Most of the time
Could be anyone.
Flying in the twilight
"You needed to escape, and I was your escape door. Now, the world is your Oyster. Go on and enjoy it. Too sorry I won't be travelling with you, but not regretting being happy instead.
Anyone looking from the outside knew and thought we were soul mates. They missed the picture. We are interwined. In mind, body and soul. No one else understood you like I do. Remember what I told you? Strong outside, fragile inside. Serious mind, wild heart. Angel face, devil thoughts. That was just a guess, and although I haven't seen an hint of the devil, all the rest has proven true.
All danger comes from being interwined. Like in a cloth, one stream stretching will touch to the inner of our depths. We would never be happy together, because we are one. We were wrapped apart at birth and are now part of a greater mosaic in life. And it's integrity sewing us to the world. Would we be ripped again, the wounds would destroy us, and sewing us back together would be through seams with fragile holes left behind. We'd be weaker, hurt, open apart until the next pull. We are safer like this: interwined, made of the same cloth, but apart. Living different lifes, walking different paths, dreaming the same dreams.
The twilight is the right time for departing. It is the time of acceptance just before despair. The last rays of sun before the sombre thoughts. It would be unbearable on the ground, it lingers when flying until we fall asleep. I take it is the same up in the Nordics. No wonder southerners can manage despair the same way, and live life in a deeper fashion, as if every sunset would be the last.
Flying changes it all. At 30000 feet we're higher than the Mount Everest, and can look at things in a different way. Right now, itś time for departure, in the twilight, flying. It is the best way to weather the loneliness, and guarantee waking up somewhere from where we will absolutely keep moving.
Some people say they rather fly at the break of dawn. It does bring a glimmer of hope, uncertainty, unknown. The morning dawn announces life, freshness, rebirth. However, I thoroughly believe it is soul destructive to leave like that, and you, my darling, are like me. The dew dries in the sun, or drops in the rain. Morning departure is a great, healing feeling, that is confronted right away with reality, whether sad or palpable. The morning is no territory for poets, and that is all that lays ahead when we face the dawn. Don't postpone the flight until tomorrow. Fly today, in the twilight. There is nothing better than the serenity of flying over the clouds that obscure everyone else."
Joe Butterfly did not believe these words, that he imagined being told by Megan. He was simply convincing himself that he just had to do it, and walk away. And he did.
Flying had come natural on him. No wonder he became a pilot, and not just any pilot. He flew planes, but also flew from opportunities, challenges, risks, his weaknesses and strenghts. Flying was his job, and his way of life.
He encountered planes when he was flying from his home, running through the prairies that surrounded his village.
The dwelling was like any other small French countryside agglomeration. There was a bakery serving the thousand odd people who had chosen the quietness of the rural world instead of the nearby town where people would have to go for groceries, newspapers, or buying clothes. Everyone grew vegetables in the back yard, and some would sell in markets all around the region. Papillon was small, but was close to several industrial complexes who built bicycles and precision mechanics. Four families worked on the closest factory, forty seven minutes away on bicycle. Everyone would clock there lives down to the minute, when not to the second. Grand parents would complain of how lazy the new generations were for using new ways of locomotion. Although they built it for others, for a longtime they had no money to buy bicycles to get to work. They also had no money to buy watches and clock the journey times, even though they also built them for others.
Six families was all there was, in fact. The four industrial worker families and the baker family aside, only the Butterfly's resided in Papillon.
Joe Butterfly was descendant from a wealthy family that grew immensely, dispersed their assets, and through a number of misfortunes was reduced to owning land around Papillon. In the summer, Joe would leave the two story house and run through the fields at dawn, explore the streams and hidden rocky hideouts, spend the whole journey walking towards the chapel. This chapel was named Our Lady of the Old Town, however, it was far from Joeś village, and no one actually ever found any archeological evidence of an old town ever having existed.
