"Fairy tales don't teach children that monsters exist.
Children already know that monsters exist.
Fairy tales teach children that monsters can be killed."
-- G. K. Chesterton
Fly Figure Genious
One sure way to tell that you are not a genious is to misspell the word genious every time you put fingers to keyboard. I have no delusions of genious, not any more than I have delusions of super powers, that is to say, I do have some.
I wince to admit it but console myself by reasoning that all of us believe to some extent that somewhere buried deep inside us lives a genious, a super hero, an extraordinary being. Why else would such myths exist worldwide on such a large scale?
My super power is flight. It can be a problem. Whenever my delusion asserts itself, I want to test my power. How do you test your ability to fly? You jump – off a building, out of a moving car – you jump and pray the delusion is, in fact, the lack of power and not vice versa.
Tall buildings and other high places can be avoided. I am not a window washer, nor am I a mountain goat. But moving vehicles? Harder to evade. The worst is the highway. I get my Chevy up to a certain speed, anything over sixty, and my rational landing gear retracts, allowing the plane of my delusional impulse to take off.
Like a cop talking a jumper down from the ledge, I must reason with myself.
You can’t fly. You have no mutant wings, and the yellow sun does not allow you to defy gravity. If it did, you would have flown before now.
Talking myself down in this way makes it ever so obvious that my latent genious abilities are not latent but nonexistent, for what genious would have the need to convince themselves they cannot fly?
And so, I am not a genious, I am not a super hero, I am not even particularly smart, but, hey, my mom always said I was a late bloomer. Destiny may still guide me into the path of a super-engineered pissed off bird or some genious producing nuclear goo.
If I can’t have my delusions, I’m going to hold on to my dreams.
I wince to admit it but console myself by reasoning that all of us believe to some extent that somewhere buried deep inside us lives a genious, a super hero, an extraordinary being. Why else would such myths exist worldwide on such a large scale?
My super power is flight. It can be a problem. Whenever my delusion asserts itself, I want to test my power. How do you test your ability to fly? You jump – off a building, out of a moving car – you jump and pray the delusion is, in fact, the lack of power and not vice versa.
Tall buildings and other high places can be avoided. I am not a window washer, nor am I a mountain goat. But moving vehicles? Harder to evade. The worst is the highway. I get my Chevy up to a certain speed, anything over sixty, and my rational landing gear retracts, allowing the plane of my delusional impulse to take off.
Like a cop talking a jumper down from the ledge, I must reason with myself.
You can’t fly. You have no mutant wings, and the yellow sun does not allow you to defy gravity. If it did, you would have flown before now.
Talking myself down in this way makes it ever so obvious that my latent genious abilities are not latent but nonexistent, for what genious would have the need to convince themselves they cannot fly?
And so, I am not a genious, I am not a super hero, I am not even particularly smart, but, hey, my mom always said I was a late bloomer. Destiny may still guide me into the path of a super-engineered pissed off bird or some genious producing nuclear goo.
If I can’t have my delusions, I’m going to hold on to my dreams.
Winged Thing
Long, lengths of sky, I've spent
fingering soft mast clouds
of silks that calm the qualm;
tremble now and triple.
I am rooted down through,
ground rises up to greet me;
still, my hands ripple, reaching
for that wish-blue wonder.
You dig into my heart space
and race, propelled through sky;
my arms wave good goodbyes
to the sharp-beaked winged thing.
fingering soft mast clouds
of silks that calm the qualm;
tremble now and triple.
I am rooted down through,
ground rises up to greet me;
still, my hands ripple, reaching
for that wish-blue wonder.
You dig into my heart space
and race, propelled through sky;
my arms wave good goodbyes
to the sharp-beaked winged thing.
narrative archetypes
• The journey there and back.
• Winning the prize.
• Winning or losing the loved one.
• Loss and restoration.
• The blessing becomes the curse.
• Overcoming obstacles.
• The wasteland restored.
• Rising from the ashes.
• The ugly duckling.
• The emperor has no clothes.
• Descent into the underworld.
• Winning the prize.
• Winning or losing the loved one.
• Loss and restoration.
• The blessing becomes the curse.
• Overcoming obstacles.
• The wasteland restored.
• Rising from the ashes.
• The ugly duckling.
• The emperor has no clothes.
• Descent into the underworld.
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