Saturday, October 21, 2006

I have to be moving.

When I was younger I used to think I was not a normal human being. It began in junior high when I thought I could not possibly have been my mother's child, so I must have been adopted. My mother was not amused. Later in college, I thought I might be some kind of fallen angel, with too much wisdom and too little experience to cope in the human world of emotions. My shoulder blades stuck out when I was a kid. I would reach around and feel them... was I sprouting something or were these nubs left over from some hack job? Over time the possibilities widened... alien? Someone who had been abducted by aliens?

Of course in the end I had to face the fact that I am as human (and normal) as everyone else. Bummer. You mean I have no excuses? No mysterious and incredible story to explain the pain, the talent, the insight, the turmoil? It would seem not. And yet...

I have an affinity for things angelic. I'm drawn to pictures of them, to stories about their hierarchy, to the notion of six wings. I have spent hours drawing possible configurations of where all six of those wings might attach, how they would flap to achieve liftoff. I personally like the standard two wings coming out of the shoulder blades routine, but they look terribly heavy. (As a young woman, I longed for large breasts too, but couldn't possibly carry that weight on the front of my body, no matter how much guys were attracted to them.) Would that much weight on the back of your body be a problem?

In my dreams I fly without wings. I really just soar, actually. I take a bounding leap and magically stay aloft. Sometimes I sail off a cliff, sometimes just get up speed on a long stretch of beach. I have to be moving though, it's key. Wonder what that's about?

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