The path from the village would start after crossing a surrounding stream, and then climb and wind through the lower side of a small mountain, heading southeast. After precisely fifty turns, and keeping straight on side paths that led to fields, he would get to the steep side of a small hill, atop of which layed the chapel. There were natural rocks that offered somewhat akin to a stair, albeit no one had built it. It was as if nature layed down the blocks perfectly, and then allowed the weather to shape it cruder, toned down way to prevent too many visitors. Joe was not interested in what was found at the end of the make shift stairs. There was, of course, the chapel itself, and in front, a few low stone walls that created a terrace, on which a strangely shaped oak grew. Rather than pointing to the sky, the oak was shaped by all the people that sat on its top, creating three branches that gave an alternative, fresh living room out there in the open. Lovers didn't like to use it. It was perfectly separate branches and, in each, only a individual would be able to sit comfortably. It was used by groups of friends and loners alike. It provided an amazing setting for conversation and worship. For some people it trumped the quietness of the chapel itself. Why pray to God inside walls, when He's all around, the priest would say. He was perhaps the loner using the tree the most, and once managed to save it from certain death, after lightning stroke a tree besides it. It caught fire, and, on that day, it didn't rain. However, that 2nd of July was as well the day before the only religious celebration the village held, precisely on the chapel. Although no special celebrations were needed on the chapel, which remained as empty as it was during the year for the mass, he enjoyed preparing the homily there. Given that the sky was turning deep grey, the priest decided to go inside, when he heard the lightning. He also heard cracking. Picking up cloth, he avoided the fire, pushed the tree about to fall guiding it to the other direction, towards the steepest side of the hill. The fire started, and he run to the village to rally people before the flames could grow uncontrollably. Almost everyone came and albeit saving most of the hill, the steepest side was burn down to ashes, losing all the tall trees that had grown, untouched, for decades, and, in some cases, centuries. People never had to go that far to get wood.
For Joe, it was a heaven sent happening. From that day on, nothing cluttered the view anymore on that side of the hill, and this is what he came to see over and over. Looking from there, the view was immense, towards the vast fields where the big town layed. Most times, there was a mist that made the valley invisible, but kept this feeling of infinity to the people looking.
It was there that Joe understood his life would be spent flying. At first he thought it was not possible, and envied the eagles that took flight effortlessly from the top of the chapel, into the valley, and circling towards their preys, patiently hovering, sometimes, for dozens of minutes. However, one day, he saw a plane. At first he didn't understand what it was, but a metallic something came towards him, like an arrow. It had a rotating blade in the front, and he would later learn it was a Cessna. Excited, he ran back down the hill, crossed the stream, jumped over the wall delimiting his house to get faster to the door, and called for dad.
As usual, Oscar was at the library, and shutdown the excitement at once. Oscar was an imposing figure that spent hours reading, either beside the fireplace during winter, or in closed curtains during summer. ....
Anyone looking from the outside knew and thought we were soul mates. They missed the picture. We are interwined. In mind, body and soul. No one else understood you like I do. Remember what I told you? Strong outside, fragile inside. Serious mind, wild heart. Angel face, devil thoughts. That was just a guess, and although I haven't seen an hint of the devil, all the rest has proven true.
All danger comes from being interwined. Like in a cloth, one stream stretching will touch to the inner of our depths. We would never be happy together, because we are one. We were wrapped apart at birth and are now part of a greater mosaic in life. And it's integrity sewing us to the world. Would we be ripped again, the wounds would destroy us, and sewing us back together would be through seams with fragile holes left behind. We'd be weaker, hurt, open apart until the next pull. We are safer like this: interwined, made of the same cloth, but apart. Living different lifes, walking different paths, dreaming the same dreams.
The twilight is the right time for departing. It is the time of acceptance just before despair. The last rays of sun before the sombre thoughts. It would be unbearable on the ground, it lingers when flying until we fall asleep. I take it is the same up in the Nordics. No wonder southerners can manage despair the same way, and live life in a deeper fashion, as if every sunset would be the last.
Flying changes it all. At 30000 feet we're higher than the Mount Everest, and can look at things in a different way. Right now, itś time for departure, in the twilight, flying. It is the best way to weather the loneliness, and guarantee waking up somewhere from where we will absolutely keep moving.
Some people say they rather fly at the break of dawn. It does bring a glimmer of hope, uncertainty, unknown. The morning dawn announces life, freshness, rebirth. However, I thoroughly believe it is soul destructive to leave like that, and you, my darling, are like me. The dew dries in the sun, or drops in the rain. Morning departure is a great, healing feeling, that is confronted right away with reality, whether sad or palpable. The morning is no territory for poets, and that is all that lays ahead when we face the dawn. Don't postpone the flight until tomorrow. Fly today, in the twilight. There is nothing better than the serenity of flying over the clouds that obscure everyone else."
Joe Butterfly did not believe these words, that he imagined being told by Megan. He was simply convincing himself that he just had to do it, and walk away. And he did.
