A green coloured plumage created by the habit of forgetting in 37 seconds

Imagine a violin being played with a bow covered with rough lichen, and it seems that each and every string of the violin is being choked (or in this case being pulled from both ends). It sounds like broken hiccups on the violin. Urgent, honest, painful, screeching, and not very communicative of the notes or the ideas. It’s weirdly synesthetic and captivating. Against this sound; there are leaves, mostly in flocks of three, or five, but always odd numbers. They are temporally swaying out in the wind that howls and runs like it has forgotten all its memories on top of the mountain. Once the wind reaches the mountain top, it again remembers that it did forget a chunk of its memories on the seashore. Then it blows back again; never tired, never guilty, always making new memories in its travels to find the forgotten. The wind can never stop the loop of making memories and forgetting them again and again. Well, during these long travels, the wind caresses a lot of things, and leaves are kind of old-time favourites maybe because they reciprocate what the wind feels. Then all the flowers, trees, tall grass, clothes, his hair, and a tad damp lines of tears on her cheeks; the wind takes the soggy saltiness of all these and runs away.

But of all these things that the wind lends its heart to, birds are said to carry the soul of the wind. As the wind travels high above the clouds, in storms, and in rain, all the memories are passed on to the birds, who are said to have a habit of forgetting in 37 seconds.

Cuckoo loves birds.

She is obsessed.

To do everything with birds.

Spend life in eternity as a bird that looks a little like a pretty human.

Cuckoo liked to peek into birds' nests, and catch them by laying out large nets.

She likes to keep her painter in her pocket, and forget him as she waiver her daily habits -

And wander in the forests giving into new sounds and feathers that passed across -

the horizons of her never stopped blinking eyes.

We should look at her, just for the dazzling beauty she is. But she is invisible, isn’t she? She has the quietest coos and the loudest eyes. But anyhow we will follow her today for the sake of this story, a story that itself not sure if it should be existing.

She woke up with the heavy but beautiful baggage of dreams in her eyes. There were three lines on her left cheek from pressing against the pillows in sleep - leaving her crow's feet less noticeable. In the round mirror, her reflection smiled looking at them. She smelled her plants, murmured to the dead flower, and while barely sipping her coffee she stepped into her pastel-colored dress. She has had me for a week now. Finally, I will introduce myself, I am a painter like she is. It has been fantastic knowing her. Every day, we talk about our days. How she walked through all that nature, all that grass, all that mountains. She spends her days looking at birds and everything around them; that includes all the world, yet the most beautiful sites and landscapes always lend everything they have to her eyes, to devour while her teeth came out in half-aroused smiles, when she looked at those vast green, fast lean - fleeting pockets of time filled with stimuli so powerful.

That afternoon, we went to the white sea. It’s in Russia.

If you look at the trees or grass on a landscape, you get to know everything about that place. You can name them, scientifically or romantically; however you want, nature doesn’t mind. A landscape is the soul of the earth worn outside. The interesting part of nature is the soulful nakedness that protrudes from it. Cuckoo always went to nature to take naked self-portraits or Plein-air. But often she was so overwhelmed all she could do was set up her film camera on a slanting rock with a tripod that reminded me of the kiosk lady who always looked at us with a grin; they were both crippled. Being in her pocket, when she removes her clothes to take pics, I often end up in a great position to ogle. It’s okay to ogle in nature, remember - we are pulling our insides out. I loved that both her nipples were different sizes. One was a little pumped up like the tip of a balloon, soft and cosy to look at; it seemed like it was painted on her with watercolours. I believe it was her left nipple. Ironically enough, that’s where her heart lies. I never thought she had a big heart. In fact, she has told me many times that I have a much bigger heart than her. And her right nipple was like a confident arrogant stroke of acrylic. It was defined, well shaped, like a light wheat-colored grape that is so adamant and rigid, you will never be able to squeeze a drop of dew out of it, well you wouldn’t want to.

Today she was hiding behind the red autumn leaves to take pictures. She was only showing her right nipple; she said she was never confident enough to show her soggy-skinned left nipple, maybe she was not okay with her heart being vulnerable. She covered her face in the leaves and the camera clicked once. She came out and pressed the timer again and ran back to half-hide behind the leaves. This repeated until we heard the howling barks of some dog-like creatures, maybe the winter dogs. I didn’t know the names of birds, animals, and algae. She told me all the names, but her silent voice got buried in her loud eyelashes. I don’t remember. Or maybe I wanna name things in my own way. Makes life so much easier. I don’t want to offend anyone by commenting on their identity, but here on the cold rocks with the howling cold wind from the white sea, names were just a call for attention, a call for listening. I‘m sure the plants always listened, animals I don’t know, birds - well we know that they forget everything in 37 seconds. That is how I know Cuckoo was a bird, she remembered everything for 37 seconds, and she goes blank as if she’s the whitest canvas ever.

She forgets me 1167 times a day. She sleeps a lot, I count it as 12 hours on average. But I actually don’t know if she sleeps, she just dreams constantly. Whenever she forgets me that’s when I have to start painting. She knows that she has or she wants to have a painter in her pocket, and as of now I have been the only one here. She heard the dogs and she got scared, she doesn't want to deal with the men in the village. She ran into the bushes, clenching her foot in the shape of a question mark. She cuddled with the algae murmuring about the dogs and the men. I figured I have to paint now, she took me out of the pocket of her jacket. As she took me out she looked at me and seemed lost in her eyes. With my dandy smile, I took out my brush and waved through the wind between us. The wind dropped two memories, there was a vacuum in those places, they became black strokes, and I moved them with my left hand and they swayed in a loop to create a pair of eyes. I repeated this three times (with cuckoo you shouldn't finish a picture, you draw enough to make her remember you, you draw for 7 seconds and live in the bliss of remembering, accepting, and loving for thirty seconds; and you repeat. That is all there is to life I guess. As long as I like to paint in the wind for her, as long as I can steal those memory strands from the wind and fill it with my irrationally stupid love for this being of beauty, this quick clockwork works.

§As I drew 7 strokes, it became a raven and I couldn't finish its left wing in time. Cuckoo gasped and said she cried for my broken wing and she pressed her lips against mine, and then the rigid right nipple and finally the softest tissue that covered her heart, the floaty shiny left one. As we got more tangled in the wetness, the algae, her skin seemed green, she calls it the change of plumage, like in birds. But unlike in birds, instead of seasons, the cause of the change in her plumage was - emotions. I like it when it changes to green, it is very sexual. And we are very sexual. As she had her second orgasm, I remember thinking that I will remember this moment. That is what I do, I never forget to think that ‘ i will remember this. Someday, like Cuckoo, I'll remember to forget as well. Must be easier to fly weightless like the wind of a bird.