WHEN YOU'RE A WRITER EVERYTHING BECOMES...
A GODDAMNED METAPHOR!
I was an advertising copywriter for many years.
For copywriters and art directors things can cease to be simply 'what they are'. A tree stops being a tree. It becomes an emblem of something else -- visually or verbally or by some other kind of semiological sophistry. |
| If a tree falls in an ad agency... |
This mindset is the diametric opposite of the Dao, where one achieves 'Being' by... well, simply being, in the place and 'in the moment'. Being an advertising creative can become a schizoid state, and for a would-be writer ultimately destructive to his own functionality and to the hope of developing a personal voice.
I have just spent the last three days moving house -- apparently up there on the list of more stressful things you can do. But we were hardly being displaced by famine or war. In fact, we only had to haul our worldly goods about an imperial mile. Our new address is the same as the old one -- except for one single word!
But it was difficult move for me because, frankly, I didn't want to go. I had a relationship with the old place. With the physical space and with the peacefulness of it -- peace and quiet being a deal-breaking consideration when you're choosing where you're going to spend hours every day, trying to concentrate.
Then there was that view -- Ireland's 'all four seasons in a day' negotiating with each other across the sweep of the valley, or out on the waters between us and the Iveragh Peninsula which lies to the south.
So I was leaving a part of myself behind, in a way.
But I was too caught up in the effort of moving -- there was also a lot of sweating and furniture-battling, punctuated by protests of 'Why the hell do we have to accumulate so much bloody stuff?' -- too caught up to notice that I was living through a moment of pure Story. Of emotional narrative. This was a life event -- one full of resonances, tapping back into memories of parting, of things gone forever, of childhood loss.
It was a moment of transformation, of journeying even -- that most archetypal of story templates. And when I realised that I had failed to notice it, I knew that I'd been cured of something. This wasn't a metaphor. This was simply what this was, and I had felt it unfiltered by any filmic obsession.
How healthy. How normal...
And that's when we spotted the crow.
It was ducking down in the long grass, it's head bobbing to see, like a water bird stalking something. Not the usual behaviour of a crow. We knew instantly that it was wounded. This totemic bird, featured in countless native mythologies, had landed at my door, its wing trailing -- on the very day that I would close that door forever.
It was ducking down in the long grass, it's head bobbing to see, like a water bird stalking something. Not the usual behaviour of a crow. We knew instantly that it was wounded. This totemic bird, featured in countless native mythologies, had landed at my door, its wing trailing -- on the very day that I would close that door forever.
Only a man utterly separated from his aboriginal roots could fail to see this as a visitation of some kind -- or at the very least some shadowy serendipity, a crossing of his path by the exigensies of nature, of something larger than himself.
Even if my humanity did not dictate, my respect for shamanic wisdom (you can call it hippy sentimentality if you like) meant that there was no question but that this bird was getting saved.
The vet treated the bird pro bono, as they often do for these poor foundlings. First he unctioned its wing -- scraped featherless inside, but unbroken -- then bound it. It was a young bird, he said, so it had a chance. They have the hunger for life. But there was no telling. Stress was the thing most likely to kill it. That was a chastening thought. Our world, with its loss of 'wildness' (which we have replaced with insensitivity) could be what ended it, despite our best intentions.
A friend who was helping us with the move undertook to care for the crow. The chaos in our new house, coupled with our own literal unsettledness, would doubtless have communicated itself to the bird.
We were crashed in front of the TV, drifting off exhaustedly -- it's easy to drift off when you're watching a silent movie, 'The Artist' being our inaugural DVD -- when the phone rang.
 |
| Cottage, West of Ireland. Dangerously emblematic. |
Then there was that view -- Ireland's 'all four seasons in a day' negotiating with each other across the sweep of the valley, or out on the waters between us and the Iveragh Peninsula which lies to the south.
So I was leaving a part of myself behind, in a way.
But I was too caught up in the effort of moving -- there was also a lot of sweating and furniture-battling, punctuated by protests of 'Why the hell do we have to accumulate so much bloody stuff?' -- too caught up to notice that I was living through a moment of pure Story. Of emotional narrative. This was a life event -- one full of resonances, tapping back into memories of parting, of things gone forever, of childhood loss.
It was a moment of transformation, of journeying even -- that most archetypal of story templates. And when I realised that I had failed to notice it, I knew that I'd been cured of something. This wasn't a metaphor. This was simply what this was, and I had felt it unfiltered by any filmic obsession.
How healthy. How normal...
And that's when we spotted the crow.
It was ducking down in the long grass, it's head bobbing to see, like a water bird stalking something. Not the usual behaviour of a crow. We knew instantly that it was wounded. This totemic bird, featured in countless native mythologies, had landed at my door, its wing trailing -- on the very day that I would close that door forever.
It was ducking down in the long grass, it's head bobbing to see, like a water bird stalking something. Not the usual behaviour of a crow. We knew instantly that it was wounded. This totemic bird, featured in countless native mythologies, had landed at my door, its wing trailing -- on the very day that I would close that door forever.
Even if my humanity did not dictate, my respect for shamanic wisdom (you can call it hippy sentimentality if you like) meant that there was no question but that this bird was getting saved.
A crow is a fascinating creature to hold, up close. The black sheen of its head, that scythe-like beak. Its profile is almost the quintessence of 'bird'. Only once did it cry out, with that grating caw that you hear from the trees as the crow parliaments debate -- or squabble, if they're anything like their human counterparts.
The vet treated the bird pro bono, as they often do for these poor foundlings. First he unctioned its wing -- scraped featherless inside, but unbroken -- then bound it. It was a young bird, he said, so it had a chance. They have the hunger for life. But there was no telling. Stress was the thing most likely to kill it. That was a chastening thought. Our world, with its loss of 'wildness' (which we have replaced with insensitivity) could be what ended it, despite our best intentions.
A friend who was helping us with the move undertook to care for the crow. The chaos in our new house, coupled with our own literal unsettledness, would doubtless have communicated itself to the bird.
We were crashed in front of the TV, drifting off exhaustedly -- it's easy to drift off when you're watching a silent movie, 'The Artist' being our inaugural DVD -- when the phone rang.
The crow, our friend announced, had passed away.
Today she dug a little grave at the bottom of the paddock -- she insisted on completing the rite herself, having established a connection, however brief, with the creature. Our big cob Molly stood over her, 'helping', as Molly does.
And so something ended. It was marked by an event. And it pulled us into its 'moment'.
It was not a goddamned metaphor. It happened to us. And I'm very grateful for that.
(Originally posted, WritersCut.net, 10/6/2012.)
(Originally posted, WritersCut.net, 10/6/2012.)
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