Before you woke up this morning a voice said: Name your house in the Andes. You had wanted to call it La Casa del Condor, but it sounded too grand, pretentious. The voice insisted: it is La Casa del Condor. Your roof has large wingspans. Separated with glass on both sides of its peak, it is like the long body of a transparent bird through which you see blue sky and changes of the night. Your Andean roof is ready for takeoff, slow, cumbersome, lifting its weight until it can catch the high winds and soar for half an hour or more. without once flapping its wings, bridging you to other realms, perhaps all the way to the Milky-Way as the Incans once believed. She said, name your house, you have no breath, you have no long view, you are limited to what is in front of you.
When it comes to folding into the Condor, with its sharp eyesight navigating between the world of the living and the dead, my words simply become black fixed images on white paper. My old life is now broken under me.