Your eyes tell me all is fine
Instinct tells me otherwise
I leap and cling and tumble
Fall, pretending I can fly.

I reached, but never far enough
I see what vanity has done
And you can hold me all you want
I’m falling down, I’m falling down
I am what you have made me
And this parachute can’t save me
I’m telling you now
It won’t be pretty when I hit the ground.

Falling quick in helpless spin
Razored air is choking me
Caught between the endless rock
And uncertain blue infinity.

Cord is trapped just out of hand
Frantic movements strangle peace
Close my eyes to breathe again
And I know what these moments mean.

I reached, but never far enough
I see what vanity has done
And you can hold me all you want
I’m falling down, I’m falling down
I am what you have made me
And this parachute can’t save me
I’m telling you now
It won’t be pretty when I hit the ground.

The post Never Far Enough appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

The doctor enters the room in an old-fashioned diving suit. In other rooms, nurses swim in and out of diving bells. Doctor turns on bedside machine, and a round green screen appears with a spinning hand and the sonar sound. The doctor lowers a periscope to the mother’s stomach and begins peering into it. The machine begins beeping each time it picks up the baby’s signal.

“Its getting closer!” The nurse hands him a flask, and the doctor suddenly has a sea captain’s Ahab beard. “The beast approaches!”

The blips on the sonar screen get closer to the middle, and the baby leaps out of the mother’s stomach. The doctor screams, “IT BREACHES!” as it roars and eats a nurse and returns to the stomach.

The doctor calmly turns to the mother. “It’s a boy.”

The post #006 / Sonar Baby appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

, Oswald raced back to his home and spent the entire day stockpiling whatever food he could find. Then, each night for two weeks, he crouched in the corner and screamed as the owl slammed against the tree and tore at the bark surrounding the hole, trying to climb inside. Nothing would stop the murderous bird during the long hours. Oswald became exhausted, weak, and desperate.

Then, one night, as the squirrel lay curled up and whimpering, the terrible sounds stopped, and the silence of the night filled his ears. The owl had gone.

“Hello?” There was a familiar voice outside. Oswald climbed wearily to the entrance.

“Is that you, Griffith?” The squirrel peaked out and sniffed.

“Yeah,” came the reply. “I think I spooked him. He left really quickly.”

“Thanks for coming by. I was starting to consider letting him get me just for the peace and quiet.” The haggard squirrel grinned.

Griffith was horrified. His friend was inches from death each night, and this time he had gotten close enough to the owl to see how huge and terrifying it was. He needed to do something about it.

“When does he show up? What time do I need to be ready?”

Oswald shrugged. “As soon as dusk comes. I’m here hours before then, though.”

Griffith began hopping off. “Well, stick to your normal routine. I’ll take care of him.” He headed for his bench.
Oswald tried to stop him. “What happened in there? Why aren’t you flying?”

The falcon called over his shoulder. “Wing’s tired. Resting it for tomorrow. See you then.”

—

Nothing the humans could do had fixed Griffith’s wing. He watched wide-eyed as they transferred another falcon’s feathers to his wingtip, sticking them together with glue, tape, thread, and all manner of metal instruments. A great pit in his stomach grew as they made frustrated noises at each other, and around him, other birds of prey lay in cages, unable to fly, missing eyes, beaks, feathers, feet, or wings.

He sat helplessly in his bin, knowing that soon, he too would be just as sad and useless. He listened to the other creatures in the huge park play and run behind their fences. He watched the strange flying metal sleds with spinning blades on top whirr and chop through the air outside the windows, carrying humans into the sky.

And then Griffith decided something.

He rose from his cloth bed and hopped carefully down to the ground and out the door, avoiding the white-clad humans. He needed to see where Oswald lived.

Because now, as he clung to a metal shaft and squeezed tightly into the nearest corner, Griffith knew his life was meant for more than he had ever planned. He was unwilling to lose it in a white sterile room, or under his bench with his familiar things. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his days trapped on the ground.

The blades above him spun faster, and the deafening noise drowned out his frantic heartbeat. Without warning, his body jolted downward, and the ground fell away below. Griffith’s talons squeezed tighter and he balanced himself as best he could. Roads became thin dark lines below, and trees spattered city blocks like green moss. Towers rose up into spears and sliced the horizon. The world was bigger than he’d ever thought, ever imagined. This was more important to him than anything he had done.

He leaned forward, spread his wings, and leapt.

Griffith still could not fly. He knew his wing never would allow him. But he was a Peregrine falcon, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, how to dive. He tucked his wings below his belly, the good wing over the bad, and dropped like a missile.

Around him, the world rose up, and lights around the block flickered on. He fell faster, and then movement caught his eye. Even at over two hundred miles an hour, he spotted the owl’s enormous wingspan and heard its furious claws getting closer to Oswald. He felt himself wanting to screech a battlecry, but held it in and stayed silent. He fell faster. Griffith knew his wing would not stay tucked up properly for long. He straightened and dove for the owl’s neck, just above the spot where the wings met.

His coming was silent, and the owl died instantly. Griffith buried his vicious beak in the bird’s flesh and hit the ground at one hundred and thirty miles per hour. Oswald had already blacked out.

