act five: in which we meet the dead pigeon
The lights are still off.
Perhaps the act never really ended.
In fact, the actor is still stood there, staring.
And the body has started to decompose too, perhaps.
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And the world might hate all of it!
Has the world been nice to you in general?
You know who *has* been nice to you?
The people who support your work!
The people who want to see you succeed!
That's who you should care about!
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I witnessed the last fifteen tragic minutes of a pigeon's life today.
Poor thing was in the ditch at the train platform today, thrashing about confused on the tracks.
Almost got hit by a train two separate times.
I sat there and let my trains go by a few times.
This poor fucking thing just flailing around, falling over, spreading its wings wildly...
But it had moments of clarity too.
Sometimes it would perk up almost as if it had briefly come to terms with the situation it was in... before soon slipping back into abyssopelagic confusion.
In one final moment of clarity, it bolted up and spread its wings, as if it was preparing to fly...
and immediately smashed its head into a rock and died.
Its now-lifeless body slowly tipped over as the next train sped in front of it, a curtain falling on its short, Euripidean life.
And as such, life marches onwards, forwards.
But I cared a little about this bird.
This pigeon's tragic death has oddly made it more remarkable than every other pigeon I've seen.
And perhaps its death was freeing too--it didn't look too happy flailing about confused.
Certainly went out with a bang, huh?
I present my work one last time tomorrow.
I'm a little nervous. What if I mess up in front of the people that I feel like...
No. This isn't what I'm interested in talking about right now.
I wanna talk about dead birds.
I've gone into a bit of a rabbit hole looking into why this pigeon was behaving this way.
Seeing it at the light rail station, dazed and confused, my initial thought was that the bird'd been struck by a train and was now concussed or something similar.
You know. Like when birds fly into windshields.
But when I got home and looked at videos of concussed birds, all those birds were just relatively still and frozen.
Not thrashing about violently like this one.
...maybe I'm a little stupid for thinking "concussion" then.
I don't know. Looked like some issue with the nervous system resulting in spastic behavior.
Birds hitting trains. Birds hitting windshields.
This one was still (un)fortunately kickin' it.
Deeper and deeper I went.
"Pigeon poisoned by Avitrol".
That bird's thrashing around just like my bird.
...what the fuck is Avitrol?
Oh. So it's a bird control product.
They get the bird to send out distress signals without subjecting the bird to any actual physical pain.
And then the bird kills itself in its spastic behavior.
So my intuition was right.
It is some nervous system bullshit!
But what an unique psychological philosophical discussion this introduces itself as.
Now, let's get a little dramatic.
Perhaps a little dark, no?
I condone NONE OF THE FOLLOWING.
Let's say I've got a HUGE problem with CHILDREN fuckin' SWARMING and FESTERING in my YARD.
Now, this isn't any ordinary problem. No. It's HUGE.
Normally, you know, I'd set up *traps* for these CHILDREN. You know. Dig ditches in my yard, put tarps over them, and put candy on those tarps.
But, oh no! The CHILDREN might get HURT!
Hmm... this issue will require <<CRITICAL THINKING SKILLS>>!
I think as hard as a human possibly could.
Then I think ten percent harder too.
I'll get the CHILDREN to stay away from my yard by yelling at them!
I grab my good ol' shoutin' stick to shake at them, walk outside, and...
"GETOFFAMYFUCKINYARDYAFOOKINHOOLIGANS!!!"
But the CHILDREN LAUGH and PLAY regardless!
Oh no! My marvelous idea didn't work because they simply don't understand my language!
So I go back to thinking.
I think twice as hard as any human being ever should.
I think so hard a lightbulb manifests over my head... and shatters on the floor.
I grab my PATRIOTIC 'MURICAN ONE-HELLUVA-PROBLEM-SOLVER GUN,
run outside and fuckin' GRAB one of those HOOLIGANS,
and hold the gun to that troglodyte's head.
and would you look at that!
The thing starts fuckin' kicking and screaming like the devil!
All the other kids fuckin' scatter!
And look! Nobody got hurt too!
I'm just scaring this one kid shitless.
The kid is still kicking and screaming.
That thing runs like the devil...
...directly into the road where it gets hit by a car.
Oh well--that's not my fault now, is it?
I didn't directly hurt that child!
Thank you for indulging me in my ONE HELL OF A HYPOTHETICAL.
I want to recognize that while, initially, it may have been used to challenge a specific viewpoint regarding a specific avian pest control product, it eventually devolved into something I continued solely for, as the kids call them, "Shits and Giggles."
That bird killed itself because it was spasming.
And even though it felt no pain, I highly doubt it was mentally like, "You know what? I've lost most voluntary control of my motor function, but that's no biggie! Pshaw! I'll just keep livin' life as normal, totally not scared shitless because of how desperately disoriented I am in such a confusing labyrinthine world, and these drugs aren't doin' anything to help that..."
But maybe I'm projecting a little.
Maybe I'm feeling too much for this goddamned spasming pigeon.
Maybe I'm finding identity in places identity really shouldn't exist.
In fact, maybe this is a place that we've specifically engineered identity to not exist.
Feel no pain, you goddamned hero of a pigeon.
The world you lived in was fine until the dark veil was pulled from your eyes.
And the hand's name? Avitrol.
Avitrol left this bird aimless, hopeless, desperate for any cohesive foundation on which to base its identity.
It soon found itself washed up between the tracks at the train station.
Who knows for how long it wandered before then?
All that I know is that it spent the last fifteen minutes of its confusing life wandering between the tracks,
before finally killing itself in its attempt at achieving freedom.
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It would appear that the rotting corpse has now been replaced by a pigeon.
It lies with its head twisted awkwardly to the side, tail up, wings splayed.
The actor stares still, but now at the bird instead of out into the audience.
The parrots are now seen mourning the bird.
They put up a new placard.
Funeral Service: the First of August, Twenty-Twenty-Four.
The lights do not change.
stormborns
dededos
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