Sunday Meditation #41: Scenic Overlook on the Valley of Death

Preacher Man, he whistles past the graveyard, giving the crows something to gossip about. The eye the wrinkled black suit and cackle. Preacher Man knows they is laughing at him, their sable feathers all to the glory his dress lacks. He don't worry none, though. They is just birds. At least, that's what he tells himself. He composes a sermon in his head to call down God to walk with him awhile. The sun is setting, and you don't want to be alone after dark on the fringes of Hell.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...that's what the good book says, or so rumor has it. I tells myself that every morning to get my feets on the floor, and out the door. Cain't set still, evil finds you too easy that way."

The crows cocked their heads. Beaded ebony eyes with a hint of wisdom. They said nothing. Preacher Man laughed. A nervous titter disturbed the moss on the stones around the graveyard. He clutched his good book tighter. The cracked leather of the cover was stained with sweat. And maybe blood. Preacher Man didn't know. He started walking again, keeping an eye on the trees.

"Evil is not my main concern, friends!" he shouted to the crows. They rustle and murmur. "Loneliness is quite another matter. A creature of a different stripe. And it is on my trail. My trail!"

Preacher Man's voice echoed off the rocks of the valley then died amongst the cedars. He reckoned the crows cared little for him or for loneliness. The flock muttered, shifted, hunched their wings. Musical notes on the sheet music of the branches. Preacher Man shivered at the thought of unholy music, tritones twisting his mind into knots.

"I've been walking for days, friends. A mite slow, mebbe, but faster than it!" Little puffs of dust arose from under his hobnailed soles. "I've the Lord on my side, I tell ye. He'll carry me, this I know. He'll not let me fall. He won't." Preacher Man shook his fist at the birds. They laughed.

The track was rising up to the west. Farther along, too far to make out much detail, but Preacher Man could see what appeared to be a plateau. In the sky above it was a brighter spot, the sun a luminescent blob buried in the pearlescent wool of the clouds.

"Amen to that, friends and brothers. Amen. I can stay the night there." He quickened his pace, eager to make the plateau before nightfall. A slight breeze stirred the trees. Preacher Man thought he could smell rain on the wind. He welcomed the thought. His whiskey had run out three days ago, and the bottle was dry. Maybe he'd luck into a spring up there.

The grey light brightened, catching him unawares. Ragged holes appeared in the clouds, two not far apart. The clouds roiled over themselves but the holes remained open. Silver-grey sunlight speared down, washing over him. Preacher Man stopped, chilled, shivering. Behind him the crows whispered in avian argot, but Preacher Man knew they were talking about him. He turned to look over his shoulder. The inky black birds had alighted in the track, a thick mass stretching form one side of the track to the other between the rock of the valley wall and the graveyard.

The crows fluttered and stared. Preacher Man gaped. His bowels felt cold. Shaking, biting his lip, he turned his head back and decided he better start walking again. As he did so, he saw the other shaft of light up ahead along the track. It was shining down on the plateau, washing the side of the butte beside it. In the middle of the plateau, in the sunlight, Preacher Man could make out  a large black shape, vaguely human in outline. As he stared the shape lifted what looked like an arm.

It curled the arm, gesturing as if waving to the man to come forward. Preacher Man gaped, gasped, dropped the bottle on his foot. A dark stain bloomed out across the front of his dirt-caked trousers. He clutched the good book to his chest and stumbled up the track.

"All this time, you bastard, all this time," croaked Preacher Man, "I's thinkin' you were behind me. And there you are, in front of me. It's enough to make a man lose his religion!"

His voice trailed off into a wheeze. He staggered up the valley. Behind him the crows chuckled and danced. On the plateau, the lone black shape crossed its arms, waiting.

