Craving

I dropped my french friend off in downtown Seattle today, and when driving back to the freeway I experienced one of those moments when everything takes on sharper edges. It was as though the ripe July sunshine suddenly picked up every nuance that's normally blurred away in the overcast, and I remembered just how many people there are in the world, and just how many stories, and just how many wishes and hopes and disappointments and secrets.

I saw an overweight woman trip, and as her friends hurried to stabilize her, her expression indicated that it was a much bigger defeat than just a momentary stumble.

I saw a couple sitting on a wall's ledge in the shade, both in black, and the man had his bald head resting in the crook of the woman's shoulder and neck. He looked tired, and sad, and deeply contented.

I saw a young black man with aviator shades do a hip-hop move in the sunshine and then relax into a shaking of arms and legs. He looked bored, lazy and relaxed in the sun, but ready, his body taut with unspent energy. The wing tattoo on his deltoid moved, but not to movement.

I saw hobos arguing over a panhandling spot. The one with the perfectly lettered sign won; the other trudged off with a limp and eyes that were too squinted for expression.

And I wanted to get lost. Seattle's familiarity, which I normally cherish, suddenly seemed suffocating. I didn't want to be in a city that had no more hidden corners, that was all under the sunlight. I wanted to be drifting. I wanted to be driving down a desert freeway at 110 mph, the map thrown out the window. I wanted a near miss, and then a direct hit. I wanted to be turned inside out, and feel a shiver of the spine. I feel a restless ache of imagination, and I suddenly wished to be hidden, to be flying, to be in a tree, or in a canoe, or simply falling.

I have wings hidden underneath the skin of my arms and they itch for reaching.