Layers

I read in the press that a man in Beijing threw himself into the void, armed with a cape.

They don't know if there was a Daedalus behind him encouraging him to fly, a protective father weaving the cape.

Both of them are escaping from a Minos who controls the building, like a financial overlord who knows he owns the land and the sea, like the wolf watching over the farmyard.

The loving father warns his son: Son, not too high, because those cables would fry you, and not too low, because the cape would get caught in the cars.

This modern Daedalus may also end up building a temple for his Icarus where the cape is the offering that wings once were.

The cape.

The beginning and the end of metamorphosis.

I see a priest entering a school, early in the morning, with his Roman collar open.

Metamorphosis within reach.

The man who crosses the traffic light with his tie knotted is already in his imago, and when, at the end of the day, he releases it, he can return to his chrysalis.

How much power there is in the cape.

In the cycling jersey, in the medical gown, in the police uniform, in the bullfighter's suit.

We flee from our personal Minos, inhabiting those shells that are at the same time the person and the character.

And we play with ideas as with suits, according to fashion, convenience, and seasons.