From The Wing
None of us could learn to swim without the aid of a buoyant float. A crude chunk of foamy hope to stop the mouth filling with extra-chlorinated water, and to stop the outline to languishingly drop deep into bluetiled waters. Learning to splash the slick from arms, kick wildly, and tread the waves, seemingly walking like a breeze through the liquid mass confronting us.
This pool water has been seen before. It will be seen again, flowing through a different city, and a different town; a different sea, a different ocean. A different sip from a cup, a different bead of perspiration. It is all different. These tiny differences matter much more than an intricate thought could possibly imagine - fron the zip and fluttering of the tiny hummingbird butterfly wings to the prowess and soar of the eagle and falcon, effortlessly surveying the land. Water beings swim as air beings soar.
And as the grip on whatever reality you hold true starts to fade, we shall send wings. Networks of birds, butterflies, pterodactyl and honey bees, laced together by spiderweb nets with yarn strong enough to transport anything they wish. Transporting scenery. Transporting billowing material clouds and drifting sheets of paper. Transporting animal and human thoughts, and selves, and words. If it is wished, even the tiny sands of dreams would not rush their way between the wires of webwork grid, to rain visions on inhabitants below.
We shall send messages from the wing; from that white space enveloped by fluffed candyfloss blankets. We shall write, and say, and think, of the places where those wings could go. What those wings could inspire. Expect a profusion of postcards passing past windows, dropping onto front door mats, balanced on balconies, precipitating the materials of buildings and ending up in your own hand.
A note from the space between the moon and the clouds. An invitation. Come and visit. You can fly, sometime…
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