To Toni

I do want you to know,
You are a beautiful young girl. You may get trapped in what this world wants of you, or what you -think- it wants of you, but I want to break that right now. I look at your profile picture and I see this marvelous beauty, eyes perfectly shaped and complexion flawless. Hair straight as a pin and curved just so around your face.
Then I look into my memory of the frizzy haired girl with the big grin and the glasses. That grin that reached the eyes and broke the 'perfect shape' and made it into something even more fabulous. The hardy laugh that came from the gut and left you nearly breathless, the quick wit and humor that came from a sarcastically curled grin and showed through the eyes behind the glasses, shining with something more devious than mischief. The genuine feelings that bore through those eyes. -That- is what beauty is.
Your picture and my memory bring together the picture of your beauty, but only one will bring to view your nature and strength and courage -everything- that I love about you. Please believe me and never forget that.
I love you my dear little Toni. I wish you the best on your next year in your journey and will be here when you need me love.

Always there, Never noticed

I happen to be reading “Someplace To Be Flying” currently under the recommendation of Black. I also happen to be on a “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” kick as of a few days ago. I have happened to find a stark difference between the two.

When I was young, as most children did or so I believe, I was want to have daydreams about finding an awesome power coded in my DNA, brought into the light at the height of when I was needed and of course rescue those close to me and such. There was always a monologue about the powers and how it’s different and so on.

Now, as I’ve noticed with Someplace To Be Flying, there are never monologues. Whoever is involved with the Old Folk and has the spirit of an animal never really tell people. The off hand person might snoop around and such, but they never get a straight answer. There is no glory in it, there is no incredibility of the gift they have; there is simply what they are. When someone finds out about them, their scope of the world might be completely frazzled and now off-kelter, but there’s nothing to do about it. It simply is, nothing more.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice is the kind of story I used to relish (and still do if the movie is made just right, as is so). Simple: kid has powers, world revolves around him, he saves the day, only a few people know. Awesome. He gets the monologue with the girl, very short and to the point (not my style, but he did it well) and he continues on with his powers, learning more about the world that has been introduced to and they all live happily, excitedly, ever interestingly after.

There are no monologues. There are no powers that can be seen with the naked eye and easily explained through a monologue. There is a chance happening-by-er who might or might not understand. Once they are gone the legacy is stopped. Few people who know pop up around the board, believers coming in and out of existence, but more likely than not they take it to their grave silently. The few and far between.

With The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the sorcerers have always been around, only a few and very far between. They go out of their way to hide their magic and not be noticed. Their monologues are mandatory. For Someplace To Be Flying, there is no way to even bring it out into the open. Any who would try to give their monologue run the high risk of an insane asylum. So they continue, unnoticed and but always there. Living just as they would if their society of the gifted were on their own, and to anyone who might become curious, well let’s just hope they enjoy riddles. 

So who are they?

Wake up Little One

In the car we hurry to the gas stop, praying the fill up will be smooth and quick, retaining any heat the car might have accumulated before it’s turned off. She breaths and falls into herself, nearly collapsing in her seat. She feels the strings of a puppeteer. "

“Wake up little one.”

The strings bounce her limbs an inch or two off the ground repeatedly, but no higher. She continues to clear her mind to fend off any possibility of it forcing a conclusion to the strings layed out before her.

“Wake up little one.”

Time seems to want to move onto the next thing, she certainly does. She waits as she’s bounced over and over.

“Wake up little one.”

The voice speeds it’s consistent chant. It never varies, never slows, just continues.

“Wake up little one”

She searches for another meaning.

“Wake up little one.”

She thinks the worst of what this might be.

“Wake up little one.”

This seems a set up for manipulation

“Wake up little one.”

What else could puppet strings mean?

“Wake up little one.”

She stops.

The strings slow.

“In the name of God the Father, in the name of the Lord of Creation. In the name of Jesus Christ. In the blood of Christ I bind anything and everything off of me that is trying to manipulate me. Anything and everything of ill intent be gone.”

She waits.

The strings grow gently taught.

“Wake up little one. Wake up.”

Miles Up

Miles Up

Above one layer of cloud cover I close my eyes against the plane window, shelter them from the light with my hand, and open them to the night sky. No stars to appear as of yet, but below, just below against the grey and mist are hints of lights. As if someone had walked the clouds carrying a leaky pail of foslouresent pain in hand 20 years ago and now the dull memories of the slips remain. So many cities. So many clouds of life. Each new from the next, yet each the same pale shade of glow.