[This post originally appeared in Dullicious, where I blogged as Barbie-dull for several years.]
I love to fly. I am a boy. Harry Potter, I think, because he’s the only flying hero I can identify to.
I fly in all kinds of marvelous places but essentially above imaginary mountains that erupt at the top of a lush forest that I don’t have much interest in when I fly.
The mountains are tall peaks and are cinnamon coloured. There is a monastery at the top and a very long, narrow and winding path with stairs between the forest and the monastery. I am so glad I fly. I seldom follow the path because I don’t need to. I soar right up instead. And I’m taken by the view. I usually find myself gradually flying down and it’s not my destination. I catch myself and fly to the monastery, beyond the monastery and I circle it, slowly, quietly, still going up. There isn’t much activity that I can see happening down there. For instance, I have never seen any monk.
At the bottom of the forest there is a plain and farther away, in three directions, there is an ocean. This place can’t be bothered with the noise, smells and commotion of a city. This is what I like about it. I follow sea gulls, or not. I follow the winds, or not.
Today I entered the property of a wealthy neighbour near dusk. I often treat myself viewing the sunset from there. There are many people on the grounds, in the dependencies, near the stables. I could take off anywhere and fly above them unnoticed but I can’t resist. Maybe I am transparent, or very clever, or they are not easily surprised; I have never been noticed. Plus there is this perfect spot for take-off just in a little clearing they have between a wood and a lake.
I am not yet quite proficient and I brush the top of the trees in the wood every time I take the direction of the valley. I think I like it, in fact. Scratching myself a little in flexible branches doesn’t matter; I can fly!
The sunset was dazzling and it quickly turned to a captivating twilight. In the valley there are fields of crops and farms, a broad, shallow and lazy river, more fields and farms and there are cliffs and below them the ocean for a short while. In the bay there is an island. It’s like an oversized tortoise. A very green one. I think it used to be a volcano many many centuries ago.
I glided happily, drawing forms or letters idly. It was becoming dark and I was getting tired. I landed in a clearing and then I walked. How mundane and slow and unexciting.
Could I fly a little more? I would need to choose a proper spot to take-off lest I crash and get caught in the woods this time. I would need to pump my legs to rise higher because when I’m tired, thinking is not enough fuel. There is an orange and reddish light from further down in the valley, I must see that. I know where to take off. I arrange my bags so that they don’t hinder me and secure my scarf around my neck.
I barely scratch my feet, pump my legs and soon the spectacle of the valley reveals itself to me. The crops are glowing, some a deep pumpkin orange, others a luminous creamy colour, some cherry red and others velvety burgundy and crimson, the fields boundaries are illuminated too, a succession of flickering stars, it seems. I have never seen such a festival. Maybe they are celebrating autumn.
I have a camera and I awkwardly fish it from my bag. I had never thought of taking photos, I wonder why. I select the proper setting and press the button. I’m not flying steadily enough for taking a clear photo. That’s a shame because my legs are now too sore from pumping and I must proceed to an emergency landing.
I fly around a little wood, hover over some ruins where I hear two men having an intense and very foreign conversation. I will not be able to fly much longer and I hope their only focus will be on their heated argument. I land, much less noisily than I expected. I make a quick escape from the grounds, the sound from the important conversation fading rapidly.
