Saga-sofia Eriksson Von Weissenberg

For a fact, and as everybody knows, he thought that he knew what's what and who's who and everything that there was to know about birds as we know them. If someone or other was around to listen he gladly talked a mile a minute about everything but the kitchen sink. He was probably unaware of the unhealthy relationship he had to birds, and maybe that was also the reason that kept him going. Binoculars hung constantly around his neck and he used them like an eager beaver. His Wife observed him when he turned page after page in his bird encyclopedia and spoke about his darling birds. She never joined him on his bird-hunts; instead she stayed at home wishing, and pinned her hopes on that he would one day rather use his binoculars to cast an eye on her. When birdwatchers come across a fascinating bird they send an alarm out to all the other bird enthusiasts. When these alarms reached The Birdwatcher he always filled up with so much eagerness and excitement that all his ultra-preparation and pedantic packing took him so long that he ended up being the last one to arrive. All the feathered friends had flown away and all that was left for him to see was the other birdwatchers, Snickers wrappers and empty plastic coffee-cups. Despite this, his eagerness to observe birds never faded out. There was one bird that The Birdwatcher lived to watch through his binoculars. The rare Leavesinger had only been spotted a few times. When it did finally show itself he knew that he wouldn't be too late. His wife was endlessly tired of his eternal talk about the birdie, but continued to listen with her bottomless patience. The Birdwatcher was well aware of His Wife's loyalty. She represented the strong and determined when he was too sensitive. She pushed them forward when he got trapped in his enormous obsession and need of comfort. All her focus, her every sensory antenna, pointed in his direction. It gave him the strength he needed to continue his search. But because he was of the sensitive kind, it sometimes made him feel supervised, which he strongly disliked. Even if he would never admit it, he was maybe just birdlimed by her slick line of flattery. Their ability to cooperate was hopelessly horrible and both of them were incapable of dealing with any kind of criticism. His Wife was a know-it-all when it came to everything but birds. Her opinion was always of strong character and as clear as a bell. To all appearances she was a superior listener. But if truth be told, she spun and wove all the polluted noise from her determinate willpower into his stories. She was therefore incapable of listening with a sober mind free from values and principles. It was the ego’s constant hunt for applause. So birds of a feather flock together and killed two birds with the same stone. They tried to appear and move in a twosome but created chaos by both trying their luck as the star, when they could so smoothly have sailed by setting up a sonnet. One day The Bird Watcher decided that his unavailing search for the Leavesinger must come to an end. He was obsessed by watching it through his binoculars, even if it was just for a second. He knew for certain that the day that he saw it he would feel the deepest joy there is. He filled up his bag, thorough as usual. She decided to go with him, and as migrating birds, they took off. They headed it south where it was said the Leavesinger had been seen. The road filled up with his eager babble about the little bird and she listened as she was used to. He kept repeating the old and familiar. New places terrified him, but also instilled a bit of hope. What was it that he wanted her to see, what was it that he wanted to prove? How would they have behaved in a different appearance? She tried to revolt for him, so she protested against everything. But the sense of belonging cannot exist without alienation. So why did they never ask each other even once, if everything had been honest? Finally there their search began. He sought his beloved bird, and she acknowledgement. Until she found it, she looked for a pleasant edge of the water. The days flew by and maybe they even enjoyed each other’s company. One balmy morning when His Wife drank her morning cognac on the sunny patio, a painful outcry came from the bedroom. The Birdwatcher’s binoculars were missing, nowhere to be found. Like a snowball went he from bad to worse. His stress increased and a sultry odor of anxiety filled the house. His Wife had never seen him in this condition, The Birdwatcher was inconsolable. He had been gripped by a feeling of excitement and now he had lost it. If he didn't have his binoculars, was he not just left for dead? What did he see? How did he see, and could he trust what he saw? Could he ever learn how to see again? His Wife looked at him with a pitiless mind. Of course he did not see that either. He was too occupied by his crisis which by now had taken over all his senses. He had learned how to swim in the salty ocean and he had become great swimmer. Now he was placed in a lake. Instead of believing in his own salt, he relied on the familiar salty ocean and sank as a stone. They could trace their journey back in time with the help from the digital camera. The binoculars were present in every picture, hanging around his neck in the bar, on the beach, and the boat. That they did not do so now was inexplicable. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so what was even more inexplicable was that the grace of how the olive trees camouflaged the hills passed them by. To avoid being infected by his crisis His Wife bought him new binoculars, but it only did more harm than good. It was never about his bird. It was a play that they both wished that they could stop performing. There never came any reviews, neither applause nor barracking. They spend their days believing that they did well enough. They thought that they moved and existed in a twosome, even though they never agreed. They had common ground and memories; how could they not belong? Maybe they even had a future, how then could they not be solid? From then on they spent their days one by one alone together. His Wife sought the beautiful sands. There she lay listening to the sea's rumble and let the warm wind lick her wounds. He filled up with an anger that ate him alive to the full. Lust was no longer his motivation, but fear of what he might discover within himself. Like a falling tree he seized on everything he saw. He looked for the Leavesinger in parking lots, in the living room and in the laundry. He scraped his knees on the sharp rocks. His face was scratched from all the forest's angry thorns and twigs. He had not seen His Wife in days. When the enthusiasm was long gone and the memories of motivation dried out, there suddenly came an alarm. The Leavesinger had been spotted in the local copse. The Birdwatcher now did what for him was something new; he just left. He felt empty and elated. What would he see? How would it feel, and how would it affect him? He was prepared. The ambience at the gathering spot was tense. Just like him, everyone had battled their way to be here for this moment. One spoke about birds and other headlines. They all shared the same interests but had whatsoever in the others. The Bird Watcher's hands were shaking when he lifted his binoculars to his eyes. The Leavesinger sat on a twig-free branch with empty eyes. It seemed somewhat surprised by all the fuss it caused. The Watcher lowered his binoculars. Was it all that he expected? Was it everything he had ever dreamed of? He lifted the binoculars once more to look for the answers to his questions. The Leavesinger was gone, and instead he saw a camouflage suited man with a rifle hanging on his shoulder. The Hunter smiled while he laid his arm around a woman. A ray of sunshine shimmered trough the foliage and they seemed consumed with desire when they strolled slowly together through the forest. The woman gave The Birdwatcher a glimpse of her face. He instantly lowered the binoculars again. His Wife had left him. And now, The Birdwatcher proceeds in an open-minded way, without clouded eyes. He has more patience than strong words, and calms his shame. A dream is a dream, and the dreamer stands above all, without secrets, without consequences and without laws; she is the child of the greatest pain. She repeats and relates throughout the wavering story.  I described my movement. I spend the time as an observer, and believe that only the written word lasts forever. One night I woke up from the thunder and the ground was shaking. I thought that this was the very end. Finally back in my dream, I dreamt that it was all a sound installation. And in the morning the sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.