In the fragile state of the world which leads me to a certain despair – I have never very well learned to close my pores, to make myself hermetic to what is happening around me – I return to a form of interior silence which resembles a prayer as much as a form of dissociation. I don’t want to talk much. I have little idiosyncrasies. Throughout the day, drink large glasses of water into which I slip effervescent electrolyte tablets. Take walks and look on the ground at what people misplace or throw in the streets: VHS tapes, a big pile of tin cans that are rusting, taking on almost shimmering hues, grocery lists that have fallen out of their pockets. I return to the color of the sky, the depth of the snow, the textures of the food under my tongue. I bought myself a persimmon for the first time in years, this orange and dense, almost magical fruit, telling myself that when I cut it and saw its fleshy and vibrant flesh, I would find a little joy.
I live in a small town in Ontario. Throughout Ontario, there has been an increase in the number of crows in cities in recent years. The reasons behind their increased presence are not encouraging: transformation of forests into agricultural land, global warming which means that hordes of crows decide to spend the winter here rather than going to places with a more temperate climate . At first, I didn’t like these big birds which I found gloomy, and which seemed to me to always be somewhere in my field of vision as soon as I went out. And then, little by little, I became attached to them. I learned that they are extremely bright animals, who live in communities, use tools, like small pieces of wood, to dig in the ground for insects, and know how to recognize human faces — you should never to be cruel to a crow, because not only will it subsequently be able to identify us and perhaps take revenge, but it is able to communicate to its gang our facial features, and it is a cursed gang which will subsequently be able to blame us.
When I come home in the evening, it is, without exaggeration, by the thousands that I see them flitting from one tree to another in my neighborhood, croaking, moving around. I often stop in the middle of the sidewalk to observe them. The image is spectacular, unforgettable: their black silhouette stands out against the blue sky where the light is fading. It’s grandiose, I even dare say. I connect with their choreography, I tell myself that larger than me exists, that I must surrender to the graces that exceed me, deposit in them a little of my distress in the face of the world, trust in the force of the living which speaks of languages I don’t know.