2. Memories from a Spool
August’s Mind, Bryson City, North Carolina, America, May 14, 2108
What does it feel like to fly? What does it feel like to be lifted in the air, wind, and sun touching your skin, the tail of your shirt fluttering like the wings of a mockingbird? The ground below stares at you in curiosity about your leaving it, simply because that isn’t something you do. The top of your foot conceals the whole of a house. You would feel like a giant, then. You’re a shore made of rocks and acrid shells. The mountains are your peers. An inflated t-shirt detaches from the skin of the belly, which would be as dry as sediment to the touch, and a group of friends wander in your direction, with their variously colored feathers and used beaks—concerned Avian brains.
Let’s inquire about his being here, one bird thinks.
Let’s inquire about his peeing here, an American goldfinch flays his wing at the wet stain on a flying boy’s pants from afar. It laughs at its joke like a banal British villain. The other birds of the flock laugh, too. The distance between you, who is the flying boy, and the flock shrinks, and you have no context for what they’re doing there. What are they saying to each other through the gleaming string piercing their minds? The string that connects each bird communicates their habits among the group despite the cast feeling detached and incompatible. We’ll give the string a name: Instinct.
Do we intend to help the boy? A third bird thinks.
The Carolina wren’s chirp has the confidence that comes with maturity, but her Instinct remains a vulnerability no matter the year. She is the mother of four out of seven. That was pretty good. Birthing is an arduous process. Once past the exertion, then come the complications. Once past the complications, then comes the celebration. To give a day of birth meaning is to give a life a finish line. Genuinely, there is no point of return. You’re already here. That is the only reasonable slant—an eventual celebration of having finished or being done. But young people don’t notice this as it unfolds! It isn’t until they’re fully grown do they mind the creases, but by then, they’re mothers of their own with an appreciation and healthy aversion to life.
The Carolina wren was past this, as the first of her children attained a peace native to living long enough. That looks like giving over and not giving up. Now, she desires a palatable adventure before her next brood. Let me tell you about her. She is tasteful. Brave. Elegant. Sagacious. Shall I go on? Chestnut or almond, or cinnamon, even. Fat and healthy instead of skinny and starved. Bold. Sensible. She is sometimes incensed. She is sometimes impressed. She is nowhere to be found, but everywhere discoveries happen if the trail of footprints leads directly back to her. Tied down and eager to fly the coop—but she’d done that already. She shouldn’t do it again, now that she is mature and tasteful. Brave. Elegant. Sagacious.
So, a Barn owl grabs you by the pant leg. A House finch grabs you by the other, and they carefully lower you to the earth—the ground feels like a sponge underneath your feet. This is a relief to you. Hell, you pissed yourself! You should ask yourself why you did it, honestly. Please, don’t ignore this. Honestly! It is something to inquire about.
A faint pop echoes in your ear. Was it Instinct?
The cells of your makeup tell you what to do, what to say, and how to kick. Your jeans are loose enough for you to kick. It isn’t your nature to kick, but there’s another you. We’ll give him a name: Instinct. He takes practicing fight or flight a little too literally. Wetting his pants shouldn’t be his knee-jerk reaction. Something startled him—can you remember? You’re home now, ten toes on the ground. There’s no place like it. But there are others here. Heavens, you pissed yourself! Tell them why you did it. They see it, anyhow. Tell them why you did it.
“What is your name?” The Barn owl asks. A compilation of feathered creatures stands before you like a council.
You’re thinking. Does it embarrass you when you take so long to think? It’s OK. Operate on your timing. It’s better to think than not. They will understand, as you are still in shock, having just left your home to find a restroom in the sky.
“A—August,” you finally say, mouth dry and lips chapped.
“August,” the Barn owl repeats, dramatic and slow. “I’m Barny, the Barn owl. These are my friends: House, the finch; America, the goldfinch; and this is Wren, the Carolina wren.”
