E: 10/23/02

Work Diary, 10/23/02

A common house sparrow flying over my block would see four different
houses upon which to land. First: The original farmhouse, a clapboard
affair owned by an ex-patriot Englishman who also owns an antique shop.
He is friendly, and keeps bits of unsold Americana rusting away in his
back yard. He would welcome a sparrow, but worry about its health
around his many cats.

Second: A refurbished Denver Square, the bricks whitewashed and at the
mercy of the young couple who paid far too much for it. They plan on
further refurbishments, tasks that will become more desperate as
suburban boredom sets in. They've planted trees in their parking, tiny
things that still leaf out bravely like their brothers and sisters. The
sparrow might like the trees.

Third: An extended bungalow, meticulous in its landscaping and unable
to shake the coldness of its many winters. Its owners work side by side
without speaking, their movements synchronized in whatever task they
are completing. He only shouts inside the house; she wears dark
sunglasses and drives an expensive car.

Finally, and if the sparrow so chose, he could land on the fourth
house: Mine, a blond brick mix built in the late forties. Currently, it
has dirt for a yard, dirt that flows onto the slate sidewalks after
each rain or windstorm. Pinon trees surround the house, watched over by
the elderly crabapples that stake out their territory with fallen,
fermenting fruit. The house has two porches in front and one in back.
The one in back is its appeal.

Let's say the sparrow chooses to land on the fourth house. Ignoring the
safety of the trees, he finds himself on the rough, sandy-colored
tiles. As it is autumn, he sees fallen leaves, brown or gold but not
worth pressing between the pages of a book. He might, through the
wooden vent located on the front of the house, find his way into the
attic. It's warm there - too warm, really. A cracked rafter beam
disturbs the linearity, which is not the sparrow's concern. He is
concerned about other things, and despite his nature he feels the pull
of gravity, of the ground, of going down.

A crack in the attic door provides an opportunity. The sparrow is fond
of opportunities; he is not quick to ignore them. He finds herself in a
hallway, short and square but offering four possibilities. In front of
him is a room with walls painted the color of the sky, and two windows.
Behind him it's the same, though the walls are darker, more the color
of dusk or a storm. To his left is a room that smells dank, smooth, of
growing life too small to see. To his right it's larger, more open; he
sees the familiarity of light.

The sparrow chooses to fly right. He lands on shiny wood, under a
picture painted in the earthy, autumnal colors of the trees outside.
This time, he has two choices: Go straight into the odd geometry of the
room in front of him, or left to the chirping form that is surely
another of his kind, brighter and bigger than he and captured behind
strange, golden bars. He chooses to go left.

And is instantly terrified by the cacophony of shrieks and oddly human
language beneath his feet. He jumps, his wings a blur as he turns amid
the dust and noise to fly quickly and efficiently away, through a long
room of hums and clicks and silvery flat surfaces, down and down
through a plain tunnel empty of the speckled light caused by maze-like
branches. He taxies right, and up, only to hit the dull nothingness of
a beige border. Somewhere, above him this time, the noise continues,
crazed but muted. The menacing rattle of metal drives him
backwards.

A room, its coolness made more so by the weak light through the
curtained windows, the bluish expanse of a bed. The sparrow lands on an
enamel tray. He is the size of the glass bottles next to him, though
much smaller than the two tower-like vases to his right. Beneath him is
a cabinet filled with drawers; to his left, another cabinet sits lower.
A fireplace takes up one wall, its mantle filled with the detritus of
locations the sparrow will never see. Two stands, with unlit lamps,
flank the bed; books spill from the stands onto the floor. No art
adorns the walls.

The sparrow flutters to the carpet. He is trapped, he knows, though not
unpleasantly so. He is on the ground, at last, with nothing looming at
him from any side. He spots a spider next to a shoe and moves fast,
scooping it into his beak and ignoring the futile sting. His first
meal, really, in a house where food will never be a problem.