Wings, things, strings

Lots of wings

There are lots of wings on the wind. There are transparent butterfly wings and strong eagle wings.

And the wings of other birds, past and present and future, all sizes and colors and shapes. Even dinosaur wings. And batty mammal wings. There are tiny wings on tiny creatures too small to notice. There are seven-fold seraphic wings, not wings at all, really, but merely manifestations of moving possibilities. And little fat putti wings. There are metal wings on flying machines. And wings in cages, perhaps on metal nightingales.

There are wings in logos, on epaulets, in paintings, on costumes, in memories. There are digital wings.

There are wings that flap, wings that glide, wings that fold and wings that stretch out endlessly as refuge.

But wings are really for messengers, swift mercurial bearers of promise and truth and eventuality. Wings came before words and were born to serve them. All words fly on invisible wings moving through breath. Floating out or exploding out or goose-stepping out, words are wing extenders. Out of mind they flow. Words are winging it, getting into things.

Lots of things

There are lots of things, seemingly solid and sure. Like rocks becoming mountains and mountains becoming gravel. And boxes and phloxes and locks and keys. And doors leading to rooms with views and to rooms with outside stairs. There are lots of socks and drawers and letter openers and leather breeches. There are breaches. And beaches. And sad female dogs.

There are organic things and inorganic things and indeterminate things betwixt and between animal, vegetable, and mineral.

There are things that lay there, things that sing, things that float downstream. And things behind walls that have never been seen. There are things too big and too small and too hard and too soft.

And there are things that are just right.

Am I a thing, too, body wise? And if thing, too, what sort of thing? What sort of thing is any thing?

Can you answer, no strings attached?

Lots of strings

There are lots of strings, unattached, one-dimensional, colorful or not, broken and knotted, endless or wrapped tight in a ball. There are strings attached, bringing along complication bidden or unbidden.

There are strings that hold beads, pretty or prayer-filled. There are apron strings and purse strings and cosmic strings and G-strings. There are strings that have been pulled.

And there are ostensibly wise, theoretical strings that make a bid to speak the mysterious duality of mathematical similarities. It is the vibration of these strings that determines if the thing — matter —emerges, or if there is instead the unbearably mere energy, wordless though winged.

The word for these strings, this theoretical physics story, is M-theory. The meaning of this “M” is at this time indeterminate. The “M” word-wing may be membrane or mother or master or matrix or mystery.

Even the theoretical creator cannot decide.

Message strings along medium. Strings can be things or less than breathy word on wings. The wise cannot say. The words are merely corporate wing-tips. Breathlessly, we don’t know a thing. 

— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx ma y be wearing a pir ate cloak of in visibility, but emanating fr om within this shado w is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who kno ws: You may e ven inspir e the muse. Make contact if you dare.