Magpie Tales 136: Escaping The Deep End

 
Flying Down, 2006, by David Salle, via Magpie Tales

Rainer sucked in a lungful of bluish smoke, sighing it out through his nostrils as he rocked on his heels outside the gallery. The cigarette tip glowed like a tiny baleful eye, illuminating his reflection in the gallery glass. His reflection overlaid the poster he was eyeing, the rumples of his clothes giving texture where there was none. Sunken eyeballs, weed-whacker hair and sallow flesh looking ghastly in the sodden oyster light of a hangover Sunday morning. He belched quietly. The backwash in his throat a mixture of gin, diner eggs and something like regret which failed to fade no matter how hard he swallowed.

His head ached. His eyes twitched slowly in their sockets, lead balls in syrup. The mish-mash of images, the riot of color seemed to set up a resonance in his chest and belly. They fluttered in odd syncopation. The stirring in his groin caught him off guard. What the hell? he thought.

He found himself staring again at her ass. Slow realization trickled into his sludgy consciousness. It was her. Her. Again.

"Goddamnit, Morgan, leave me be. You with the look!" Rainer barked at the glass. Shame coursed through his mind, causing him to shiver. Six years, and she still yanked his chains. He rubbed a throbbing temple with a shaking hand. He knew she was still there, red hair and green eyes and that ass, Oh my god her body, those curves, face buried in her hair, hands desperate to pull off her sweater, JesusH she smelled like the ocean, she's a selkie come to drag me out to sea, again and again...

Rainer staggered back from the glass, the warm drops coursing down his cheeks mixing with the cindery rain that began to fall. He wiped his face with a dirty cuff. The bottle in his coat pocket slapped against his sunken chest. He looked down, mildly surprised, and pulled it out. Two fingers of gin sloshed around inside. Rainer swore he heard her voice in the beads of liquor rolling down the sides. His breathing stopped momentarily as he stared at the bottle, then back to the woman on the poster. Back and forth, a sluggish metronome. His trance was broken by a man approaching from down the sidewalk. He had a leash wrapped around his wrist, at the end of which an eager Irish setter strained forward, finding something interesting in Rainer standing there.

Rainer stood up a little straighter, pushing his hat back on his head. He tried to look jaunty as he saluted the dog and owner with the gin bottle. The setter sniffed at him with that goofy look all dim but happy dogs seem to have; the owner eyed Rainer suspiciously and barely nodded in return. He pulled hard, yanking the dog away in such a manner as to suggest they were not really trying to hurry away from the well-dressed hobo muttering into a shop window.

Rainer watched them walk away. The bottle was wavering under his nose, and the urge to open it was so strong his knees came close to buckling. Eyes watering, nose running, he turned back to the poster. He could not tear his eyes away from her face, her hair, her bottom. A loud sob burbled out of his mouth. He stepped back again, raising the bottle in a shaking fist. He drew it back, and flung it as hard as he could at the plate glass window, shouting "Leave me be, damn you!"

To his utter shock, the window burst into a million little pieces. The noise was like a rifle shot combined with the cracking of a bell. The shrieking of the alarm galvanized Rainer into action. He took off running as fast as his trembling legs would carry him, heading for home. Wheezing, coughing, and crying, he kept thinking that maybe, this time, today would be the first day of the rest of his life.

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

I have to write this from the dude POV, because, well...I'm a dude, and that is somewhat critical to the premise of this post.  So there's that.

Anyway...

The TV was on the other morning, because the Wee Lass was here.  I was listening to it while doing a little web-based chore minding, and a commercial came on for a car insurance company.  At the end of the commercial the perky (and if I'm being honest, cute) spokeswoman says to the dancing guy dressed up as dollar signs, "Really, go, honey, it's your break!".

Something about the word "honey" in her mouth made me sit up and take notice.  I felt a twinge of light-headedness and realized that, for all my facades of dude-ness, I like it when a woman calls me "Honey".

Or "Sugar". Or "Sweetie".  (sigh)  I'm such a violin.

I know in the current climate of Political Correctness and Gender Distinction Awareness and Avoidance of (possibly) Patronizing Forms of Address Awareness, it can be a slippery slope to use terms of endearment in a public venue and addressed to someone we barely know or do not know at all.  That's why I don't do it with women I do not know, and rarely if ever in a public setting with women I do not know well or only in a professional* sense.  It's best for everyone, that way.  Especially if you ask the legal folks in human resources.

