A Seagull Paused

By paborama

Tue, 10 Apr 2018

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On a misty morning when the wind cooled my brow, I walked to the bus stop to see what time my bus would come. The bin lorries, two abreast, went up and down our street collecting recycling, collecting food waste. In unison the shouts and cries of the yellow-jackets strangely calm this sea fret hour. A wind stroked the leaves and carried a scent of dew that began to unpack my recent dreams.

A seagull stopped overhead: not hovering, just paused; and I realised no cars on the road this Tuesday at nine. The people at the bus stop were not there, though usually one or two would be smoking, waiting. A chill went down my spine with the metallic whine of the mechanical arms that lifted the wheeled bins up to dump in the stinking pit beneath. That sound continued. Though as I turned no more lorries ran that way. The bins lay scattered, empty and alone. The trees began to fall and the seagull swooped down low and pecked at my head and my protective hands as I screamed and wished for the dreams, those dreams.

The dreams I had dreamt only minutes before had me anxious, alone and waiting in the vestibule of my opera school. Several years had melted and here I was again, waiting to go in for my entrance exam. The Kaufman interpretation of certain Strauss compositions was my theme, riffing on a visit to the Met when my family were still as one and we had holidayed to New York together. The door opened: black within, no lights, no beckoning voice. A warmth spread between my legs and I realised I had wet myself just as I was to attempt the most important test of my operatic career thus far. I could not go on and nor could I turn back. I woke shaking, the sweat on my eyes stung as I checked desperately below the covers to see where sleep ended and the safety of waking began. Nothing. No damp. My audition had been a success in real life and I was now waking to the first day of my professional career. My 'Basilio' was an important character in the opera and the music director seemed delighted with my playing of the part. I washed and dressed and headed from my digs to the bus-stop for warm-ups and a final relaxed dress.

A girl, about four, was staring at me, her mother's hand gripped tight in hers. I flailed a moment more, awareness creeping up on me that the seagull had stopped. A bus slowed alongside us and the girl and her mother got on. I looked about me to see the world as normal, asnormal,,, assnooooorrrmaaallll can be. The seagull pushed a friendly nose out of my overcoat pocket and creaked a sad sigh, looking for fish or biscuits. I patted her head absentmindedly and fetched a cat treat from my breast pocket where I kept them along with my lozenges. The next bus was a beautiful dragon that bowed his head to allow us to clamber on behind a silver ear. We rose rapidly, climbing high above the park wherein my digs were kept. I saw the pattern of the streets and the trees and the lovely gardens that retired people do so well to tend. The lorries crept side-by-side along the side bend behind the bus-stop, more and more waste being devoured.

We fell, you and I, the dragon with us no more, we fell. You in my pocket, hidden and trusting in my wisdom and strength to protect you. But I could not. My failure has doomed us both, to be devoured like so much waste. And to be forgotted, unfashionable and talentless in a world that cares more about routine and city planning than it does about creation and myth. Without creation the world unravels its threads, loose ends snipped too close. My cries, operatically high, become the breeze and the seagull's voice alone on the wind carries us out to sea. A breath that is no more. A tide that will never turn again.