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Bird Seeking Cage:
A Journal
Writer: Diego Francis Garcia
Location: Chester, NY, United States
Date: August 20th, 2025
There’s a great battle raging amidst the cosmos, but beneath it all, there’s a greater battle raging within ourselves.
I heard a THUD at the window…
My boots planted firmly on the hard soil, a long black wool coat floats against my torso like a cape. Torn and charred flags of nations past fly amidst the rubble. The stars are aligned, the planets collide, waiting for me to claim my birthright. The divine light of the sun shines down on the marshes that lay further ahead, a tall grassy swamp riddled with moss and algae that lays dormant. Beyond that, a vast field, sort of barren as a result of ongoing human interference and the passage of time, but still somewhat inhabited by wildlife and vegetation.
I heard a THUD at the window…
A flock of starlings zoom past me from above, mimicking the shapes of clouds in the distance. They guide my attention towards a rising mass of smoke about four klicks out north.
Funeral pyres set off in the distance, stacks of bodies I’ve slain offered back to the creator by their beloved as tribute, waiting for their chance to strike at me and even out the tally. I’ve earned their wrath, earned that scorn, but I’m too far gone now. Only thing to do is revel in the madness of it all. It’s a war outside & victors aren’t supposed to reject their spoils.
I heard a THUD at the window…
My hands are covered in soot, soil, sweat, soap, spit, sludge, mud, blood, clay; all the elements. The sky turns red, then green, then pink, then blue, then yellow, then blinding white. All the most vivid colors shine bright just for me, the ones that run in short supply once you regain your senses. Enemy ships on the horizon, pouring in on top of the high tides. Cannons, muskets and machine guns aimed off the cliffside, I order the battalion to fire everything they’ve got. Masts break apart like twigs, bows & sterns crumble like paper; blown to bits and vanishing underneath the towering waves. The men watch from the edge of the scarp, fits of victorious screams and laughter carry like weight through the air. Glory be to God and the Armada!
I heard a THUD at the window…
An angel of light looms over me, heralding in another successful campaign. Long luscious hair, a
face pure as snow, not a feature out of place, wings shuttering back and forth. Time stops wherever and
whenever she appears. The most beautiful creature in the world embraces me in its arms, the warmth I’ve
always needed. It pulls me in close to lock lips, a kiss from the divi—
I heard a THUD at the window…
Screaming at the void, half-awake in a Gildan white tee and black shorts. Sweating from head to toe, palms shaking, hyperventilating, tossing anything and everything at the wall.
It’s all gone.
The conquest, the triumph, the spoils, the glory.
All of it.
I’m in a small contemporary bedroom; an attempt at a French baroque style is there, but not enough to give the space any semblance of a distinct flavor or personality. It’s a quarter-past-seven in the AM. I slowly stumble towards the window, vision blotted out by the sunlight peaking in. Half my face lit up in a gold glow like the most radiant soul alive, the other half an unkempt blight of distortion and mild leprosy. I hear a whole tirade full of screaming and shouting over-the-phone that echoes throughout the house. It’s throwing off my sense of space and time. Nothing’s in view when I get to the windowsill besides the lime green trees and ferns ahead. A meek chirp comes from below.
A Greenish-Yellow Finch stares back up at me and pecks the glass in a more polite manner. I’m surprised it isn’t already dead from a concussion. Most of these things tend to hit the front door at high speed and crash straight into the great beyond. We used to bury them in the backyard and then give them tiny cardboard headstones with a cutesy name like Tweety or Tippi. After a while, we stopped doing that and just tossed them in the surrounding forest land with a shovel. Cruel, but it saves time. This one was different though, it didn’t appear like an accidental collision. The Finch was waiting to be invited in, all prim and proper. I didn’t understand it. It can soar wherever it chooses at wing’s command, but it just kept on pecking away at my window.
Why did it want to be trapped in here with me? Curiosity? Shelter? Delusion? Maybe all of the above.
I refuse to take its freedom away.
I refuse to let it live the same washed-out dreams.
Mom bursts in the door talking about how our family are a bunch of “conniving fucks, always plotting and scheming.” This all corresponds with the previous shouting match I heard downstairs. I see no lie in sight. She never sugarcoats it, the only person I could ever fully trust. Do right by her, get graced with words of wisdom and memories that’ll last for lifetimes. Step out of line, get slapped upside the head and chewed out. That’s the way it should be, the way it’s always been. We never strayed far from that code.
