A stone has been dropped from space and fell in the center of the ocean. Ripples like echoes sound continual drumming fingers and lapping lips against my little craft. I turn my bow outward, Northeastward, and float. I do not catch wind for want of a taut sail. Is it not raised, you asked?
No. Not even rigged. Tucked safely under my arm.
The current of the ripples alone guide me from here. I will drift until I see sharks and dolphins fighting, fins flashing against moonlit water. Until I see honus tuck flippers and drift past my wandering hull. Until I see violence worth fleeing or fighting in. For the moment of adrenaline, I’m still waiting. Out on the bow now, not down in the keep. Watching wary eyes on the water for shadows, ghosts, 妖怪. When the ripples widen over the length of a body, I will know my time has come.
In my stay from the wind, I watched a carpenter bee die. It laid in the wash of the sea. Aboard a narrow craft of a feather it clung and I, the hand of fate, took it to safety of sandy dunes. There it kicked and braced, tucked wing and antenna against a black arched back, sleek and shimmering against the setting sun’s metallic light.
Some stranger called, “What are you watching?”
And I thought “death and inevitability”. But, I called nothing back. The wind stirred and I rose, turned, and continued my journey. In another few moments, I guessed, the bee’s system stopped. I watched until there was nothing to see. Nothing left to experience for me. But death still gripped the bee cold through its useless fruitless struggle.
And I thought — I am nothing but a dying bee. A boat, listing. I exist only as a thread drifting through long contemplative days of painted skies, gathering driftwood and scattered sea life husks of death and discarded feathers like organic trash. In those slow meandering journeys bounded on all sides by salt spray and decaying beaches, I am coming slowly back into my smile and my skin. Only, I don’t know what that means.
Will I shake earth and break mountain with these images being sunk like pylons into me? Will I break barriers, break rules, shatter glass castles with the echo of my words? Will I be a trim-tab on this massive vessel cutting swathes in the sea? Can I prevent our collective crash and burn? Will I be a voice harkening angelic, demonic, prophetic calls into the blackness as we fall captive to our deaths? Can I change the course of anything?
Does any single person ever? Or have our histories and mythologies lied whispers of gods to us? Is every heart, burning or not, only ever a small fish in the big sea? Nothing but the shell of a dying carpenter bee?
What difference does the answer make but to our egotistical desire to be loved, worshipped, held high?
Admission is the first step in the matter.
And fuck it. I don’t want to dust the ground forever. I was born with vestige wings and I fucking want to fly. I’ll find my ledge and jump. “Catch me if I don’t catch air,” I’ll say, but there will be no-one there.
Either I will fall or fly. Hit ground or touch cloud.
So it goes.