Cold here, yet the city flirts with Spring. In the park where I sit, purple-white blooms poke their dainty heads through the soil. A flock of pigeons nip at breadcrumbs that a crew of elderly ladies feed them, the flock spotted with a few stealthy blackbirds. In the old town, where the uneven cobblestone avenues rival the ruined streets of Charleston, violins, squabbles, tourists. A world of noise disrupting the afternoon air. I stop to eat schnitzel at a pub and struggle through a children’s book written in German.
In the park near the river, two toddlers meet each other (tiny humans, these) and bestow fits to one another (stick, then flower). Though they are strangers, the retain some deep knowledge of the other. I grieve for the loss of instinctual intelligence we held as toddlers (ice cream good! falling down bad! ants bad! must destroy ants!). Craving a return to the primal, the immediate, I wish not to feel so distant.
Today, then, I have become a toddler. I wander with no sense of direction and latch to whatever joy idles by. Turns out, there’s much joy to grasp. Turns out, blackbirds mimic pigeons to coax bread crumbs from elderly ladies. Turns out, you can pretend to become anything so that your mind or gut might be fed.