Birds of Paradise

A pair of red claws grip bark, suspended in the montane oak tree canopies under the New Guinea sun. Only a black beak breaks the foliage, tilting and elongating the face with an arched neck. Southeast trade winds blow in, startling the wiry tail ornaments into an orbit. From this height, birds of paradise lie in wait for a prospective companion, measuring the air for a tremor of arrival. Then, gently now, she begins to dance. 

Inside the rib cage of a concrete skeleton, the streetlights pulse, a lighthouse over wet asphalt and peeled graffiti overpasses. Just ahead of the church with a painted dove on the door, against the sound of alley cat claws on tin trash cans, there’s an old hideaway with a cracked stage, and the most brilliant songbird. Her eyes cast wide into the crowd, an open net in a sea of bass, shredding against sea foam and drinking them all in. What she is looking for, who can say? For now, her chin rotates absentmindedly. Her damp skin prickling with curiosity and potential, she starts to dance. 

Bowing 

A soft, rounded head slips below the wings. The eyes remain covered as the base of the neck twitches timidly: a gesture of peace and humility. 

Through her eyelashes, her focus softens in submission. There is a sweetness to her now under this spotlight, exposing her against the dark like a full moon. A potential mate leans against the license plate wall with an expression she cannot read. She shakes her head, dismissing her own imagination, yet a smile plays upon her lips still. 

The pursuit of romance feels like a satire: an exaggerated, theatrical expression of oneself in a way that is equal parts humanizing and humiliating. With eyes painted an unholy blue and lipstick daunting and fierce as if to shout: “This is how much you can see me! This is everything I can be!”

We are taught to distrust the beautiful things, yet presenting yourself as vivaciously as possible is just about the most honest thing that a person can do. To capture attention through bold gestures and an appearance that is a force to be reckoned with is unappreciated in a world that defines truth by how close you can resemble yourself when no one is watching. 

As if there is some inherent transparency to be found when the makeup is dwindled to stained wipes in the bathroom trash can, sequins weighing down the hamper, and you no longer flash a blushing smile to a passerby. We understand reality as who you are when you have access to nothing except what you were born with.

Yet, I know a person only when I have seen what they can do when they have everything. The kind of reality in which the world is seized, plastered, and lightly salted before being entirely devoured. To be willing to submit yourself as everything you can be—accepted or rejected in your entirety. 

Too much energy is focused on maintaining mystique; holding pieces privately to salvage in the event you are spit out. Nonchalance acts as a protective layer between us and being refused as exactly ourselves. It does not hurt to lose the relay race unless you ran as fast as you could. It is better to be exhausted in the fullness of yourself than preserved and all but starved by your own restraint. Wings were not meant for hesitation — only for soaring. 

Wing-flicking 

A shield of black wings shifts and shudders as an exciting invitation—building walls from what creates flight. The light and shadows dance in unison. A glossy sheen begins to envelope the choreography to the tune of clicking noises. A call to be heard, recognized, and seen. 

Her coat slides off the sides of her shoulders, an armor of faux fur evidenced by minor shedding pieces floating down to her feet. She has sweated through her dress, yet it is too shiny to stain, and her necklaces distract the viewer, tauntingly. 

Spaces of hyperbolized existence are often those that prey on human impulses. Nightclubs of neon light and humid, leather booths house dancers dressed in ornate costumes. Cellulite covered with nude pantyhose, hair teased up toward angels, bodies flickering between invitation and command like something to be chosen. 

In this place, subtlety is discarded in favor of hyperbolism. Advances are not found between the lines, but on all sides of them in big, capital letters. I notice that we crave the liberation that comes with the kind of freedom we unanimously choose to conceal. Making a spectacle of oneself in a romantic pursuit is a sign of bravery. Yet, it is kept in the shadows of our minds, approaching prospective lovers with soft smiles and minor rosiness. We put the bird in a cage when all we really want it to do is fly. 

Leaping 

From post to post, the feathered body frees itself. This demonstration of fitness and health is in full swing and celebration. The movement is freedom. The bird begins to sing. Each gesture builds upon the last as movement becomes language: wings opening like sentences and closing like breath. 

She twirls and clacks her heel to the oak stage floor as the microphone cord slithers at her ankles. Her eyes are bright with need, and her arms find a movement above her head, not to be mistaken as a performance — but a signal. There is no restraint left in her, only an appetite to be seen. 

Everyone wants to fall in love, yet no one wants to be a lover.

There is a crisis of passion, a drought of endearment, a famine of devotion. All maintained in favor of insecurity masked as indifference. The need for boldness is evidenced in our own biology: nervous sweat dripping from pores, red hives blooming from our chests, a heartbeat so harsh it can be heard in our eardrums. There is nothing discreet or unaffected by human emotion, yet we continuously put a lid on it before it can boil over. 

Birds of paradise know nothing about being measured. At the sight of desire, they erupt, understanding something we have all forgotten: that the risk of solitude far outweighs the risk of being seen and refused. 

With the finite time available in a human lifespan, there is little reason to continue holding back. Every day spent guarded is one less day to love fiercely. Buy a dozen roses, sing beneath a window, kiss on the first date, wear your finest party dress, and fall in love madly. Whether it amounts to the rest of your life or ten minutes, live a life empowered by your absolute freedom to love deeply, at one million miles per hour, as exactly who you are. 

Finalizing 

The mate watches, expression sealed and distance intact. The noise of the world gathers at the edges and dissolves into empty sound. She draws in a breath, slow and controlled despite the exhaustion, and opens her wings. 

Whether she is chosen or not, she flies.