FEATHER MAGIC

Originally Published June 30th, 2024

Good morning, and happy Sunday to all you strange and wondrous creatures.

Such a week, oy! Don’t ask!

Okay, I’ll tell you.

We went camping this week, or at least the “roughing it” part. No heat for a day, no water for two. Amazing how put out we are by such things. When we dial up the thermostat we expect to hear the furnace kick in. Turn the faucet and water is supposed to come out. Hot, or cold, on demand. Anything else is unacceptable. Barbaric, even. And then I recalled my mountaineering days — sleeping on ice, at altitude, pulling my pants down on a glacier to poo, chipping frozen freeze-dried lasagna with my ice-axe, etc. And paying for the privilege of it. NOTE - snow still melts when running water doesn’t. Run, that is. Remember that. Could help next time you go “camping” in your own home.

Anyway, we survived the inconveniences with a measure of élan, (not Elon. I’m not sure if any of us will survive Elon.)

FYI, several new stories are in the hopper, wanting only more polishing to be worthy of your digital mailboxes. But in the meantime, as we weather the weather, whether we like it or not, I’ve gone to the crypt to mine one of my favorite early pieces, FEATHER MAGIC. I’ve made a snip here, a tuck there to improve your reading experience. BTW, one form of conspiracy theory suggests the wonky weather is our government(s) messing around with nature. So if that’s true, why would they not do something truly conspiratorial and make a day in late-January, 75 degrees and sunny with a soft breeze. C’mon governments, anybody can make it cold and snowy in winter! Impress me! Show me blue skies every day in February! Freakin’ rookies. Buffoons. Charlatans.

Please stay warm and comfy and avoid the cold, the snow, the ICE. I mean, ice. I promise, new stuff is coming. Someday. Over the rainbow.

I am, your biggest fan. To all of you, from all of me…

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In my brilliant first novel, THE MAN WHO CAME LATE TO HIS OWN FUNERAL, the protagonist, Archimedes Acropolis Fortunakis, has this to say.

“If you want magic in your life, you must do three things.

First, believe in it.

Second, accept it.

And third, be grateful for it.”

Simple.  

So. Here’s what happened…

FEATHER MAGIC

Time - Easter Sunday, 2018.  Place - god-forsaken Ft. Pierce, FL.

The leg-‘o-lamb had been dispatched.  I, and the girls, (Shannon and Valeria), were taking a walk around the ‘hood, to loosen our belts a bit before plunging into dessert.  Along the way we came across a defunct vulture lying in the road, (they abound in our former bespoke ‘hood,) its corporeal remains broken in two by ill use, one section to the left, one right.  I can’t remember if it had little cartoon x’s in its eyes, but I was confident in calling its time of death as “recent.” Its body had been violated, rent, torn asunder, but its feathers were incredible.  At first, I thought it an owl.  But no, it was a turkey vulture, an ignoble carrion-eater, a face only its mama could love, albeit with a magnificent wingspan.

Had it died of old age, I wondered?  Natural causes?  Dropped out of the sky like something tired, deciding it had had enough of life and ploop, plopped?  Had it been eating something four-legged and become so engrossed in its own Easter feast that some texting motorist failed to see it, the combination of rapt avian rapture and careless, careening metal proving its undoing?  

No matter.  Whatever it was, the end was the same.  Dead, dead, dead, not to arise on the third day and ascend bodily into Heaven to sit at the right hand of some bulbous-nosed Turkey Vulture God stinking of eternal flesh rot. 

Yummy!

I thought I might harvest its feathers; after all, my vulture cousin was no longer using them.  One could’ve fashioned an impressive headdress from them.  They were abundant and glorious.   Dark as night and shiny.

Shan and I love feathers.  We have them scattered around our home, in vases, pressed in books, fetishes.  But something about plucking this one’s tail feathers, pin feathers, wing feathers seemed… not right.  And so, I didn’t.

