Herv the Venetian Seagull
Herv was born in Venice. He is a Venetian Seagull. The H in Herv is not silent. Herv is a romantic. He believes that one seagull loves only one other seagull.
We believe: What if the heart soul body mind were dispersed loose and with every new encounter we took the opportunity to recognize all those parts pieces bits and put them back together and even took up other parts, tried on other parts in those moments.
“Only in those moments?”
What if those moments, the chance encounters, connections are our most precious and singular moments to realign our entire selves? Falling in and out of love in an hour or a few days over a cup of coffee, a bowl of pasta, is a blessing if you recognize it and humble yourself to it, give yourself permission to what if. We believe that’s possible. Possibly. Otherwise life is you as you were when you left home, when you arrived at the airport, when you took the train last night.
Tiki met Herv the seagull while they both pondered a shadow. “That shadow down the way is a huge peg-legged pirate.” “It’s a construction crane. I flew by it in the fog, but you’re right, with these yellow lights, it looks like a peg-legged pirate.” “Basta!” “You realize there’s more to Venice than the dock where you stand each night, right? Please tell me you realize this.” “Yes, I suppose.”
Venice is slow quiet cool cloudy mysteriously fuzzy, familiarly snuggy, and nice. Venice is nice. “What are you? Why are you here?” Tiki is confused by intimacy.
“What an ugly ‘craw’.”
“CRRAAAAWWWW!!!” Herv makes this sound infrequently, but when he does it is his. Herv owns his craw.
Herv’s craw stabs Tiki somewhere beneath the shell. Her soft stuff becomes agitated and hot and ignights. Flying above Venice, Tiki’s stuff drops onto Rialto, San Marco, Academia, and all the places she was advised to visit. Tiki rains bits of white lava snowflakes upon Venice, the Ghetto, the secret gardens and courtyards, where only from above, and only from her heart of salt, will all the precious places be nourished this winter. Herv the seagull who loves ice, one bell toll, and brunettes, trails not far behind, but at a safe distance from Tiki. “CRRRAAAAWWWW!!!” “Hello, I’m right here. I’ve no superpower, alright, maybe one, I live here.” Tiki looks again for the peg-legged pirate. She has lost him in the ripples of the Canal. Herv gently lands where the pirate was last seen. He does not want to disturb anything. His wings are dusted in fine white crystals. He likes the smell and feel of the salt, doesn’t mind the singed feathers, and hopes it will last for a time.
I hate Herv. He is intrusive and unseemly, even for a seagull. Also, Herv is small.
“Herv, what are you? Why are you here?”
“I like ice, one ….”
“Herv, you are a glimpse. You are too much and too little all at the same time. Fly away. Please….”
Tiki heard and didn’t pay attention to me because she was swimming in the Grand Canal. Tiki is not afraid of any water pirate or gull.
“I am sore from this cold. I need another blanket.”
“Here I am.”