Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

When a bird flies, it flies. It flies and it’s gone. Maybe it comes back, but not this bird. Not this bird that I’m watching. She flies, and flies hard. A whisper of her wing and she’s off—corrupt off the branch and not willing to investigate freedom. She does not investigate, she steals. She steals freedom for herself and knows that there is nothing else for her. Its’ sad – no branch, no fruit, no flocking with other feathers—but for her? The whole sky. Go get it, sister. She unfolds herself and can’t even find grace in her flight. She just wobbles out of the tree and is gone, a Jetstream of light and whisper-sound. Hey did you know that that’s kind of like a wifi network name? That’s right, Whisperlight. Oh, sorry, were we talking about birds and nature and symbolic freedom? Was I supposed to build up a metaphor about a bird and spirit, where there is a cageless horizon and the Spirit takes flight? And can you taste my bitterness sprinkling the surface of this drink, like cardamom on Turkish coffee? Surface. That’s another name. Surface.

Dreams. When a bird flies, it dreams. But it always is also waking up. When it flies it does not just take to horizon, it tastes it. I love my essence and I love her, too. I know what I have to do: I have to leave. I love my job because it’s a lifeline. Nothing more. I have to cut my other tethers, again, again, again. How many severs, again. When I cut them—light. When I let it go, and promise I’ll kill it all—the sky lightens. Shifting 3 notches up. Everything Technicolor. And I’m not here to save you. I’m here to run away. I’m here for me. And when I can just admit that, and stop pretending that it’s something other than a simple issue of compromising the soul in the presence of others vs. feeling free in the company of myself – peace. If I can admit to myself that I’d like to just leave -, and -, and -, and California, and everything I’ve ever known… the heaven opens up and kisses me on the forehead. Basically, I’ve needed to fly away to proverbial Vietnam for 3 years, and I haven’t yet. I put the bird in a cage. And her song is a little flat. But I know what it takes. When a bird flies, she is finally a bird.

§1328 · July 24, 2013 · Over in Oakland · · [Print]

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