My name's Chris. When I was once asked to pick three words to describe myself,
I wrote need more words, which got me into a great deal of trouble.
precious adj. \ˈpre-shəs\
I was reading Joseph Campbell on the beach when I decided to believe that if I found ten feathers and gave them to the girl I was chasing, she would fall in love with me. It was not that I decided it would happen, her love linked to feathers; instead, I decided to believe in it, regardless of whether it bore out to be true. My parents are both lapsed Catholics. Belief was outside the bounds of their lessons. We were taught to be kind and generous -- but both of those aren't beliefs. They don't rest on anything unprovable. It was a strange heady feeling, inventing a belief and following it. I kept it secret because I knew how ridiculous it was, but also because it made me special.
Seagull feathers were easy to find on the beach. In fact I picked feathers for this reason; they had no monetary value and yet they're not commonplace. At the same time, I wasn't foolish. I knew that I couldn't use just any ten feathers; they had to each be beautiful, with a long rachis and straight, clean barbs. I wanted to find feathers that would make sense as a gift even without an explanation. I would keep my belief even secret from her. It would ruin the magic to tell it.
It took me the better part of a year to find my ten feathers. I cheated myself a little and discarded some of them along the way, because I could see no end to the chase with the girl with red hair. I couldn't see how she would ever look at me differently; we were friends and though I tried to tug events the way I wished them to go, the beach where everything seemed so simple and clear became more and more distant. I let ten feathers stay a little out of reach for as long as I could.
I gave a feather away, in fact, to a different girl, one who a friend had a crush on but was too shy to ask out by himself. There were three of us who took her out on a date on Valentine's Day: he and I and another friend who hadn't anything to do on the holiday, either. We each brought her a gift. She looked down at the feather in her hand and said, "Oh, a quill," in a warm but polite voice and I knew my quest would never succeed.
Instead, I bought some fishing line and made a mobile from my feathers. I wanted them to seem as if they were floating in mid-air, but this was a difficult effect to achieve when all you have in your dormitory room to suit the purpose is Scotch tape. None of my friends ever asked where I got the feathers from, or why I had mounted them at the center of the ceiling of the room. A few said it looked nice, though.
It was beautiful, in fact, but in a way I did not mean it to be.
I feel lucky that I hatched this belief, though it ended in a sort of dead end. Even now, almost ten years later, I walk down city streets and see grimy pigeon feathers trapped in the cracks of the sidewalk. I go to a park and see a cluster of downy feathers in the grass left behind by geese. And when I return to the beach each year, there are as many seagull feathers there as there always have been. I see rubies everywhere that no one else does.
Seagull feathers were easy to find on the beach. In fact I picked feathers for this reason; they had no monetary value and yet they're not commonplace. At the same time, I wasn't foolish. I knew that I couldn't use just any ten feathers; they had to each be beautiful, with a long rachis and straight, clean barbs. I wanted to find feathers that would make sense as a gift even without an explanation. I would keep my belief even secret from her. It would ruin the magic to tell it.
It took me the better part of a year to find my ten feathers. I cheated myself a little and discarded some of them along the way, because I could see no end to the chase with the girl with red hair. I couldn't see how she would ever look at me differently; we were friends and though I tried to tug events the way I wished them to go, the beach where everything seemed so simple and clear became more and more distant. I let ten feathers stay a little out of reach for as long as I could.
I gave a feather away, in fact, to a different girl, one who a friend had a crush on but was too shy to ask out by himself. There were three of us who took her out on a date on Valentine's Day: he and I and another friend who hadn't anything to do on the holiday, either. We each brought her a gift. She looked down at the feather in her hand and said, "Oh, a quill," in a warm but polite voice and I knew my quest would never succeed.
Instead, I bought some fishing line and made a mobile from my feathers. I wanted them to seem as if they were floating in mid-air, but this was a difficult effect to achieve when all you have in your dormitory room to suit the purpose is Scotch tape. None of my friends ever asked where I got the feathers from, or why I had mounted them at the center of the ceiling of the room. A few said it looked nice, though.
It was beautiful, in fact, but in a way I did not mean it to be.
I feel lucky that I hatched this belief, though it ended in a sort of dead end. Even now, almost ten years later, I walk down city streets and see grimy pigeon feathers trapped in the cracks of the sidewalk. I go to a park and see a cluster of downy feathers in the grass left behind by geese. And when I return to the beach each year, there are as many seagull feathers there as there always have been. I see rubies everywhere that no one else does.
