Bird Between Lines

It is possible, out of nothing, to feel trapped. Let's say that one has dreams for one's professions and longs for it to fly before it's time. Or that one too closely observes that bird. Poor bird. Sartre warned us of the disaster of the objectifying gaze, those views that eliminate the subjective point of view.
Birds want to fly. At dawn in 香港, elderly men in their pyjamas walk their cages to parks where they remove the sheeted curtain, and the bird jumps from the bamboo perch to the spindles on the sides. And sings. And the men sit, and enjoy the song. This happens every day, day after day.
The birds in the cage sing, because they are outside and maybe forget they are in cages. If the old men do not walk their birds, they do not sing well or at all. 
I am reading a lot about ancient Greek mimesis. That Pythagoras showed we can imitate the heavens because they can be represented by numerical ratios, which corresponds to strings used in music, which in turn corresponds with the order of the soul. Our experience today lacks the mythical interpretation, our world is not embodied in cherished and familiar things. And the power of the myth: the reality that one small event can change everything at a stroke, the parading of the gamut of human emotions all at once, the gods representing that which exceeds our knowledge, spurring us one or another way: that we do not hold subjectivity in our hands, but are born into a language that we did not choose. Is this science? Poetry? Philosophy? Do you even care?
To awaken the petrified langauge of writing so that it speaks anew. 
To release the bird from between the lines. 
To let the text speak again! And not impose on it our narrow ways. 
The bird is the message waiting to get out. There is no need for validation for the story to be told, no critics' stamp of approval, but just the fresh interpretation of the shared horizon. It can be told and told again because we know that despite the most intelligent retelling, it will also be false. It is hard to be trapped between those lines: the bird begs, through its complex plumage behind which it hides, to be removed to the park, from whence it may sing. 
Today we say: I shall own that bird, it shall be mine, and I shall frame it for you. The bird is a very small bird, so small, it must be viewed through a microscope. But there it is, framed in a neat little theory, placed on the collector's shelf like a hunting trophy. Or we say: this is my bird, I shall shock you with it! It is my bird, not birds in general, and your shock, it is the one-time collision of your small universe into mine. 
It is possible to feel trapped. What we know (that the earth is spinning) tells us not to believe what we see (the sun rising). But the bird sings loudest when it doesn't take the cage literally.


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