Did you ever think you could fly?

I did.

Granted I was younger and my imagination had not yet been fettered by people who didn't. But I was pretty certain that if I really thought about it hard and really tried that I could become weightless. I could lift my toes from the earth, and be transported into a dream land of steam and robotics and hot air balloons that were really warships, and butterflies that if you caught them, you would realize they were clockwork and music boxes modeled after 27th century cathedrals.
As I grew older a more complete picture came to me. The world where I could fly was also one where people were lost. Humanity was no longer defined by the capacity to love or to feel or to dream; rather, in my flying world, humanity became defined by products. Individuals' creations were often beautiful, but none-the-less, their worth was defined by their capacity to build things. Too many times these things bring pain; they are war machines, or machines that replace the need for a human workforce. They are things that, in the beginning make life easier and more bearable, but in the end, turn people into unthinking, unfeeling, machines themselves. Often, in my flying world, I found expanses of territory decimated by unsustainable populations of out of work, bored, desperate humans.
I wouldn't change my flying world much though. I wouldn't remove any of the strange soot and grime for a few more clockwork butterflies. But I would change what people see.

I want people to see more of the lace.
Want them to see more of the beads of perfect moments spilt from the string of linear reality that slips itself so easily into a nose around each of our necks.
Want them to know that even in my flying world there are still gardens and still love and still people underground who remember before.

It wasn't by myself that I created my flying world. Six men were standing with me, backs bent under the same burden, hands stinging and soiled from the work. They are among my dearest friends: my father, Jules Verne, Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, Kurt Vonnegut, and H.G. Wells. Today is Wells’ birthday. He would be one hundred and forty three years old today.

“The weaving of mankind into one community does not imply the creation of a homogeneous community, but rather the reverse; the welcome and adequate utilization of distinctive quality in an atmosphere of understanding... Communities all to one pattern, like boxes of toy soldiers, are things of the past, rather than of the future.” The Outline of History 1920


Johnny Despair, Esq. said...

Simply beautiful. I applaud you, sweet lady, and I am humbled by your simple yet haunting vision.

Mr. Jack Happy said...

I wont' lie, I genuinely feel bad for putting my bullshit over top of this elegant vision.

Captain Cutthroat said...

Lovely post Katie, hope to see more!!