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.

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.

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.

He was also convinced that, with each passing moment, the world as we knew it was becoming more and more aware of his disastrous discovery, and would soon need an alternative.

One morning, several weeks later, Thomas pushed into the open cubicle area and began making his way towards the offices.

“Hey big man!”

His head spun quickly around to meet the familiar voice. “Oh no.”

“It’s me, buddy!” The 7-foot Amazonian female clamped her hand down on his frail shoulders. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“Brenda!” Thomas gasped, as he felt his spine compressing from her hold. “How’d you get in here?”

“You can’t keep me out, little man!” Her laugh, a booming chuckle clearly stolen from a 65-year-old Swedish lumberjack, rolled over his face and throughout the office space, invading every cubicle. Startled employees poked their heads out and several toothpaste-smeared scientists peeked around the laboratory door.

“Where’s my badge, Tommy? I heard you need a researcher!”

Thomas was torn. On one hand, Brenda was the best dental research scientist he’d ever met, and her help would be invaluable on his project. He had once witnessed her discover six new forms of tooth bacteria using three pairs of salad tongs and scotch tape. On the other hand, he hated her. He hated her giant hands. He hated how she towered over him, so that everything she said felt condescending. He despised her bellowing voice, far deeper and fuller than his own. Mostly, he hated how much better she was at everything.

But he needed her, for his success.

“I have an opening in Cementoenamel Science. We need another pair of eyes on the new cleansing agent.”

Brenda grinned broadly and placed her other hand on his left shoulder. “Tommy, you beautiful man. Lucky you found this whole thing out.” She planted a giant kiss on his forehead and strode towards the lab.

Thomas gazed sullenly after her, then resumed the short walk to his office. He closed the door, folded softly into his chair, and cried.

“God save us.”

The post Importance – Part 3 appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

In one corner street
Lay the bar and breakfast hall
And a couple, deep in drunkeness, well-charmed.

The wintery air wraps around
And tempts the warmth within
Leaving me half-breathless for a longer time than aught.
A lone man, sitting shivering
Against the general store
Grabs my sleeve and gives me time for but a thought.

“This life is frozen as the air
And stagnant as the creek
And neither life nor limb it saves for pity or for gain.
I’ll never know the purposes
Behind just living here
And fruitless and despairing, I will die from bitter pain.”

On my way, I looked again
He curled inside his coat
To disappear forever from my sight.
I couldn’t help but wonder
Is this all I’m waiting for?
And the thought was left with me throughout the night.

– – –

It was a bright and quiet day
And my horse was very lean
As he pulled my wagon onward through the fields.
The rolling hills of Kansas
And the golden sheaves of wheat
Spoke of harvest and the bounty they would yield.

I came across a woman, who
With jaw intensely set
Carried water for the sickly and the weak.
With time aplenty now
I offered her a ride
And she turned to ask for knowledge I still seek.

“Good neighbor, hold and hear
See the gold about you now?
Is this place a random wonder or a present just for us?
I’ve looked for such an answer
And have found many a clue
But none in which my heart could give its trust.”

We continued on in silence
And the horse’s gait kept beat
‘Til her destination showed beside the maple grove
As I rode off and looked
To see her soldier in
My heart felt bitter empty, much despite her thoughtful trove.

– – –

The leaves upon the ground
Had fallen earlier that month
And the deer still haunted forests and the hills about my land
Inside, my kettle warmed
For neither stove nor hearth
Could keep the coming frosts from stealing what they can.

An unexpected knock
And a little girl appeared
Her face, the very elegance of childish delight.
With flowers in her hair
And wreathes upon her neck
She sang an answer clear and clever tuned.

“I’ve looked in every garden bed
And under every rock
And still I cannot answer every question that I ask.
But in my searches
Through the woods and hills
I’ve found what God intended, from the start of my long task:

“His glory plays inside the light
And dances in the streams
His praises echo from the canyons to the riverbeds
The trees in all the forests
Lift their branches up
And sing to Him whenever his breath blows throughout the lands.

“The sky, so blue! is vastly grand
And stretches forth its shades
To wake the mornings up from dark to light
And every deepening color
Plays a different tune
In the harmonies that ring about the clouds in playful fight.

“If God is not the answer
And His majesty not true
Then the emptiness that fills us won’t surprise a single one.
If to look, and then ignore
Is what we choose to do
Our questions will continue and our pathos linger on.”

I smiled at her joy
And she grinned and ran away
But not before I spoke to her of sharing what she knew.
If the woman with the water
Or the shivering man could hear
The wisdom that rushed forth from the mouth of but a girl.

What trusting it bespoke!
That a child should teach the old!
If my grounding were in simple faith and not in ways of men!
I would strive to comprehend
And not demand to understand
And grow my heart until I have a basic trust again!

In this way, I see
That the God of every tree
Is the God that made the stars that rule the skies.
And my faith need not be great
For the greatest faith of all
Is the kind that rests inside a child’s eyes.

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