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Twenty years ago I wasn't in a place where I am now. I was in Copper Harbor, Michigan, on the north tip of Keweenaw Peninsula. I was in a small, likely family owned restaurant, which are pretty common in Upper Peninsula and most of them are very good. Our table was next to a window.
The dinner was abundant and there was also a bottle of wine, and then two. Then I didn't know yet that our bodies need much less food than we tend to take, so I ate until I've felt stuffed and stupid. And this was when I looked out the window. And my jaw went down.No, it was not a cheneque sitting on the window sill outside and looking at me with its hungry eyes or worse, with love. (By the way, the later happened to John Lithgow's character in the Twilight Zone movie, on a plane, remember?).

  It was a hovering thing, but it wasn't an UFO either. On the other side of the restaurant window I saw a hummingbird. Then two. And then there were all three of them. They were hovering around a hummingbird feeder, you know, those little glass dispensers filled with sweetened water. Nothing out of a Twilight Zone really, but I felt completely stunned by what I’ve seen. I couldn’t understand it then and I still don’t understand it now. And here is the problem:

I don't know a squat of zoology, but I know a bit of physics. Hummingbirds are probably the smallest warm-blooded creatures I can think of. They are feather light and they move their wings with a frequency which we actually can hear: that is a few hundred Hertz. Their bodies have minute volumes, they are all surface, meaning that they are living heat radiators, which give away in a trice that little energy they have. And that means that in order to survive they need permanent intake of energy, they must be natural Red Bull junkies.

Well, life is not a cakewalk for anybody, but these little things are living extreme. OK, I can imagine them somewhere in a tropical hell, living in a sweltering heat and hence keeping their energy under their feathers, but the problem was that I’ve spotted the birds not in a tropical hell, I've spotted them in the middle of Lake Superior, where winters are harsh and annual snowfall reaches 32 feet. The snowfall can be explained by lake effect, but hummingbirds can’t be explained that easily. What do they do over winter, huh? Dig themselves into the snow and hibernate'? I bet they would never wake up. Fly over some three thousand miles to Costa Rica'? I guess, they got no choice but just that, except for the destination: it can be Ecuador or Suriname. But the problem is: how in a world these little beings can flap with a few hundred flaps per second that far? The problem may sound almost like the paradox of migration of Monarch butterflies, except for insects do have much more stable energy balance. How these little, hot-blooded birds do it? How they can fly that far away in a few months? For me this thing sounds as much impossible as a manned interstellar mission. Or, speaking on the subject, as a hibernation option. Are you with me'? Does anyone know the answer?

My most current story is called “Opening Doors.” Without disclosing the subject, I can tell that the main character does not have to worry about his proverbial bread, he gets it every time he awakes from a sleep. Do the hummingbirds of Copper Harbor belong to the same club'? Are they getting their feed from something that we don’t know? Are they plugged to so-called “vacuum' energy, or what? Sometimes the simplest and most obvious things make me wonder. How about you?

#Literature, #art, #music, #culture and nature; #paranormal and supernatural; #metaphysics

INTERMISSION 4

The forth octave is over and I am catching a little breather before I'll get into number five. I think the next octave will be loaded with Ghost Physics 101, but before I'll go there I have something to confess. Over these past thirty two postings I was trying to jump high, often far over my head. So, please, judge me mildly: there are a lot of claims in my writing and I am solely responsible for them. And I will keep jumping further, undeterred by the menace of a stone ceiling coming fast toward my head. I've banged my head before, as you may have already suspected.

With a risk of repeating myself I admit that my writing is haunted by the image from Plato's Republic, of that cave with shadows which we call “reality”. The real Reality is one which casts these shadows and vision of that reality is not given to us through our senses, at least not yet. The only hope is that we will get the real vision when we will pass beyond this realm. Socrates, the teacher and protagonist of Plato's writings, was anxious to take his poison - he was looking for the answer and he was hoping to get them there. But did he really get them?

This remains to be seen. As Jim Morrison had said in A Feast of Friends:

“Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders, Smooth as raven claws.”

All of us? Maybe so, at least in a sense of a newly reclaimed ability to fly (see my post August, 2016. WINGS.). Although some of us most likely will become winged demons.

Like it or not, but we all shall hold our spoons ready for the French-Canadian bean soup which fate had already cooked for us.

From the Heart of Darkness with Light: Bela Abel

 


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