The post The Tale of Griffith McCarthy | Chapter 5 appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

Goodnight, moon! Goodnight, stars!
Goodnight, tiny little planet Mars!

Goodnight birds, and goodnight cows,
Goodnight piggies and your momma sows.

Goodnight vodka! Goodnight rubles!
Goodnight call girl in a codfish two-piece!

Goodnight, Moscow! Goodnight Omsk!
Goodnight Krasnodar, Ufa, and Saratov!

Goodnight Papa! Goodnight Mama!
Goodnight comrade sister and comrade brother!

Goodnight, Mother Russia! To sleep without sorrow
Goodnight, Ukraine! I’ll see you tomorrow!

The post Vladamir Putin’s Goodnight Lullaby appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

R: MARISSA!!
M: No.
R: Marissa, give me the remote!
M: No. You can’t have it.
R: Marissa! What are you watching?
M: I’m watching Baywatch.
R: I WANT TO WATCH BAYWATCH!
M: Not while I’m watching it!
R: We had an agreement!
M: Yes, you get the car and the bottom dresser drawer. I keep the house!
R: THAT…IS ANOTHER AGREEMENT.
M: Why can’t we just watch Baywatch together?
R: THAT’S NOT A PART OF THE AGREEMENT.
M: Well, I don’t like the agreement. I think we should change it!
R: YOU CAN’T CHANGE THE AGREEMENT.
M: Fine! Here’s your remote! ARE YOU HAPPY??
R: I’M SO HAPPY.

Scene cuts to Roman and Marissa snuggled together on the couch watching a Ryan Gosling chick flick.

M: Okay, this is the good part.

The post #022 / Roman: Episode 3 appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

“This is how you’ll fix my wing?” Griffith asked, starting to feel less inclined to believe Oswald.

The squirrel grinned. “Well, I wont, but the people inside will.”

“People?” Griffith was definitely not doing this. He had heard stories about people who were cruel to animals and intentionally killed them for fun. And after seeing the pack of dogs just hours before, he had no intention of wearing a leash or being made into a pet. “This was a bad idea. I can’t go in there.”

Oswald was becoming frustrated. “They’re good people in there. They help animals. They have doctors and smart people who know about us and can heal us.”

“How? How would they fix my wing?” Griffith held his left pinions up and counted the missing feathers.

“I don’t know, but they will. Just follow me, will ya?” The squirrel moved forward and ducked beneath the railings. Griffith, after another uncomfortable shuffle, went through the tall fence and hopped hesitantly after Oswald.

It was an enormous park, far, far bigger than Oswald’s, with well-groomed trees lining paths, streetlamps shining brightly on fences and benches and friendly buildings. Signs with pictures of animals Griffith had never seen before were everywhere, and suddenly he realized that the strange smell bombarding his senses was from multiple creatures all living close together. As they went, he listened to the foreign breaths of sleeping herbivores and faint snarls of huge cats.

They stopped at a building connected to a huge glass structure, which Griffith could see was filled with lush foliage and dimly lit with warm, yellow light. Nesting among the leaves were birds from every species, color, and size. Griffith gasped.

“This is incredible! Where are we?” His eyes were wide and he was shaking with excitement.

Oswald smiled. “It’s called a ‘zoosk’. This is where animals can come for help. I was here once with a broken foot, and a week later I was walking fine. I know that if anyone can help you, the people here can.”

After seeing the glass house filled with birds, Griffith was starting to feel better. He was still scared, but he knew that taking a risk was the only way he’d ever fly. “Okay. I’ll try it.” He looked around for an entrance. “How do I get inside?” he asked the squirrel.

“They’ll take you in if they see you. You should wait outside the door for morning. That’s when the people arrive.” Oswald grinned. “I’ll stick around until then.”

Griffith spread his wings and patted the squirrel on the back. “Thank you for bringing me here.” The falcon choked slightly on his words. “I’m thankful for your help, Oswald.”

“You got it, buddy.” The squirrel stretched and yawned. “When they show up, make your wing stick out awkwardly and look all pitiful. They eat it up. Now I’m going to take a nap.”

The post The Tale of Griffith McCarthy | Chapter 4 appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

“You have somewhere to go, you have something to carry, and now, you have some way to get there!”

The post #073 / Purse Salesman appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

He also knew that Oswald was telling the truth, or at least believed he could help Griffith fly, so Griffith trusted Oswald, as crazy as it sounded. He did not, however, believe that a squirrel had a solution to fix a permanently-pinioned wing. There was also the distinct possibility of him dying, and Griffith still enjoyed his life, as routine as it was.

After waking up the next morning and rolling his feathers in the dusty pits near the bench, he decided to take Oswald up on his offer, and screeched several times to call the squirrel. He was startled by a sudden shadow passing over him, and looked up to see the largest barn owl imaginable hovering a half-block away. Griffith quickly realized that Oswald was being hunted, and started hopping in the direction of the owl’s circuit. He knew there was very little time.