Flying had come natural on him. No wonder he became a pilot, and not just any pilot. He flew planes, but also flew from opportunities, challenges, risks, his weaknesses and strenghts. Flying was his job, and his way of life.
He encountered planes when he was flying from his home, running through the prairies that surrounded his village.
The dwelling was like any other small French countryside agglomeration. There was a bakery serving the thousand odd people who had chosen the quietness of the rural world instead of the nearby town where people would have to go for groceries, newspapers, or buying clothes. Everyone grew vegetables in the back yard, and some would sell in markets all around the region. Papillon was small, but was close to several industrial complexes who built bicycles and precision mechanics. Four families worked on the closest factory, forty seven minutes away on bicycle. Everyone would clock there lives down to the minute, when not to the second. Grand parents would complain of how lazy the new generations were for using new ways of locomotion. Although they built it for others, for a longtime they had no money to buy bicycles to get to work. They also had no money to buy watches and clock the journey times, even though they also built them for others.
Six families was all there was, in fact. The four industrial worker families and the baker family aside, only the Butterfly's resided in Papillon.
Joe Butterfly was descendant from a wealthy family that grew immensely, dispersed their assets, and through a number of misfortunes was reduced to owning land around Papillon. In the summer, Joe would leave the two story house and run through the fields at dawn, explore the streams and hidden rocky hideouts, spend the whole journey walking towards the chapel. This chapel was named Our Lady of the Old Town, however, it was far from Joeś village, and no one actually ever found any archeological evidence of an old town ever having existed.
The path from the village would start after crossing a surrounding stream, and then climb and wind through the lower side of a small mountain, heading southeast. After precisely fifty turns, and keeping straight on side paths that led to fields, he would get to the steep side of a small hill, atop of which layed the chapel. There were natural rocks that offered somewhat akin to a stair, albeit no one had built it. It was as if nature layed down the blocks perfectly, and then allowed the weather to shape it cruder, toned down way to prevent too many visitors. Joe was not interested in what was found at the end of the make shift stairs. There was, of course, the chapel itself, and in front, a few low stone walls that created a terrace, on which a strangely shaped oak grew. Rather than pointing to the sky, the oak was shaped by all the people that sat on its top, creating three branches that gave an alternative, fresh living room out there in the open. Lovers didn't like to use it. It was perfectly separate branches and, in each, only a individual would be able to sit comfortably. It was used by groups of friends and loners alike. It provided an amazing setting for conversation and worship. For some people it trumped the quietness of the chapel itself. Why pray to God inside walls, when He's all around, the priest would say. He was perhaps the loner using the tree the most, and once managed to save it from certain death, after lightning stroke a tree besides it. It caught fire, and, on that day, it didn't rain. However, that 2nd of July was as well the day before the only religious celebration the village held, precisely on the chapel. Although no special celebrations were needed on the chapel, which remained as empty as it was during the year for the mass, he enjoyed preparing the homily there. Given that the sky was turning deep grey, the priest decided to go inside, when he heard the lightning. He also heard cracking. Picking up cloth, he avoided the fire, pushed the tree about to fall guiding it to the other direction, towards the steepest side of the hill. The fire started, and he run to the village to rally people before the flames could grow uncontrollably. Almost everyone came and albeit saving most of the hill, the steepest side was burn down to ashes, losing all the tall trees that had grown, untouched, for decades, and, in some cases, centuries. People never had to go that far to get wood.
For Joe, it was a heaven sent happening. From that day on, nothing cluttered the view anymore on that side of the hill, and this is what he came to see over and over. Looking from there, the view was immense, towards the vast fields where the big town layed. Most times, there was a mist that made the valley invisible, but kept this feeling of infinity to the people looking.
It was there that Joe understood his life would be spent flying. At first he thought it was not possible, and envied the eagles that took flight effortlessly from the top of the chapel, into the valley, and circling towards their preys, patiently hovering, sometimes, for dozens of minutes. However, one day, he saw a plane. At first he didn't understand what it was, but a metallic something came towards him, like an arrow. It had a rotating blade in the front, and he would later learn it was a Cessna. Excited, he ran back down the hill, crossed the stream, jumped over the wall delimiting his house to get faster to the door, and called for dad.
As usual, Oscar was at the library, and shutdown the excitement at once. Oscar was an imposing figure that spent hours reading, either beside the fireplace during winter, or in closed curtains during summer. ....