Instead, I moved it from the street to the roadside dirt.  I said a little prayer extolling its virtues, (Dear God, He / She, was a fine father / mother, husband / wife, loved its children, was faithful to its purpose, a good provider, etc.,) and committed it from dust to dust, amen.  We walked on giving it nary a whit of further thought.

The next day, I’m on my bike, riding to town for a meeting of artists, (and those that love them,) plotting the death of conformity, when out of the blue, (literally!) a large, perfect vulture wing feather wafted out of the sky and did a floaty little dance, landing directly in my bike basket!  Think FORREST GUMP, the gorgeous opening sequence taking several minutes to follow a single feather dropping from the sky, landing at Tom Hanks’ feet in one long heroic cinematic shot.  If you’ve never seen the movie, do.  It is a magnificent work of heart-art.  Bring tissues.  

In fact, here’s the opening sequence.  Click / double-click away.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bHVaNSk6QsI&t=101s

It was like that.  I did not see it till the last, as it approached for final landing, feather manna from Heaven. I had neither increased, nor decreased my speed, nor altered my path or trajectory one little bit to meet the feather in its flight.  I looked up to see who/what had dropped it. The sky was empty. I did not catch it.  It had caught me.

When I told the artsy-folks I was meeting about this fine thing, one suggested that it mightn’t be that extraordinary.   In the immediate vicinity there was a communications tower; home to a large population of the noble buzzard.  Dozens of the creatures, perhaps hundreds, called it home.  Given their ubiquitous presence and proximity might it happen that a feather might drop out of the sky and land perfectly in one’s basket while in motion?  Sure, I guess.  Unusual, but could happen.  The proof was in the pudding.  Or rather, in my basket.

For such an ungainly bird, the much-maligned vulture makes no-one’s cuddly list.  But in the air?  Ah!  In the air, they are sublime poetry, ballet graceful.  No bird, neither albatross, nor condor rides the currents better.  Without batting an eye or a wing, they climb up, up, up, embodying economy in motion, expending no more effort than necessary other than a slight dip of a wingtip, a small flutter adjustment to stay aloft.  They are air-surfers, aerobats – acrobats of thermals.  Shan and I had often watched them, marveling at their size and serene glory.   

One resists the urge to call out, “Nope!  Not dead yet!  Move along, nothing to see here!” as it circles above, waiting patiently for death to provide its next meal.  It is difficult to reconcile this soaring wind rider with its terrible beak ripping the intestines from road kill rodents.  And yet, such it is.  One must take the whole package.  Bad buzzard breath and all. 

But, this gift of feather landing so precisely in my basket, was it coincidence or magic?

Here’s what I think.  The bird that I’d given dead prayer love to the day before, (Easter, no less,) was bodily ascending a thermal to Heaven, when it decided to drop me a present, thanking me for not taking its wampum, for resisting the urge to disgrace its remains.  Clearly, I’d been gifted this talisman, this power object, this animal token totem.  How could I consider it coincidence?  Regard it as anything less than magic?  And why would I want to?

The feather remained in the basket for a long time after, where it fell, a gift of gratitude to remind one of mortality and eternity.  I’m sure I have it still, just don’t ask me where.  But if I need it, it will appear.  That is the nature of magical objects

Everyone says they want magic in their life, yet few are willing to reel it in.  Yet, it is so simple.   As Archimedes Acropolis Fortunakis says in my brilliant first novel, (of course it’s available for sale, from the author, let me know,) “First, believe in it.  Second, accept it.  And  third, be grateful for it.”

Magic is everywhere.  Choose to live in a world of magic, rather than coincidence, and magic will choose you.  Though in truth, coincidence is its own kind of magic, perhaps just another word for it.

PS - If you’re interested in my aforementioned brilliant first novel, THE MAN WHO CAME LATE TO HIS OWN FUNERAL, drop me a line at alkisteriopoulos@gmail.com I’ll write you back with info on how to obtain your very own signed copy. And thanks!

Until next week, I Am Alki. Do good! Be better!