The Secret Ladder

Being here is like being alone in the dark. I guess it’s always been like that, though.

Forgive me in advance, for these ideas and the resulting images are quite fresh, and, like the tadpoles of early spring, still in a protoplasmic state; clear jelly in the hand; goo in a jar; not yet able to sprout their legs and self-ambulate. If given the chance, perhaps they will jump.

The predatory aircraft unzipping the sky reminded me of the president, the crowds I was immersed in, and myself. Identifiable only by comparison: like a bird, but not. Mutated by a life lived in the thinness of high altitudes, able to exist on the ground only while sleeping. They say some moan and bleed if they remain still for too long. Some are so opaque, eating sunlight and radar signals, that they give the sky the appearance of a drop sealing with missing panels.

This is what the sky is like, after all: a glowing firmament. Without it, there would be only the blackness of space. That’s also what the planes are imitating—something that isn’t there.

Being here is like being alone in the dark. I guess it’s always been like that, though.