There’s a scene in The Lost Boy that I especially love. In the play, Tom tells the story of finding his 90 year old aunt Buntie, on a very windy day, standing on the roof of the ranch house. He coaxes her down a rickety ladder and then chastises her, “Don’t go on the roof anymore! Call me if you need something!”
“Oh! You sound just like your uncle Sandy!” Buntie laughs. “He’s mad at me because I’m on the roof but I tell him I have to see that the shingles are still there. Dad put a fine roof on the house!”
When I see a bird on a wire, I think of Tom’s story. I’ve somehow associated a bird on a wire with Buntie on the roof.
Bird on a wire. It’s a perfect metaphor with many possible meanings. For Buntie, a true bird on the wire, the metaphor means to carefully consider your next step. You are in a potentially dangerous place. Wires carry electricity.
I remember sitting in Tom’s small living room at the ranch, late at night, when he began to reminisce. He delighted in telling stories of Buntie. I turned on my tape recorder. I asked a few questions but mostly listened. He was a great storyteller and needed no encouragement. He had become a bird on a wire. Like Buntie, he was reclusive in his old age, another possible meaning of the metaphor. He was sitting by himself on the metaphoric roof trying to keep the family stories from blowing away in time’s persistent wind.
We’re staying inside. Our area is under a “heat dome” for the next few days so the shades are drawn and our little window air conditioner is chanting, “I think I can! I think I can!” It’s taking the edge off the sizzle and for that we are grateful.
Somedays, like today, we feel like birds on a wire with our feet trapped in lime, preventing us from flying. It’s yet another possible meaning of the metaphor. Perhaps the oldest meaning of the metaphor. Caught in a sticky trap. Nothing is moving. No progress is being made. We sit on our wire, songbirds.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” she said, closing her laptop.
“Nope,” I agreed. “No. Where.”
“Good thing it’s really hot,” she smiled. “I don’t want to go anywhere anyway.” Lemonade from lemons.
“Yep.” I agreed, declaring, “It’s too hot. I want to sit right here. I don’t want to be anywhere else!”
“We’re lucky,” she smiled.
“Yep.” We are extraordinarily lucky. We may feel trapped but we’re still singing.
From somewhere out of time, Tom winked at me. Birds on a wire.
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read Kerri’s blogpost about BIRDS ON A WIRE
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Filed under: Merely A Thought Monday, Metaphor, Story | Tagged: artistry, bird on a wire, david robinson, davidrobinsoncreative.com, freedom, heat dome, Kerri Sherwood, kerri sherwood itunes, kerrianddavid.com, kerrisherwood.com, metaphor, recluse, story, storyteller, stuck, studio melange, The Lost Boy, the melange, trapped | 1 Comment »
The Direction of Intention 