Ignoring that, you take in your surroundings. Past the bird is a house with forest on every side but the front, and a winding road that disappears behind a queue of trees as it curves uphill. You shrink your shoulders so that the energy leaves there—let it flow to the ears. That way, you can at least strain to hear the static of the water from a nearby lake speak through connecting creeks. Nothing. Quiet now. Empty now. Perhaps an echo of a pop. Barny notices your distraction. He turns to see the house behind him. The rest stare at you. It makes you nervous that they can see your emotions under your eyes and along your inseam.
Listen to you! Breathing all that much, heard from the inside where the air looks like it does right in front of your face. But it is much more useful in your lungs. Or under your wings, if you had any. There’s a house behind Barney. Your house. From where you stand, you see that your house’s curtains are tattered from a fuss between you and your maker. You find the argumentative air before abandonment putrid. You distrust a scenario concerned with an affair, or anything akin to an affair. But you love the transparent flavor of a ripe huckleberry, and, in many instances, anything kin to huckleberry.
Not everyone can be an angel. Not everyone can look inside, where you’ll find the material to heal. This is where the juices flow and roots grow—mature. From heart to fingertips, the vine of your existence cleanses, intermittently, at the nodes, where new vines sprout as if you were propagated from a much larger version of yourself, like a tree. Likely the Tree of Life. All of this is life, but there’s a catch: you must breathe. Breathe like you’re out of space—in space—where you can’t, when you can’t. Breathe like you’re underwater, where you can’t. Appreciate the breath and all that comes with it—the original high. An integral requisite, it alone conjures life. A product you can’t buy. This isn’t the bottom of the barrel—this is the real deal. This is the top shelf.
Barney says, “Would you like to visit your home?”
You respond: “Since when do I own a house?”
Barney replies: “Since the day you were celebrated.”
You switch focus between the house and the owl.
Barney speaks: “Genuinely,” he says. He feels your shift. “There is no point of return. You’re already here. We’re already here. Let us help you.”
America says, “We should start with the closet—get him a new pair of pants.”
House speaks: “America!”
America doubles down: “He needs new pants. It would be embarrassing for all of us if we were to concede this point, as our integrity is at stake and in question. Furthermore, indeed, visually, it is a distraction.”
Wren: “Boy,” her voice soothing and well-intentioned. Her body is the size of a tennis ball, her feathers are the texture of a Dandelion. She floats in front of you at eye level, and the urge to make a wish overwhelms you. Keen mental discernment is in her nature, refined throughout years of error. Wren was the mother of four out of seven. That was pretty good. “Step toward the house. Knock on the door and greet your Instinct, as you are only now discovering him. Let him show you the lonely mirror with a copy of yourself standing in it without legs. Business is below your feet. There are endeavors you’re advised to handle with impunity. Most of us are riddled with guilt. Read the room.”
You float alongside Wren without hesitation because you trust her completely, you see a mother in her. It was a chivalrous gesture for her to credit your intelligence with a choice: to stand and talk or move and act. That’s something a mother would do. You desire a mother, and she, as a mother, desires this, too. As you approach your house alongside Wren, it swells in size and in voice from the sound of dishes in a water-filled sink. Knocking on the door, the faucet whines, the latch clanks, and suddenly, he is there.
He is tall with a strong jaw. He has collected an abundance of time to display next to his nasals. The man is wearing a contrasting white beard on his chin and a strong chest. You cry on the inside and say, “Hello, Instinct. Speaking candidly, I am lost and nowhere to be found. One minute, I’m returning from the lake, walking through the trees and back to a little house, with forest surrounding it on every side but the front. Next, I’m learning to fly, and not very well. It isn’t in my nature, so it scared me empty. Let us speak candidly: I require grounding. I require pants.”
Instinct says, “Young man, I grew so fast. Do you note the years as they pass, month by month, like ripping a page from a calendar? Live your days as if you were watching from a clean window, as if you saw it coming all along. Anyhow, you’re right on time. Here—have some tea. Come, sit. We must discuss our relationship. I can’t identify what I feel, but something tells me trouble is imminent. This feeling is instinctual.”