I tell her about the bird, she mentions that it’s been hanging around the downstairs patio for a few days but doesn’t think too much of it. Before she shuts the door, her eyes glance straight at the pack of Marlboro Reds I had hidden under a white cap that must’ve slipped off the dresser mid-meltdown. Shit. She snatches the cigs and leans in aggressively close, ultimately backing off, her hands raised like adonai to dispel the rage. “You wanna get lung cancer and die, fine. Just not in my fuckin house.” I only save the pack for city outings with friends, but she won’t buy that. She probably thinks I’m out here chain-smoking daily. I just wanted to look cool like my heroes; McQueen, Connery, Cobain, plus it looks way less tacky than the vapes. My brother looks on from behind the next door over, shrugs and hops back on his hourly facetime call. Fuck… another foul for the tally.
Mishaps, misinterpretations, miscommunications, mistrials & misconstruals, that’s what got us here.
Aiming not to get on her bad side cause it’s just the three of us now. The road ahead, while not completely hopeless, is fraught with snags. It’s not like we haven’t been through worse together, but I can’t imagine how it feels to have the added pressure of someone you’ve shared your life with for so long just... get up and walk out. I could never stand to see her in that state of distress, but it seems to come in bulk with the current times. I wish I could take on all the hurt & pain for her, but I can’t even handle the nuisance of a tiny bird, so chances are it wouldn’t work out too well.
Running late for work, I rush downstairs and desperately consolidate all my bags. A laminated card carrying a prayer to St. Joseph is taped to the top of the fridge. We haven’t been to church in years, at least not willingly. I fear that she may be stumbling into blind devotion, but then I remember all the unexplainable phenomena that occurred throughout our childhoods. Some sort of intercession beyond the void has managed to keep us together despite all our trials and tribulations. Maybe now’s as ripe a time as ever to steer the ship back on course.
I stumble outside the side door, desperate for something to knock the edge off. My hands glide down my back pockets to reach for the pack, only to remember that Mom took them when she left the room. I’m not about to beg for them back and look like an addict. The Finch, perched on a nearby table, tweets for my attention. I dismiss it and walk straight past to my car, still ripe with contempt at the creature for dragging me away from my beautiful dark Bonaparte fantasy.
10 minutes later, I call her and beg to get the cigarettes back, mainly because of who gave them to me. The pack was a gift from a close friend, who originally intended for a famous game show host to sign it, but that didn’t end up working out. I was grateful to accept the Reds regardless, I’m not gonna turn down any gift, no matter what it is. She just hangs up.
My black sneakers planted against the construction site gravel, all dirty and dusty. An ugly ass blue collared shirt flies against my chest like an out-of-shape Best Buy employee. I look less like I’m there to secure the perimeter and more like I’m there to fix somebody’s fridge. A whole plethora of trash and dust flies amidst the rubble. The sun blinds my eyes and scorches my skin, more of an adversary than an ally. My darker brown pigment glows against the reflective puddle of water that lies beneath me.
A begrimed blue Tesla passes through the front gate, I don’t recognize the vehicle. I motion for the driver to halt and stop where he is, about 25 feet ahead. A 6’1 obese white man with his hair in a bun, wearing a green tee and gray cargo shorts, steps out. I ask if I can help him, he tells me that he stopped off the side of the road cause his kid has to use the bathroom and that he’ll only be about 5 minutes. I tell him that this is private property and that unless he has a delivery or appointment with the manager, he needs to vacate the property. This is all relayed to him in a diplomatic & professional manner, of course. He proceeds to ignore me and open up the trunk, dragging his kid out of the backseat. I repeat what was previously said before, but the Lard Ass proceeds to ignore me and start changing his kid discreetly. I threaten to call the manager, but then realize I’ll get fired if I do so because the guy shouldn’t even be as far inside the area as he is. I keep on going to no avail, he pays me no mind & no respect. On top of that, several semi-trucks are flooding through the gate and honking for directions. I have no choice but to drop the situation with Lard Ass.
Too much commotion going on at once. Too many people barking different orders at me that all contradict the others. Some bit of my sanity begins to slip like the endless sweat pouring from my head down onto the pavement. Feelings of uselessness and frailty begin to spur up. In my dreams, I lead a legion of men who would kill at command. In the real world, I lead next to nothing and no one. Chewed up and spat out. Subconscious supersonic nerves thrown outta whack, I stumble around aimlessly in a lightheaded daze. A loose flock of birds without any coordination swoops down onto the ground, throwing off my sense of placement. They violently glide back and forth without any rhythm, you could easily mistake them for bats. Fearing an ambush, I stumble out onto the road. An abrasively long and loud scream washes over the horizon. I turn around to face a colossal set of jaws rapidly approaching me. Everything I reaped coming back to sow all in one grand gesture. Swallowing all the guilt and pride that came before and after me, I gently shut my eyes and prepare to accept my fate.