Man on the moon
21 July, 1969/2019
The lights in the room were dim, a sense of expectation filled the air surrounding the midwives. Nothing was unusual, unlike so many other moments where complications led to panic, panic led to mistakes, mistakes led to relief or sorrow.
Both Yulia and Katherina were direct descendants from the art of delivering. The hands were solidly built, the skin filled with wrinkles, dried from so much disinfectant they were subject to. These were hands able to feel the tiniest of movements and strong enough to hold the cries, pain and despair of the women going through the waves of joy and destruction who have no parallel to any other human phenomenon.
The pregnancy had gone well. In spite of the world turmoil, the baby was unaware of the outside and the outside was oblivious to how well she was fed. The most perfect filtering machine made sure of that, breaking food into bites, dissolving bites into solutions, turning solutions into molecules, sending molecules through the placenta, and into the developing human being. Mother was not particularly keen on any dangerous substances such as coffee, alcohol or cigars. She did appreciate the odd glass of wine when celebrating, enjoyed talking over coffee, and has no stance on tobacco prohibition. Nevertheless, she did not feel an urge for anything other than resting, nor craved for anyone else than her husband when sad or happy. Pregnancy had changed nothing in the balance of the couple, only turned the weights pending on each plate away from the rest of the world. Still, it did not matter.
"Push, madame Butterfly, push!" The midwife voice was imposing. Her great great grandfather was a ship captain, in turn son of a widower who had single handedly educated 7 sons and daughters out of the plains of Novosibirsk. Commanding people out of the darkness ran on her veins, helping steer lives into being was her gift.
"We can see the hair, you cannot stop now. Come on, madame Butterfly, now I don't care anymore if it hurts. You have to push! Push!"
In every person in the room, sweat ran down the temples and forehead in large drops. The bed sheets were soaking from the effort, the waiting father livid with the transfiguration, Yulia tense with finding the right position, Katherina tired from holding back the screaming, exhausted, Mother to be.
In the foreground, deep inside Alice Butterfly head, Beethoven's 9th Symphony was reading the 4th movement. On that moment, she felt the rainbow was coming out of the storm. She had always been delighted with hearing the masterpice of Symphonic works. Everyone knew it as "Ode of Joy", but few knew the meaning of the lyrics. A symphony with lyrics was in itself exceptional.
"It's coming, it's coming!"
Oscar Butterfly was now grasping the wife's hand, crying in a plethora of emotions, seeing a blue being coming out of his beloved wife.
A final gust of strength gave Yulia the millimeters she needed to fit a finger under the chin of the baby and start the outside world on the unaware newborn. Skillfully, mechanically, she started the progressive pull and then the nameless human being was completely out of the womb.
Three hundred and eighty four thousand kilometers away, the Moon was shining bright. The entire world was hanging in suspense. Yulia cut the umbilical chord, and a loud, sharp cry was heard.
"Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed." [2]
[1] Brothers, run your course now,
Happy as a knight in victory.
[2] Roger, Tranquility, we copy you on the ground. You've got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We're breathing again. Thanks a lot.
The lights in the room were dim, a sense of expectation filled the air surrounding the midwives. Nothing was unusual, unlike so many other moments where complications led to panic, panic led to mistakes, mistakes led to relief or sorrow.
Both Yulia and Katherina were direct descendants from the art of delivering. The hands were solidly built, the skin filled with wrinkles, dried from so much disinfectant they were subject to. These were hands able to feel the tiniest of movements and strong enough to hold the cries, pain and despair of the women going through the waves of joy and destruction who have no parallel to any other human phenomenon.
The pregnancy had gone well. In spite of the world turmoil, the baby was unaware of the outside and the outside was oblivious to how well she was fed. The most perfect filtering machine made sure of that, breaking food into bites, dissolving bites into solutions, turning solutions into molecules, sending molecules through the placenta, and into the developing human being. Mother was not particularly keen on any dangerous substances such as coffee, alcohol or cigars. She did appreciate the odd glass of wine when celebrating, enjoyed talking over coffee, and has no stance on tobacco prohibition. Nevertheless, she did not feel an urge for anything other than resting, nor craved for anyone else than her husband when sad or happy. Pregnancy had changed nothing in the balance of the couple, only turned the weights pending on each plate away from the rest of the world. Still, it did not matter.
