2001-06-14 - 3:08 p.m.

Essay, continued...

Nor were there any feathers. Perhaps expecting that there would be was adopting a rather cartoonish expectation of what should have been happening, but who knows? A few bits of feather as wings flapped furiously seemed in order. And that was yet another thing. The bird wasn't... freaking out. Other than the birds who frequent the high roof beams of large nursuries and places like Home Depot, I'd never seen a bird indoors that wasn't caught in a (literal) flutter of panic. In my experience, birds do not do well in confined spaces, and don't like cats. And my space is certainly confined. I live in a small carriage house (fancy term for above the garage) apartment, which, were it found in an apartment building, would be labeled a studio or efficiency apartment. It's a great size, just big enough for me and me alone, with sloped ceilings that, sadly, cut into the amount of space a little, but give it a very cottage-y feeling that I love. It's a great little nest for me to share with Hatbox, and, on the weekends, Gus. And no one/no thing else.

I don't like being a big "this is MY space" fiend, but watching the alleged bird not lose any feathers made me realize something else: there were no feathers to lose. There was no downy insulation layered on the creature's wings, which, I was beginning to notice, were a dark brown-black color and suspiciously transluscent.

And then I made a beeline for the bathroom and locked the door, because there was no way in hell I was going to hang around calmly with a bat hovering eighteen inches above my clean hair.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: