Here There Be Monsters

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Here there be monsters. I have seen them lying naked in my bathtub. As the water runs cold and my claws cling a crumpled plea to the sides of the tub while the last of the lukewarm overflow from the river drains away, I am exposed to their teeth and their needs. They will be with me always. It is not defeatist but acceptance. Do not mis-understand me. I know it is not the romantic picture of a younger man thriving, laughing, eating, and loving...

In the absence of summer Raven left his imprints on my eyes and they bleed black with blood. At times I am blinded. But with his curses comes the gifts of light and flight. I have been given wings and I threaded them silver onto my back. I flex them in the night when I need dreams, and fold them in when the nightmares find me. Once in the beginning my wings were pale white pounded into dust by the bones of the soldiers that marched before me. Now when I turn my head in anger they are black. When I wear my crown they drip with gold. When I bow my head, listen for the drums that play the deep dark heartbeats of these woods. This is not your world. But this is how it is. Here there are monsters.

But where there are monsters there are angels. In this city that breathes of roses and champagne men I found song. In a cathedral built upon tolerance, pain, and beauty there is a melody that rises above the balding assembly and reaches for the heavens. It is a cadence of sanctuary even though, there are monsters here too. But they are familiar and they are ours and we protect our own. In their shadows I can see my face; I can see my hands; and I know my voice.

In the company of my friends and my others I am a light, a hungry, wavering light, an unexpected arrival, a long overdue invitation answered. How long will I stay? Where will I go? What will I eat? They are the ground beneath my feet. They are the path through these woods. I listen to them. I try. But the heartbeats, the wingbeats, are louder than my footsteps on the path. And somewhere in the depths of these woods, I swear I can hear a sparrow singing. So I fly.

In my cottage I dream. There is an image in my head of a room with with half-filled champagne glasses, white-raspberry wedding cake crumbs on bone-china, jackets, over turned chairs, and a man with undone bow-tie  Somehow the music starts. Somehow we dance. The song screams out of me. The roar betrays the shake in my hands. I no longer know how to hold the music in. Who is this dancing with that man?

I tell you all of this because I want you to know before you accept my invitation to come in. I have wandered far down the path from where I began. I am no longer halfway through the wood. I know the monsters are here, but I am here too and I can see them now. This is my beautiful tomorrow. This is my enchanted glade where I choose to rest. This is my cottage. You have been warned. Please come in.