"Push, madame Butterfly, push!" The midwife voice was imposing. Her great great grandfather was a ship captain, in turn son of a widower who had single handedly educated 7 sons and daughters out of the plains of Novosibirsk. Commanding people out of the darkness ran on her veins, helping steer lives into being was her gift.
"We can see the hair, you cannot stop now. Come on, madame Butterfly, now I don't care anymore if it hurts. You have to push! Push!"
In every person in the room, sweat ran down the temples and forehead in large drops. The bed sheets were soaking from the effort, the waiting father livid with the transfiguration, Yulia tense with finding the right position, Katherina tired from holding back the screaming, exhausted, Mother to be.
In the foreground, deep inside Alice Butterfly head, Beethoven's 9th Symphony was reading the 4th movement. On that moment, she felt the rainbow was coming out of the storm. She had always been delighted with hearing the masterpice of Symphonic works. Everyone knew it as "Ode of Joy", but few knew the meaning of the lyrics. A symphony with lyrics was in itself exceptional.
"Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,
Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen." [1]
"It's coming, it's coming!"
Oscar Butterfly was now grasping the wife's hand, crying in a plethora of emotions, seeing a blue being coming out of his beloved wife.
A final gust of strength gave Yulia the millimeters she needed to fit a finger under the chin of the baby and start the outside world on the unaware newborn. Skillfully, mechanically, she started the progressive pull and then the nameless human being was completely out of the womb.
Three hundred and eighty four thousand kilometers away, the Moon was shining bright. The entire world was hanging in suspense. Yulia cut the umbilical chord, and a loud, sharp cry was heard.
"Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed." [2]
[1] Brothers, run your course now,
Happy as a knight in victory.
[2] Roger, Tranquility, we copy you on the ground. You've got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We're breathing again. Thanks a lot.
Frustration.
You could feel my frustration, you said. But your feeling misses the target. Yes, it's an immense, unbearable frustration. But not due to the reasoning you are weaving. The frustration is deeper and more profound than at the surface appears to be. But, still reachable: you can hang your hand from your vessel, touch the water, feel the cold. Don't plunge though: understand instead: The frustration does not come from hoping on board and remaining still on the boat. It stems from I being the endless sea, that touches all the safe harbours you search for. From being able to push you with a tide, that you may only resist with ruthless navigation and the right winds.
Yes, I could embrace you. I could just as well do and be so much more. But I am the Sea, I'm the Ocean. My heart is wider than the horizon, and I'm already lost in my immense self.
No, the frustration is not a mere frustration. I'm uncontrollably shaking my whole being for the simple fact you perceive a frustration, and not able to comprehend its magnitude. If you would, you would plunge. And you would find yourself far away from the shore, trembling cold and drowning with despair.
Yes, I could embrace you. I could just as well do and be so much more. But I am the Sea, I'm the Ocean. My heart is wider than the horizon, and I'm already lost in my immense self.
No, the frustration is not a mere frustration. I'm uncontrollably shaking my whole being for the simple fact you perceive a frustration, and not able to comprehend its magnitude. If you would, you would plunge. And you would find yourself far away from the shore, trembling cold and drowning with despair.
Striving II
Laying in bed at night, one always wonders. For wondering is the precursor of dreaming.
Making dreams real is hard, but wonder moments surreal is easy.
Making dreams real is hard, but wonder moments surreal is easy.
No expectations
Here is what goes untold.
I had no expectations, only a burning desire. Neither a desire to possess you, nor a mere and intricated lust. Hidden from words and acts was the desire to just make you happy and safe. If I could, I would.
Of course, I did succumb to your charms. Who wouldn't? Your unsparing beauty and seduction did the trick. Even if I could fight it, I would have not.
I had no expectations, only a burning desire. Neither a desire to possess you, nor a mere and intricated lust. Hidden from words and acts was the desire to just make you happy and safe. If I could, I would.
Of course, I did succumb to your charms. Who wouldn't? Your unsparing beauty and seduction did the trick. Even if I could fight it, I would have not.
Love and frustration
love and frustration
“An honorable human relationship — that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word ‘love’ — is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other.”
“An honorable human relationship — that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word ‘love’ — is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other.”
Striving
When a door closes, you need to understand on which side you happened to be. It could be the unknown outdoors, or the wild freedom, the cosy home, or the cold prison.
But above all, you need to realize: the same door that has just been close shut, won't remain that way forever. It's who you find behind that may change.
But above all, you need to realize: the same door that has just been close shut, won't remain that way forever. It's who you find behind that may change.