All I Wanted Was A Life of My Own, Part 2

As a battered old man I sat there and waited. Death was coming, or it had come and gone, and I still sat here, by the window. Color flashed, and there was pain. Pain that reflected in the window. I smiled and laughed when the visitors came, but just like that they were gone, and I remained by the window pane.

And then one day, she came to me. She came and showed me pretty things, which I reached out for and she let me hold, sun-catchers, dream-holders, things I used to know, but had since forgotten, belonging to the life that wasn't mine to have. And the power in them, oh, the power. Something in me longed for it, for it to course through my being, like it had before.

And why not? If it had once been mine, why not?

So I, in my flannel and jeans, stood before my window and reached, with all my might. And it came, everything, all at once. The power coursed through me, beginning in my feet. I ran with the wind. Faster and faster, higher and higher, my old wings brought me to the heavens, where I ran out of air.

I grasped at nothing, burning more and more power to stay adrift, and with a final burst of everything I had, I reached again, just to stay, and I fell. Death became me as I burned, falling, falling, ever falling, until there was nowhere left to fall to. I burned and burned and from my ashes, I moved.

Here I am, new. I spread my wings and lifted. Here I am, again. New. New. Up, I knew. Up up.

And in my hands were my dream-holders. And in my eyes were my sun-catchers. I was the power I sought, and I was all the time.

"There'll be that crowd to make men wild through all the centuries,
And maybe there'll be some young belle walk out to make men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the likeness, the simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray,
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will be done,
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day."

-from "His Phoenix" by W.B. Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole, 1919.

All I Wanted Was A Life of My Own

Consider the homeless man. No one wants him around, and so he sleeps wherever he wants, whenever he wants. He goes and comes as he feels. And is he miserable? Maybe.

It's the same as Huck Finn I would think. Someone who never had much to care for can never find themselves caring about more than that, even when it is handed to them. They appreciate the gesture, or so I would assume, but how often is it that they change to be something new?

And then consider the suburban housewife who runs around all day trying to make meaningless ends meet. Soccer practice, PTA meetings, groceries, and finding time for Ellen or Oprah (depending on preference of course). And she is probably just as miserable as the homeless man!

Which is why I went back. I stood outside in the cold, letting my hair freeze, waiting for that big, tall, insanely politically incorrect punk to open the door and smile and say "Welcome back." And the moment I picked up that pencil, facing my grey Stonehenge, I could simply smile and consider everything that I had just gotten back. And there is nothing else but me, right here, right now.

Consider the point, the line, the plane. Consider how in this space, there is really one true placement, one true gesture, one true size. From point a to point b, there are infinite possibilities, once you know the rules. And what are the rules? Would you know? Can you tell?

"It's just like riding a bike" Ryan said, looking over from his canvas. And I smiled and considered. Yes, yes it is.