WEBVTT

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And I'm going to read
just a couple of stories

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from the new collection
called Horse Flower Bird.

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"A Cageling Tale."

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Once upon a time, a girl of
17 or maybe 18 got a parakeet

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and kept it in her room.

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The girl's mother, with
whom the girl lived alone,

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didn't like this at all.

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The mother thought birds,
whether herons or doves,

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peacocks or wrens,
defined filth.

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Bird hating was a
strong, female tradition

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in this family with a not
very interesting history.

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For example, when old
aunt had lost her mind

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and imagined birds everywhere,
she'd yell, "Birds!

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Birds!", and wave her arms
around whenever anything,

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a branch, someone's
hand, even the wind,

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got too near her body.

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And the girl's grandmother
had a vengeance for birds.

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She had very bad vision.

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And once, mistakenly,
got a chair

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upholstered in the fabric
that depicted garish birds.

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Strangely, the girl's mother,
whose mother this was,

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seemed to take some kind
of wicked glee in the error

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and never revealed it to her.

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The girl was against
phobias, both in general

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and in the bird particular.

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That's why she got a
parakeet and caged it.

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However, she pitied this sky
bluebird for being confined.

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It looked happy
enough in its cage,

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staring with unblinking
eyes, licking its wings.

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But could it really
be happy in there?

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Soon she took to letting
the parakeet out of its cage

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when the mother was
out of the house.

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The bird knew not
to spoil the room

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and only to soil the
square of sandpaper that

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perfectly lined its cage.

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So the girl's mother
never knew the bird often

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flew willy nilly.

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Furnished in pink,
yellow, and green,

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the bedroom complemented
the bird's powdery blue.

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Lying in bed, watching
the pale bird toss itself

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through the pastel
scene, the girl

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felt in the best way,
pastoral, nearly.

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The girl grew to love
the parakeet so much

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it was painful.

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Sometimes she imagined
roasting its sweet body,

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putting the poor thing
onto a stick over a fire.

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It was so small and delicate,
it was hard not to think this.

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Previously, the girl
hardly liked anything

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at all that could
breathe, let alone talk.

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But thankfully,
unlike human animals,

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the parakeet could only
say what she let it.

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So far it could speak her name,
Edith, its name, Pretty Eyes,

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and one saying, "You're sexy."

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Pretty Eyes was close to saying,
"Hot lady" and "Nice rack."

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This was to scandalize
the mother, who

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had phobias about words
like sexy, lady, and rack.

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The bird was a loyal friend.

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Sometimes, though, Edith
became quite tired of her,

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though the gender of
the bird was unknown.

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Edith thought of it as her.

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Edith was very moody, and many
of her moods were not good.

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And when in a bad mood, Edith
could stand nothing to see her.

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This presented a
bit of a problem

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with Pretty Eyes,
who's smooth bald head,

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despite those feathers, it was
smooth as a tiny little ball.

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It was all eyes.

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"You're sexy," she said,
making eye contact.

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When Edith was sad, this
comment crushed her.

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But Edith quickly
discovered a solution

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to the trouble of juggling
moods and the bird.

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All she had to do was
cover the birdcage

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with a dark plastic shroud
shaped perfectly to the cage

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and make the bird
think it was night.

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Once covered, it
shut up and slept.

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So as the moods came often,
Edith often covered the cage.

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She felt no guilt about
it at all, however.

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Just as with her
resistance to phobias,

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Edith had something
against guilt,

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another devious maternal vice.

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If Edith felt she owed
Pretty Eyes something

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for having to so passively
bend to her well,

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she began to allow
Pretty Eyes free range

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of her room at all times,
even when the mother was home.

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This meant the light
blue creature got to flap

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through the room at very late
hours when it was dark outside

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and the lights were on.

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Then the windows reflected
the room back into the room,

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so the parakeet could not see
the window pane that separated

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the room from the world.

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The pink flowered walls and
yellow rug and green curtains

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seemed to spread
beyond where they did,

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into a whole other room
identical to this one.

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There was thick glass
and then dark woods

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full of crows and mice and
men who chased you home.

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But Pretty Eyes was just a bird
with a small parakeet brain.

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She didn't know.

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So after not very
much time had passed

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since Edith began letting
her out of the cage

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when the outdoors had
blackened, Pretty Eyes

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flew into the window and died.

