one foot in another world

something both real and made up

a full moon through my window, on 35mm film

The owl that sits above me in a tree, stark white with blue highlights in their feathers, is about the same size as a small human. 

The white and blue owl that sits in the palm of my hand, has been made out of clay. Clay that was then fired, glazed, and fired again. I rotate it a few times with my fingers, wondering where else it fits into the story.

(No, not this story, the other one).

The story where everything is just out of reach. Like when a boat never fully emerges from the mist and the owl the size of a small human, rotates its head so it can look at you—the you that is right there, but also very far away, (and yes, it’s true: if you try to peek over someone else’s shoulder, thinking that they might have a better perspective, then the boat and the mist and the owl will fade and fade).

And if this isn’t making any sense, it’s only because I’ve made it all up. It’s a place that I go when I get the feeling that everything exists all at once, and I only have so much time to learn and get better at the things I want to learn and get better at. It’s because the things that I find myself inspired by, are both real and not real—choppy and broken up, like static in my ears. 

Leaning back in my office chair and observing the landscape before me, my mind invites me to take a closer look, and its not until I’ve wandered down to the shores of an ocean I haven’t yet found a name for, that I realize: this place only exists for me.

(Unless, of course, I choose otherwise).

Eventually, the owl makes its way down from the tree to stand right in front of me. Behind me, there’s the moon, round and bright and altogether too much, but I go with it, watching as the owl’s blue feathers glow against the white and they extend their giant wing toward me, nodding as if this were a regular occurrence. A few breaths go by before I take a step forward and run my fingers through their feathers. They feel like silk. 

Back in my office, the ceramic owl stands upright in my palm, and with my free hand, I stroke its wings, thinking about the placement of the blue glaze and the way its face looks so clever and kind and wise, and so I ask it if it would like to be a part of a story I’m writing, and it replies, ‘I already am, am I not?’

The mist brushes against my bare arms and legs as we soar through the branches of the trees. I look down, watching as the place I stood moments ago—the place where I wiggled my toes against the dry earth and looked up at the moon and wished and wished for something I didn’t yet understand—disappears beneath the forest of evergreen trees. Before long, the ocean comes into view, filled with ships on cresting waves and a mist that swims all around us. I ask the owl where it came from. ‘You,’ they say, ‘you.’

EPILOGUE

Making a note to come back and finish later (or maybe not).

With love,
Chloe

For everything else…

Alongside writing for freshly squeezed, I also teach workshops and create Notion templates (specifically for those that have busy, anxious, creative minds), and when you subscribe to this newsletter, you’ll gain access to the Notion template that I use to organize all of my creative projects and ideas.

Website ~ chloealmeda.com
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