, the way a dead bird is so thoroughly a corpse, muddied and humiliated, in the true sense, and yet it knows nothing of all this, and escapes from it into a depth quite alien to sleep.
If you look closely enough, you’ll probably find the sight a sad one initially. A life snuffed out. A body misplaced, a bird lying on the ground, all stiff. Something resembling defeat and failure. The experiment consists in going beyond that, by seeing more and more clearly and distinctly.
You see that the bird will never live again. And also that it feels nothing. That this is how it is, beyond help and complaint. Innocent of nostalgia or recrimination. The longer you look the clearer it should become that there is nothing, concerning this little corpse, which can be cause for regret. There is only the present. And you start to realize that it is perfect. Because it is the only tense there is.
At first, this is incomprehensible. Strictly speaking, it may never be given us really to understand, only to feel. What you will grasp, however, if you open your eyes wide enough, is that there is no other world to see. That everything, absolutely everything, is here and now. In the present, as it occurs. There is nothing elsewhere, or before, or anywhere in space or time, that is different, better, preferable, comparable, regrettable.
Nothing but this.
From ‘101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life’ by Roger-Pol Droit. Faber & Faber 2002
He sits in a small room listening to their conversations and speaking to himself.
They all listen, dying to answer their own questions. He watches his own likeness reflected in the broadcast on the screen and recognises no-one.
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Each track has many short music poems written with electronic music instruments, which is a common artistic approach by Black Hair...
These poems are often interesting and bring out many thoughts and feelings. They also feel to me that Black Hair... could attempt planned compositions that are more complex. It would take more time and struggle, but it could be interesting. hello swirl
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