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With horror, Edith quietly
placed her back in the cage.

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The next morning, she
began to fake weep

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when her mother
entered the room.

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"Wake up, piglet.

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Another day in which to excel."

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To Edith's dismay,
she soon found herself

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in actual mourning,
pointing wordlessly

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sobbing at the dead bird.

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Her mother just stared and
then said with a frown,

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as if she'd rehearsed,
"You may eat like a bird,

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but you never fed this bird
what birds ought to eat.

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No wonder it's dead.

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You'll probably be dead soon.

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I don't miss the bird and
I refuse to miss you."

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Edith either misinterpreted
this last phrase or not,

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and assumed her mother meant she
wished she had never been born.

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It took little hesitation
for Edith to leave.

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She packed a bag, buried
the bird, got on a bus,

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and moved on.

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Flew the coop, as it were.

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So it was in diffident
anonymity that Edith

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began to work as a topless
dancer in a city far away.

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Where suspended from a red
room ceiling in a cage,

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she swung on a
bench and tilted so

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that her long hair
spilled on her back

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and flew out of
the cage in wisps.

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All the girls had
roles they played,

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and Edith's advertised
as The Cageling.

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In her role, she didn't do much
except stand around in the cage

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or swing or sometimes
crouch in a bird-like manner

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at the edge of the cage, and
kind of lean against the metal

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rods of the cage looking sad.

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Between acts, she'd sip
a beverage at the bar.

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In her pale blue bathrobe
with its wide gauzy sleeves

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and with her small
eyes, she looked rather

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like her poor, dead bird.

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This job suited Edith well.

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It was easy, the men
were nice, and she

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didn't have to talk to
anyone while she performed.

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"I can be any kind of bird
I want in the cage, right?",

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she'd ask the manager
upon being hired.

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"I don't have to be a
talking bird.", to which he

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agreed with a scornful laugh.

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"My girls don't talk.", he
said in exactly the nasal drawl

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one expects such a man to use.

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So it didn't matter if she
was in one of her moods

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at this job.

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Bitterness, sadness,
unpleasantness, horror,

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they were all the same
to a girl in a cage,

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standing around, with a bird's
blank stare in her eyes,

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feeling nothing but
air on her bones.

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Eventually, of course, Edith
got too old for the job.

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The place preferred its girls
young, in addition to quiet.

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And when she turned
30, they let her go.

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But like other girls
who worked there,

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Edith had made the acquaintance
to some of the men at the club.

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And together, they pooled some
dough kept her up rather well.

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This was common.

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Some girls wanted
swimming pools,

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some wanted diamonds
and leather and pearls.

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Not Edith, she wanted
a modest allowance.

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Enough for food,
electricity, and the movies.

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She didn't care for a phone,
not wanting her mother ever

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to find her.

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Grateful, Edith was
kind to her men.

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Not prone to speaking, how
could she fail to please them?

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Eventually, she was able to
afford a two bedroom apartment.

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One bedroom was for sleeping
and the friendships that paid.

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The other she kept
closed to the men.

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Inside that room, she began
to build a cage for herself,

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the cage of her dreams.

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It was made of metal she
found in [INAUDIBLE] scraps

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of automobiles, machinery, saws.

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She'd stand in
the room for hours

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at a time welding that cage into
perfect submission with tools

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she'd received as
gifts from her men.

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Blow blowtorches,
vises, and saws.

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Curiously, her
gentle friends never

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asked why she'd want them.

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Finally, after many months
of work, Edith has finished.

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The cage has round
steel edges that

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nearly touch the sides of the
room in which it's contained.

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And when you open
the door and look in,

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you can see through the
bars and windows to outside,

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where spreads a
thick, brick wall.

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This cage is very
helpful to Edith.

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Though her life is
nice enough, what

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with her income and her
lack of phobias and guilt,

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those moods still come and
go despite her sweet men,

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despite how well
things have worked out

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when you really look at them.

00:09:04.010 --> 00:09:06.260 align:middle line:84%
But if she didn't
know better, Edith

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would start talking
aloud, staring too much

00:09:08.960 --> 00:09:10.790 align:middle line:90%
toward the brick wall outside.

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For now, Edith simply enters
the cage, closes the door,

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and sits down.

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Not moving, she feels calm.

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And when you really think about
it, what makes that so wrong?

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