You say: “Let me inside, then. After our conversation, I’d like to sleep, if you happen to have a spare bed.
Instinct nods and stands aside with a hand on the knob. The birds huddle behind you in support of your journey, refusing to enter.
Instinct’s home smells like lavender. It is your home, too. Now you know how you will show up when you’re elderly and tired of the world. The latter is already a part of you.
You wander through the front door, to your left is a kitchen with an animated, old man running through it, sprinkling flour on a homemade pizza, setting a kettle on fire.
Instinct says while bustling around, tugging at the rope of a fruit net: “Young man, you’ll be old before you know it.” You can hear apples tumble to the ground as you approach the single-cushion chair next to the man’s sofa. “It only takes an accumulation of blinks. And not that many, at that. Compounded with heavy breaths, long strides, nights of rest, and a healthy diet of fish and berries, several blinks subsequently result in the same ending between you and the next man.”
He approached the seat carefully, carrying sliced apples covered in caramel, and two steaming teacups clanked by a spoon, which were pulled out of an unused tea set. He settles in and crosses his hands over his lap.
“A culmination of efforts will lead you here, to this house, with lavender mint tea and a wall of different-sized mirrors. You’ll have this overwhelming feeling of an unbreakable connection to the spirit world. A kind of purpose that punctuates your loneliness. It could be a delusion. That doesn’t change how you feel. Delusion is real to those who experience it. Believe me. Trust your Instinct.”
The ambience and fragrant smells relax you.
You ask: “Are you happy, here, in this house on your own? Where are your partner and kids, dog, or cat?
Instinct stumbles over his words after a sip of tea, the thin glass pings: “Sorry—I haven’t practiced speech in some time. My beard is unruly, and I don’t have anything to tame it! I put flower stems through my whiskers, I’m at least pretty that way.”
Instinct kicks off his slippers.
“Without nature, I am aged and done. I’ve found peace in the land and this house. I shunned my interests and opportunities, and my friends have died. It isn’t all bad, though. I have obsessed over myself in the mirror, searching through my eyes to see who I used to be. There is no proof I ever looked like you, or that you will ever look like me. I brought you here, however.” Instinct coughs and laughs at himself. “I am old now, and unfortunately, my time is coming to an end. I at least have until you become my age, which, again, will only take a few blinks for me. You’ve blinked less than I have, and thus, we measure time differently. Ask me another question.”
Shocked by this, you ask: “What is one lesson you can teach me to prepare me for this imminent moment you speak of?”
After much thought, Instinct says: “One day you will watch your friend die. I know! It is sad. With his final words, he will tell you about death and how, if you look hard enough, you will see it coming from early on. Don’t wait for your last breath to watch yourself go through events you won’t recall experiencing. People are mistaken to be sad, however, about forgetting days and the end of time. It is a beautiful thing! I can’t remember how much I hurt. I can’t remember how much I’ve hurt.” He held a mirror in his hand he picked up from the table, its items various and nonsensical, and touched below his eyes. The skin sagged. “Ask me another question.”
You sit with your tea, thinking about what it is your spirit seeks. The truth of you is found in your journey, and you haven’t steaped in that yet. The walls of your home are made of mirrors: small, tiny, large, slanted or wavy, of a column and a row; black and pink, red, blue, chestnut or almond—cinnamon, even. The same hue as a sunbeam’s nightmare: a dense cloud corrupted by heavy rainfall, cold charcoal ashy powder—framed and unframed. And even then, you lie to yourself, as if your reflection doesn’t hold you accountable. The Barn owl coos when the moon arrives in the sky to exclaim that it watches the world with its yellow eyes. A breeze tightens your skin, hairs tensing at the follicle.
You ask: “Can I sleep now?”
As you sleep on red velvet sheets, sweet relief from the soles of your feet, you shiver at the wind entering the room. No matter how much you bundle, you can’t seem to maintain warmth. However, your pillowcase smells like dust on fire, and the room becomes unnaturally dark. A memory of the sound of a gunshot keeps you from sinking into a temporary euphoria, with a queue of films leaving a spool.