Home ducks should fly, with maiden innocence and music.

Once, one of my masters told me; that we all have become domestic ducks on an artificial lake. In this small lake we have all: men already planted lakeweed for us. They throw bread for us to eat, and transfer fish to live in it. We play with the fish and sometimes hunt them to eat too. There are also some baby ducks and men come at night to move them to warmer incubator so that those babies wouldn’t suffer the cold air of nights and die. Men come with broom sticks to clean the lake just as their swimming pool. This is a perfect environment for ducks to live, since the only difficulty they encounter is the coldness of the night air that fall into their faces. We forgot the fear of snakes and the hardness of pedaling constantly not to be drowned. The shallow depth the lake has, as it reflects only the shallow and superficial aspects of residing ducks.

As we live like this, we eventually forget to fly. We, home ducks, still have wings to fly, and those should be used. But where to fly? Living in this small lake and no else where to go, one flies only from the border to another border of the very same lake. My master urged to me that all home ducks should be flying: I should be flying far higher. She said: don’t wet your wing by habitual routine. Don’t be stuck in a rut. Get out of a rut, away from where many wheels already have passed to same direction over and over again. Contribute to the newness, confront to the wild wind that hits your face when flying. Yes, she moved me with her words. I promised that it would take me longer time to wet my wings until I would be impossible to keep flying. But living in Buenos Aires, I was already inside the small lake where she warned me to live away. I have lived moving from place to place but I was still living in the same lake, my comfort zone, just only moving from the border to another border of the very superficial lake.

That is why I decided to stay more time traveling with my beloved brother after he suggested me to travel to Uruguay with him. I was going to spend two or three days accompanying him then to come back to Buenos Aires City. But when we were traveling, I knew that we were flying away from the lake we resided, and I cried recalling the feeling of wild wind hitting on my face. Sleeping in the woods and on the beach, the fear of snake sneaking into my warmness returned and revived (literally). The company of with whom one travels changes all atomosphere. I was there being supported to launch my wings and also his. So we flew all week to everywhere. Maybe we recovered and repaired the rootless confidence of flying: that a bird can settle on any branch, no matter how thin or thick the branch is, not because he knows that the branch wouldn’t break but because even so he knows how to fly.

Then why these home ducks get comfortable living in an artificial lake? Why we settle down in this granted architecture? I would answer that mostly we believe this granted architecture, which in this case is Buenos Aires city, is a thick secured branch where to reside. It is a perfect lake made by men, and we can live in warm incubator. Someone might say that this looks like a frog living in the well. But for me this metaphor cries both yes and no. In the sense that living in this lake limits to see other broader worlds, yes. But in the other sense that living inside the well is not a problem; being a frog itself is the problem that he has no else where to go and how. If it were a gigantic boa, it just could climb up and leave the well. The same goes with home ducks: Are ducks not designed to fly? Then why living still in a lake? For the first few days, I felt shamed of my broken promise to my former master.

Getting out from a rut, I could fill lots of gratitude toward my companion, Kobe. And frankly, I could learn a lot from him as well. He knows how to look up sky: which is a lost value in this modern era where the sky is covered with day dust and night lust. Once he woked me up at five in the morning when the sun was starting alight, painting all clouds in yellow and orange. At night he looked up for stars, counting every one of them, letting them fall into his eyes until he couldn’t contain more but close. He sought the moonlight at Cabo Polonio, where the moon appeared at the spot the sun dismissed. The lights were overlapping everyday, and he became the sharing spot of the Ben diagram. The interesting part of my observation was that the next day he still kept containing the alighting stars in his eyes. And there I could find the maiden innocence which comforts people around. Martin, Vam, Alina, Leon, Miguel, Camila, Renata, Uriel, Mathias, Dahiana, Pato y Gwanda, Seba, y Don are the names whose owners are influenced by such innocence. Shine alight, until all lost stars find their ways.



I got back to Buenos Aires, and as this city poisons people living in, I got poisoned by the preoccupation of maintaining such innocence. There comes the story of Leonardo da Vinci choosing the model for Jesus and Judas in his masterpiece the Last Supper. An innocent and happy boy on the field was chosen to be the model of Jesus, then da Vinci had to wander ten years to find the model for Judas. At last he found the model: a bad-tempered and unpleasant begger in front of the catedral. When da Vinci asked him to be a model for Judas, the begger started to cry, saying that he was the model for Jesus ten years ago. As time passes, the situation and environment changes, and so as the innocence. People change, so as their values. But this preoccupation and worries did not pierce me for a long time. When the King Louis XVI of France and Marie Antoinette were excuted, there was a son to be excuted too. But of his young age, he bought pity for the people so instead of an execution, he was sent to live with Gypsy community, because they thought he would ruin his life himself living in that horrible environment to survive. But years later, the boy was found noble and healthy, even educated. People asked him how he could be like such, and he anwered: because I am the king of France.

I have no idea of positivity of this story. But the point is made: one constructs his identity through his own inner confidence. As Don Quixote quoted: we know who we are and whom we can be if we desire to, and my former master’s words were that I keep desiring the use of my wings, my own values, which is the source of the one’s confidence. The begger changed his branch to settle on and eventually that branch cracked down that he fell, but in other case of the son of Marie didn’t fall because he believed in his own wing to fly even though he were sent to settle on the weakest branch. My preoccupation, in this comparison, was a mere unnecessity and distrust. I got a realisation that I know better Kobe by now and I should encourage him to have more confidence on his own wings to fly, for him to contain more stars alight, to comfort more people and to express his maiden innocence. I wanted him to know my care of him.

Where to fly, it seems that he already knows his answer. So he flies between rhythm and rhymes. And with his musical creation I could fly through him too. Sounds get coloured and their frequencies multiple. I still remember his voice colour, which was dense but light green. Then I listen some soundtracks of his, finding out that the main melodies are also in green spectrum. Colours fall into like shooting stars, and sometimes bubbles up like in beer glass. The beginning, as I recalled, was more likely purple and it gets yellowish and organge as the music developed to hit the peak. I thought, so maybe the music tries to find and contain his own voice in it, to asilmiliate to more green frequency of his own voice?

My deepest wish is that his soundtracks become his own voice, and that he keeps flying. I hope all of us fly, with such maiden innocence he proved during the travel and with the music of all different colours and representative voices.

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