As he moved further away from the park, the surrounding trees cleared and Griffith caught a glimpse of the skyline and vastness of the city. He saw buildings and sidewalks lined with small trees, tiny planes and zooming cars and hurried people rushing about with their heads down. He heard music from three different street corners, all different songs but still somehow coming together in a single melody. And before him, a statue of a man on a horse loomed above, upon which crouched a very out-of-breath Oswald, clinging to the stone for dear life. Above him, the owl had perched on a window ledge and was watching his every move.

Griffith moved closer to the statue and whispered upwards towards the squirrel. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Oswald called down, “just out of breath.”

The falcon looked around for something familiar to hide in, but was at a loss. “What can I do?” he hissed.

Oswald gestured behind Griffith. “There’s a taxi parked on the other side of the street. If we can get under it we’ll be fine.”

Griffith mentally measured the distance to the taxi. Almost fifty feet away and across the lanes of traffic. He glanced up the sidewalk, and saw more dogs at a single intersection than he had his entire life. A plan was hatched.

“Get ready to run,” he called as he took off hopping towards the intersection.

The blood was pumping through his arteries and Griffith started to feel the adrenaline mixing in. His excitement increased, and at the same time a horrible feeling of dread. He headed directly towards a tall woman walking at least 8 different dogs, and just before he reached them, the falcon opened his wings and charged the pack, screeching at the top of his lungs and ruffling his father’s to inflate his size.

The dogs lost their minds and immediately pulled the woman off her feet as they rushed to meet Griffith.

He changed course and ran into the middle of the intersection, drawing the pack behind him, and at the last second he flapped awkwardly and managed to leave the ground enough to barely clear a Toyota Camry. Six lanes of traffic ground to a halt as the dogs dispersed into the road, barking and baying excitedly. Oswald saw his opportunity a second before the owl did, and lept off the statue and raced towards the road as the owl silently swooped down from the ledge. Griffith watched in amazement a the two creatures nearly met on their trajectories, Oswald diving under the nearest car as the owl barely pulled up from the pavement, talons outstretched and bared.

The owl’s wings strokes almost blew the squirrel out the other side, but Oswald recovered his bearings and trotted under traffic until he reached the taxi where Griffith waited.

“That was close.” Oswald grinned at the falcon and scratched his ear.

The post The Tale of Griffith McCarthy | Chapter 3 appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

Parents watch helplessly and film him for YouTube.

• Bedtime
• Broccoli
• Spanking
• Shots
• Bath
• Dentist
• Stop
• Don’t make me call your father

The post #013 / 3-Year-Old Tourettes appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

Completely covered in black fur, the squirrel was able to avoid dangerous birds of prey and forage during the night while other animals slept.

Griffith had seen him around the park now and again, chasing bugs through the garbage and sunbathing on the various dilapidated benches. They had never been close enough to speak, but today, as Griffith sat upon his favorite perch in the heat of the afternoon, he watched as Oswald entered the park from the Third Street sidewalk and cautiously approach the bench, holding something in his paws.

“Hi”, Griffith greeted the rodent timidly.

“Hi,” said Oswald. “I brought you a fig. It’s from the subway station.” He opened his paws and showed Griffith the piece of fruit.

“Thanks.” Griffith leaned down and gingerly picked it from Oswald, being careful not to intimidate the squirrel. He leaned back and gulped it down, eyes closed, savoring the taste. “It’s good,” he murmured.

He and Oswald eyed each other, neither speaking for some time. Finally, the squirrel continued. “Can’t fly?”

Griffith shook his head and swept his wing up. “Bad pinions straight from the egg. Never flew.”

“Nuts.” Oswald looked disappointed. “I need protection. There’s something after me.”

Griffith’s eyes widened as he realized why the smart squirrel would even ask for help. “Owl?”

Oswald nodded. “I think so. It’s been tracking me for three nights. I took him for a spin this weekend, all the way out to Central.” He gestured south. “Couldn’t shake him.”

The falcon knew the feeling. Often, he’d hid under the bench as gigantic owls and sometimes eagles circled the block, piercing the ground in search of smaller, weaker creatures. He scratched the wood with his talon and grunted. “Huh.”

The bushy-tailed rodent wiped a whisker tentatively. He looked up at Griffith, and his eyes showed a trace of excitement. “Wanna learn?”

Griffith glanced up. “Learn what?”

“How to fly. I can show you a place to practice.”

“Is it safe?” Griffith was growing worried. This whole conversation sounded really dangerous.

“Nope.” The squirrel grinned. “But it’s better than being stuck under a bench for the rest of your life.” He looked around the park and snorted.

This upset Griffith. He’d spent his whole life up to this point living in this park, under his bench. It was his home. It was safe. He said so to the squirrel. “I’d help if I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” He was outwardly polite, but inside the falcon was upset and annoyed.

“Look, I get it. Better safe than sorry.” Oswald shrugged and turned around. He started to make his way back to the subway stairs, but paused. “You’re built to fly. I can show you how. If you’re sick of sitting, come find me at Columbus.” The squirrel ran and disappeared into the shadows of the buildings.

The post The Tale of Griffith McCarthy | Chapter 2 appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.