Once, there was a boat. Or was it a bird? No, a boat. A boat-bird, a bird-boat. It doesn’t matter which is water and which is air, only that there is a surface between them. The bird-boat can float on the water, facing into the sky, or on the air, facing into the ocean. The bird-boat, whose name was Ada, could spin the way a kayaker rolls, flip, flip, flip. Air, water, air. But like everyone else, Ada had a desire. It really doesn’t matter if you are a marvel and a joy, there is always something you want that you are not. Ada wanted to be more like a submarine, or an angel, trading depth for surface. Ada wanted heaven, even though it meant she would travel so deep or so high that everything was blackness, complete void or terrible pressure. Ada wanted heaven even though she would not survive it. Ada. Ada, like all of us, had friends. Everything floating was her friend, up or down. And there were fish, flying fish, who like to speak with her as they leapt and fluttered. There were cormorants who dove beneath her and held their breath until she laughed. The waves were her playmates. But this desire was like a storm, coming in from all points on the horizon. Nothing that floated was safe from it. Waves became walls and currents became predators. Ada was thrashed by everything she had loved. Winds battered her, rains flooded her. Soon there was no distinction between water and air. There was no up or down, no depth or height. Ada spun and spun, tumbling end over end. When she awoke, she was no longer a bird and no longer a boat. She was a cloven thing, a half-thing. Something like a person. 

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