Mischievous. Loud. Caw-caw. I screech my truth; all that matters. Primal, confident, sacred, profane. Screeching out clear and gruff commands: “Stay back; make space; this is mine.” It cannot be judged. Judged by whom? This is the purity of silence ripped open by the harsh reality of survival. Called forth from the endless, eternal womb of potential; this is an embodiment, a call to arms and legs.
It’s not pretty. It’s rough and scraggly and real. It’s ruffled feathers; it’s scraps on the wing like dog-fighting pilots: get back, get out; this is my space in the world; it is my claim on reality. Just for now, I inhabit some cells, as a trickster, as a shaman, as a fool, as a coyote, crow, daemon, demented, unconscious: in perfect flow. No self-consciousness.
My voice has broken, cracked like an egg, its contents spilled upon the world: what a wonderful mess. This is simple: collect some things, enjoy them, look at them, live your life fully by slowing down, by inhabiting the trees, by being the trees; by being the rivers, the rain, the clouds; by being the natural world.
This is the perch of the human life: to sit and look at the world as a shiny trinket and to enjoy it in all its fullness. To sit in the cabin and to look out at the plants and the fields — to roll in the snow — to play, to finally play and keep playing until the time is done. No myth of “work” can stop that, can turn this joyful expression into an imagined drudgery. No task too dry to make flying from tree to tree battling other cawing creatures seem like an escape.
Sometimes fire is crackling in the hearth. Sometimes the kettle is boiling on the stove. Sometimes the deeps wounds of a lost life are vomited like magma from the depths of the psyche, bringing fresh nutrients to the field of existence.