A few moments pass, my eyes beam out to find that I wasn’t so lucky. A big rig with metal teeth plastered on the front grills towers over me, the visibly pissed off driver extended out its window screaming and shouting. Shaken up beyond belief, I make a run for it and hop in my Altima. As if everything in view wasn’t already beyond comprehension, I find the most peculiar sight of all; the Finch is sitting on the hood of the car, slowly tilting its head forward to peck on the glass. I pull the switch and activate the windshield wiper/fluid to scare it off. That seems to do the trick.
I’m doing at least 85 on the highway now, bobbing and weaving through and around traffic, desperate to forget whatever just transpired behind me. Rain beating down like the flood that was sent for Noah. The Doors’ L.A. Woman blaring through my car speakers, doctor’s orders for times like this. I need to get far, far away from here at all costs. Endless thoughts warp in and out of my head like a constant feedback loop, 24/7 cable news, signal-to-noise. Why is this happening? Which string of cosmic karmic justice came back to collect this time? The most prevailing thoughts, far more prominent than the others…
How many more times can you do this?
How many times have you sped down this exact same road?
How many more cages can you trap yourself in?
How many chances did you let fly by out of cowardice?
How many times did you try to be king and squander it all?
How many times did you curse the names of the people you love?
How many times did that crucifix pull at your neck and beg you to turn back?
How many more bridges are you willing to burn to attain nirvana?
How many times did you wanna show up at that girl’s door with roses?
How many times did you lie to your mother?
How many times did you let your father down?
How many fake apologies did you write so you wouldn’t have to stand trial?
How many times did momma keep you from sticking the Luger between your teeth and biting down?
Does she even know about it?
How much longer will the ghosts of the past be in pursuit?
How much longer can you run before they figure out what you really are?
How much more of this can you take?
Are you now, or have you ever been?
The car begins to skid at slight increments, but I’m able to keep it together and veer on forward. It’s the only thing I’m able to maintain any control over.
The Prophet Morrison’s voice solemnly preaching over the radio about the excursion ahead:
“I see your hair is burning/
Hills are filled with fire/
If they say I never loved you/
You know they are a liar/
Driving down your freeways/
Midnight alleys roam/
Cops in cars, the to—”
In the midst of the natural high that comes with total dissolution, I blazed past a police precinct going 30 over the limit. A steel black ford explorer with headlights peeks out and turns onto the road behind me. Fearing the absolute worst, I start to gradually lower the speed down to a modest 40 to correct the condition. No luck, the cop car’s continuing to ramp up in speed. While that’s going on, we finally come to the bridge of the track, with Morrison slowly chanting “Mr. Mojo Risin’” as the car approaches ever-so-slightly quicker. Zig-zagging through the hills with no end in sight, I press down harder on the gas pedal and try to dodge him. “Got to keep on risin’,” tempo a little faster now. The Ford picks up its pace like a hawk in search of its prey, almost swerving straight into oncoming cars on the left side at certain points. “MR. MOJO RISIN’/GOTTA KEEP ON RISIN’,” real high-speed now. I find an opening and pivot into a real sharp left turn, almost diving straight headfirst into a ditch. “GONE RIDIN’, RIDIN’/COME ON RIDIN’, RIDIN,” fast tempo straight back into the main groove.
The cop flies straight past where I’m hidden, the silver Altima he was chasing nowhere in sight. If this sounds like the most stereotypical Puerto Rican predicament possible, that’s because it is. Well, except for The Doors portion.
Only God knows how long this drive has gone on for, could be hours now. Somehow I wind up on the Tappan Zee Bridge, its blue lights from beneath extended out into the night sky, arms raised in a V. The whole thing feels like a mammoth beacon calling out to the great beyond.
I look away for a split-second and the Cherokee in front of me comes to a full hard stop. I press down on the brakes, but we’re still approaching at the speed of light. There’s nowhere to swerve out to on either side. Tires screech like banshees lamenting their kin. The back of the SUV rapidly approaches my front hood, impact is imminent. Everything goes quiet.
The sky turns red, then green, then pink, then blue, then yellow, then blinding white.
My eyes reopen expecting to be mangled as a result of some major collision, but bear witness to something else entirely.
I’m in an ornate Baroque style interior, elegant and spacious, yet not too dissimilar from the layout of my living room. My mother and brother seated in the next room over at the dining table, completely still, no sudden movements whatsoever. The once modest salle à manger now a massive mess hall that could only be intended for royalty. I grab at my chest out of fear and confusion, only to find that the odious work shirt I once donned has been replaced by a finely pressed white lace-up shirt with corduroy brown khakis, reminiscent of an old Scottish woodsman. The space surrounding us is decorated by several large paintings taken from Audubon’s Birds of America; it feels like a two-dimensional aviary.
