Helicopter

Articles

Helicopter

By Brian Michael Barbeito
Mar. 21, 2007

He had insomnia. It didn’t help that he had had a headache for days. They had given him a purple drink, and in the spirit of something or other, he had thought it was a good idea to drink it. Why should he not take a drink, being among happy ones and celebrations? But he wondered, after taking the exotic purple drink, if it had been a good idea. It was not bad tasting, but what was it? And after all, he was not a drinker, not like the crowds that had gathered. He remembered a strange teacher, in a strange class, who made strange connections. The teacher warned of many things, and had said that they didn’t call drink ‘spirits,’ for nothing. Then he kept watching, watching all around. There was little separation between him and other people. He could see their problems and he could see what was wrong with this or that. He knew what they were up to and what they were not. He was surprised though, at some things, like how nice some people could be. Other people were not kind, and still good enough somehow. It was another category he worried about. It was the ones that had hardly any light. How did they get like that? Were they always that way? He got thrown for a loop after that purple drink that was for sure. His thoughts were reeling. Who was right? Who was wrong? What if certain people, without knowing it, let in darkness, and not darkness as metaphor, but real darkness? This troubled him. It could explain a few things though. There were other, more positive markers though, and he thought he should cling to those, especially since he had entered a foreign country and was among strangers. What were the more positive markers? One was the helicopter. He had received a message from spirit, no doubt about that. It was the word, seen crystal clear, HELICOPTER. He had then seen the big helicopter blades. He asked one of the very few confidants he had, a woman that was a healer in fact, if the helicopter message meant anything to her. She said that it did not. Then he came across the helicopter, not long afterwards. It was beautiful and blue, shining there, and he felt relief. He felt relief because there was a type of order to things, somewhere, somehow, because of the helicopter. He looked at the helicopter, a flying machine, with a sense of groundedness, as if he had found an old and true friend. The pilot was there, standing proudly. He had a strange accent. He answered questions with an easy and confident air. The one who had received the message about the helicopter wanted for a moment to say something to the pilot about it. It was only a second. He wished, if the world were another way, and not the way it was, to be able to tell the helicopter pilot that he had received a vision about the helicopter, and that it was a good marker, and that he had waited with faith for days in order to meet up with what the vision meant, and was now somewhat at ease. He didn’t say anything of the sort though. Instead he told the pilot another, more acceptable truth. He told him that the helicopter looked beautiful. They both looked at the flying machine. It was the brightest dark blue. How could it be such a bright dark blue? How could dark blue appear bright? But there it was. A domed window, and four beige leather seats. It looked like some special model just taken down from a collector’s shelf somewhere. But it was real. It had no blemish or scratch. Perhaps the spirit world really knew its work, finding such an object that stood apart from other things, so as to make it clear that a message had been passed and that this indeed was the message. He shook the pilot's hand, and said thanks, and that maybe he would go for a ride sometime. He walked on, cursed and blessed with headaches and insomnia.

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