2/13/20

Incase you may have missed it,
I have a obsession with things that can fly.

This book is named "Words Are Not Wings."

One of my best chapters is called
"The Broken Butterflies."

And there are probably many other mentions of wings, butterflies, or flying in general throughout this book.

I can't help myself.

There is something about flying
and things that that fly
that will always capture my attention.

Birds.
Balloons.
Feathers.
Hot air balloons.
Butterflies.
Wings.

I've either written about one of those things or drawn them over and over.

I will never completely understand my fascination, but I'm willing to explore it.

So let's get started, shall we?

• • •

I think it started with birds.

They're beautiful aren't they?
I'm a little jealous, I'll admit.

They fly.
They live and touch the sky everyday.
They can go anywhere.

I know I'm not the only one to have this jealousy.

Since the times of oral history there has always been stories of humans with wings.

Angels.
The Greek god of love, Eros.
The Ancient Egyptian representation of the soul, Ba.
The Greek god of victory even had wings.

By far my favorite myth will always be Icarus and Daedalus.

The father and son who escaped their prison on wings of their own.

The son who got lost in it all
and flew to close to the sun.

And his wings failed him.
They melted away
and Icarus fell into the sea.

Maybe you can spot my love for this myth in some of my poems. Sometimes I write it in on purpose, other times it's a source of unknowing inspiration.

But, we've gotten off track, haven't we?

So let's continue to on.

• • •

After birds, it was feathers.

Feathers are still especially symbolic for me.

They float on the wind to unknown destinations.
They're the early pencils of writers and poets alike.

They're my two favorite things all at once.
They fly and they write.

What more could you ask for?

After feathers it was butterflies.
Except I never obsessed over butterflies in anything other than the written word.

Because while they are beautiful,
they are far too symbolic for this
wannabe poet.

After butterflies it was the stars and space and the sky.

Yes, I know. None of those things fly.
But they're what you fly in.

I became obsessed with the stars for over a year.

I memorized the arch of the planets at night.
I could name a few handful of stars and constellations on sight.
And, dear god, I wanted telescope. Bad.

After the stars and space and sky, I fell in love with hot air balloons.

I drew them.
I painted them.
I wrote about them.

I love them.
They're every whimsical thing I wanted,
in something that can fly.

And there it is. Whimsical.

I love it. Even the word itself.

If I could be anything it would always be whimsical.

The kind of out there, crazy, star-touching, fantasy-living, madness.

It's wonderful.
It's whimsical.

And whimsical is where all of the other things come in.

All of the other small obsessions.
The ones that's don't fly, but have their own type of wonder.

Umbrellas.
Sunsets.
Mountains.
Doors.
Picture frames.
Clocks.
Street lamps.
Bridges.
Skylines.

That's it for me. That's the little stupid things that make me want to create.

Maybe it's their randomness.
Their forgotten beauty.
The little bits of romance.

Or maybe I like the little things they do.

I'm not sure.
But I can't get them out of my head.

Whimsy ought to be a more positive word.

Because what could be more fun than the whimsical?

Only the whimsical and flying.