I heard a THUD at the window…
Outside a large array of massive casements, the Greenish-Yellow Finch smacks against the glass, frantically waving its wings to get a glimpse of what’s inside. Fearing the consequences of what happens if I don’t grant it passage, I undo the latches on one of the windows and welcome it inside. It floats right on in as diligently as can be and perches down into a small gold cage that was nowhere in sight when I first walked in. The Finch makes no attempt to climb out, even nudging at me to close the door to the cage. Once I do so, the other two sitting at the table get up and hand me what appears to be a single bow & arrow, laced with a delicately sharp tip. My aim is steered by my mother in-between two bars for an opening at the bird’s breast and stomach. I’m fraught with so many conflicting emotions that the term ‘indecision’ doesn’t begin to cover it. Here was my chance to regain control, to end the constant nightmare. I had wanted nothing more than for the noise to stop; the constant thuds at my window, the endless flapping, the constant hellish terrain I was carried through, the utter lack of silence and serenity. A million images of everything I had endured up to this point in time flash through my head like static. One release of force and all of it could end right here... right now…
The Finch darts its head towards my direction and sees the potential fate that lies ahead of it. Not a single shred of fear or sorrow could be found within its eyes, instead was purity and a true longing for life. It really put the hook in me. I start to lightly convulse and tear up, pulling back the bow a bit further.
I refuse to take its freedom.
I refuse to let it live the same washed-out dreams.
As I finally release the arrow, I desperately pivot my body away from the cage and let out a scream so abrasive and guttural that the room begins to momentarily warp its shape, demolishing all the bits of surrounding glass within reach. The colossal windows, the portrait frames, the overhead chandelier all come spattering down like rainfall. My family ducks and dives under the table to avoid the jagged sharp onslaught. After all the commotion has subsided, I track where the arrow has been let off and fear the worst…
A perfect headshot on Audubon’s portrait of the common American swan. The virtuous Finch remains completely untouched.
I toss the bow to the side and unlock the cage, gently nestling the bird within my arms. It was about due time that I showed some affection to that rambunctious messenger from hereafter. As I pet its head, it whistles a tune back at me which I can’t quite recall, but sounds very reminiscent of Mahler. Not too long after, it parts ways and flies back out of the window. A gargantuan computer blue glow from the outside seeps its way into the hall, pillars of light extended onto me. The angel of luminescence descends from above, bracing me within her wings from behind, refusing to let go until my anguish is buried and gone. She greets my lips with an innocent kiss of endearment and plants a crown carved from oak atop my head, its ruby jewels casting beautiful strands of shadows across the room like the Northern Lights. Mother passes along a cigarette, and leans in further to light it for me. Surprised by the sudden change of heart, but nonetheless in awe of it, I accept and claim my birthright. She brings me in closer as only a matriarch could and utters the eternal words, “Good shit, kid. You did well... Your mother taught you well.” An embellished display box carrying a 22 cal Stoeger Luger is laid out in front of me. A grim gag for sure, but I live for those kinds of things.
My brother begins to build a shrine to the fallen; filled with loved ones who have passed on down the river. Memories of our growth and evolution; great-grandparents in the 1950’s on tenement stoops, my mother’s awkward high school years, her battles against evil malignancies, photos of us 3 as children with father figures crossed or cutout, etc. I stop to check in on my brother and ask him how things have been going in the general sense. He glances back at me, simply replies “Shut up,” and returns his attention to the task at hand. It’s his own way of saying “I love you,” one would be a fool to take it personally. Upon completion, he notes that while it’s beautiful, an integral piece is missing from view. Both of us glance at the other with dampened smiles, knowing we’re on the same page. I take a brass paperweight of a Finch perched atop a branch and place it at the forefront of the shrine. The monument is complete, perfect in design. Everything which comes before and after our time here, whether good or bad in nature, was all meant to continue the advancement of the vast wilderness that surrounds us.
There’s a great battle raging amidst the cosmos, but beneath it all, there’s a greater battle raging within ourselves. Yet without first stumbling into our own private cages, we will never truly know what it means to be free.
The stars are aligned, the planets collide.
The three of us float above the swirling wheat fields below, quarters covering our eyelids, arms raised in a V. We cross down the River Styx to greet our beloved and swear our undying oaths.
I can no longer hear the Finch’s call. I may not wake up this time. I don’t think I’d want to. Let me be King. Let me fly with the ones I love. Let me rest. Let me be free.
The sky turns red, then green, then pink, then blue, then yellow, then blinding white.