I have a tattoo on my arm. It is a feather. It is maroon and looks like henna. I got it on my brother, Cormac’s, 17th birthday. I have another tattoo on my back. It is Wilson’s name. I got that one because I wanted to keep him close.
I decided on a feather this year because I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to celebrate Cormac making it to 17. I wanted to celebrate our freedom from grief being a tyrant. I wanted to celebrate life becoming light and being able to drift with the wind again.
(I also wanted to cover up a crappy dandelion I got tattooed 2 years ago when all the wrong people made me want to do all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.)
So basically I love feathers. I used to collect them. I stuck them in my hair. I made Red Indian headdresses with them. (Refer here). The last gift I gave Wils was a long beautiful quill. Which is really a fancy word for feather.
Then this weekend happened. And my tune changed a little.
Do you know how many feathers you can fit in a duck down pillow?
Do you know how many days it takes to get said feathers out of your ugg boots?
I can’t even tell you because I’m not there yet.
On Saturday night, at a friends house, we decided to rip open a pillow and make it rain. Literally rain. With soft white beautiful little feathers. It was like heaven for drunks. We are geniuses.
On Sunday and Monday and Tuesday it became quite apparent that due to their little sharp sticks and Velcro like capabilities, feathers are stage 5 clingers. Henceforth, we are retards.
They were everywhere. In the couch. In the toilet. On every item of clothing that had entered a 200 yard radius of the apartment. In cups. On towels. Everywhere. We left some at a cafe, bondi junction and up and down the street. We were like really cheap Victoria Secret Models wearing crappy duck wings. Stuck to the back of our jumpers.
Anyway. It’s almost all cleaned up now. I don’t know how the scene of the crime looks. An actual angel named Dirk (or Stewy or Googs or Dice depending where we are) took care of that. Somehow a lot of feathers have followed me home. Like little friends. Or stalkers.
I want to say I regret it. But I don’t. (Just like my tattoo. New and hidden.) Because luckily memories are quite sticky too. And the more the better I say.
(Especially ones with this particular breed of excellent specimens.)
Birds of feather flock together.