Precipice

Let's hope the wings are not made of wax

Prelude.

I’ll apologize in advance for this one.

(If you happen to wonder… Yes, I am a Canadian. The rumours are true: saying sorry is just something we do. It’s like punctuation here.)

This is a piece that is not a piece. It is merely a rambling preface to another prelude.

Because a prelude to a prelude is the just sort of thing I seem destined (or doomed) to write.

You might wonder, dear reader, if the rabbit hole runs deeper than this.

I’m afraid that it does.

Preludes and prefaces and preambles… Oh my…

It is good I am not a pilot, or we might never leave the ground. “Before we depart, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is important to me that you hear the story of Icarus…”

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I. Prima stanza

Only a few weeks ago, I rediscovered my own words for the first time in more years than I am willing to count, and shortly thereafter, I wandered into this place for the first time.

Yours were the first voices I heard.

Yours were the first words I read.

Yours were the first paintings I cast eyes upon.

Here in this digital library.

This sub stack of papers.

This gallery of extraordinary words.

I do not belong here. But I do feel welcome here. And for now, that is enough for me to stay a little longer.

You inspired me to write much (much) more than I planned.

The words keep running away on me. In me. To me. From me. I don’t know what preposition to use. Can I use all of them here?

Shall we say the words keep running. Like water. And the fountain is not so far from here.

I am trying to learn Italian. I have mentioned this before, I know. Sorry when I repeat myself. It is not because I fear you do not hear me. It is because I fear the loss of my voice again.

Do you know the Italian word for room is stanza? I have known this for some time now, and still somehow failed to connect the word to stanza in English. A stanza, of course, is a set of lines. A verse.

(And that makes this the first room in my house this evening. A fire is lit in the hearth to warm and welcome you in. Pull up a chair, and take a load off the floor.)

The timing is something more than coincidence, I think. Maybe fate. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

The words you have written — the portraits and landscapes you have painted — have altered my world.

If I could then I would: write a private and personal note to each one of you. I started and stopped, and the notes coalesced, then morphed into this — a piece not a piece unto itself.

Once the words move and breathe, they take on a life of their own, and I can’t seem to control where they go.

(Some reference to Doctor Frankenstein belongs here, I am quite certain. Feel free, dear reader, to scribble your own into this space.)

Partly, I suppose, this strange sort of soliloquy becomes a way to procrastinate.

The prelude to each piece that I write is exactly this. I know. It is about postponement. It is a way to delay. It is a method to evade madness.

This odd reflection — this preface to a prelude — says something I am certain, although I can not say quite what. Except… perhaps… thank you for writing, and thank you for reading. Your time and your words matter much.

Lastly, and partly, I write it because this piece becomes a promise, and by it I bind myself here a little longer.

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II. Seconda stanza

(The second room, where the light is dim and the dust is undisturbed.)

I confess: it is unnerving, to pen the words of the piece that I plan to follow this.

It is always dangerous… writing words in a bottle, then casting them out into the open water. After all... Anyone might discover the bottle, decide to pull the cork, then read the words written inside.

Who knows what damage some weight of words might cause… to me who has written them… or to you who might be unlucky enough to unlock some spell upon yourself…

I can bear a heavy (heavy) burden of pain. I have practice at that. But I can not bear the weight of the thought that an action of mine might harm someone other than me.

And so I do my best (I take the greatest of care) with my words.

The mask seems to help here — for some reason I do not (yet) comprehend.

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III. Terza stanza

(This third room is smallest. We’ll not stay for long.)

Writing is a deed that fills me with dread.

But maybe (just maybe) there is (always) some good that can come from it.

And maybe (just maybe) there is (always) some good that cannot come otherwise.

Each day, I am reluctant to place my name adjacent to yours.

Each day, I am delighted to sit still and watch, in awe while you work, with my box of black and white crayons clutched close.

(Thank you for pressing me (ever so gently (and (I am sure) inadvertently)) to invite you into the next room. Here, let me open the door.)

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IV. Quarta stanza

(The fourth and final room. A painting fills the south wall.)

I know the name of this place. The name for this painting. It is the precipice of change. Al precipizio del mutamento. I step toward it. Then I stand directly before it. I turn, so my back rests against the canvas. Then I take one step backward — into the painting.

The height is great. The sky is thin.

One foot rests on steady earth...

One foot floats over open air...

Far below is a river of fire...

And I… look upward.

I feel cool wind in my face.

I feel flesh tear apart at my shoulder blades.

I feel wings that emerge from the wounds.

They smoulder… slightly… and ever so slowly… they unfold behind me…

The pain is immense, exquisite.

I step from the ledge... I suppose we shall see... if these wings can hold me…

La ferita è il volo.