But when I hear it applied to me in a more informal setting (the office is not such a place) like a restaurant or in a store...I usually get that puppy-dog sensation in my gut and I immediately relax a little.  I think its because I grew up in a different climate of male-female relations, one that was further along than most of the neanderthal-ish antics I remember hearing about from my elders (and which have not completely disappeared today), but certainly a little more traditional than today.  That was a time when it was much more common in my experience to hear those terms bandied back and forth and no one, male or female, thought much of it.

As I have evolved, and as things have changed, I realize that we all have to be much more careful about how casual we treat others, especially when affection can too easily be misconstrued for disrespect.  I certainly don't advocate calling colleagues "darlin'" or "honey" (male or female) in business meetings or in places where focus and respect are key to getting things done.

But sometimes?  I don't mind being called "Hon" or "Sugar", especially when I can tell someone is being nice because nice is the normal way to be.

And when it comes from the lips of someone you love?  Well, that's just the cat's meow.

---

*Note:  By 'professional' I mean in a career or workplace-based setting, not in the informal slang of a (ahem) prostitute.  Get your heads out of the gutter.

A Discourse On DNA

I read somewhere, don't remember where, it was a long time ago, but what I read was that two things that separate us humans from them animals are 1) the ability to curse and B) the ability to write poetry, well, shee-it, brothers and sisters, how about that? Guess that makes me one of the most human-like human beings I know...at least if more weight is given to the cursing rather than the poetry Yeah, yeah, I know, I write stuff that at least resembles poetry, at least in the same sense that a house cat resembles a jaguar, but to my shame I seem to be better at cursing and really, cursing gets so boring after a while its too repetitive Too narrow-minded...although i do allow that sometimes? In the right circumstances? A well-placed curse is the only thing that will serve to make ones true thoughts and feelings known.  Hmm.  Trick, the trick is to know the Right Time and the Right Place, you know?  No sense in dropping an F-bomb in church, you get my drift.  Dig it? I knew that you could.  But hold on, back to that idea of poetry, really, I try and I scrape and I bow before the words and it seems like I never quite get them to say what I really meant, the idea in my Gray Matter seems so grand and powerful, like the sun, but the words hit the page or the screen and its only shadows.  You might ask me "Why do you care so much? What does it really matter?  Its word, only words, and you know a lot of them so if it isn't right one time, you can always write more, try try again, yes?"  Right, yeah, I know I hear what you are saying (at least, I hear what the voice in my mind that I imagine to be you, is saying) and I console myself with the notion of writing something again and again, always trying to find the right way to describe the sun or love or heart or whatever is on the tip of my (mind)tongue...but I confess, my lovelies, I do, even though I am far from a religious creature, I confess to you...

...that if I don't ever get the words right, if I don't ever really write that thing called a Poem...

...I fear I'll not be able to convince myself...

...that I am more than just an animal, who knows how to curse.

Before The Flood

How much can be said
in seven minutes,
under cover of blackout?

Whispers the rainfall
outside open windows,
beckoning to weary soul

Rain is the slow life,
blood to nourish the earth
and fill the limbs

Laying still, straining to catch
voices out of the mist
pattering on sills and glass

Green verge laps up the silver,
Rose hips swell with honeydew
under hands that ache with longing

It is dreamtime, a walkabout
in the outback of the heart,
'round an axis, bold as love

The Ponytail Files, Volume 3: The Sap is Doomed

This will probably cement my reputation as a sap.  What happened was significant enough that, as a writerly chap, I knew I'd probably pen something about it even before it was over.

As usual, it involved a member of the fairer sex*.  It involves a question I had to ask myself:  Do women, in general, know the true power they seem to have over dopes like myself?

The afternoon was gorgeous, great weather, and I was in pursuit of sandwich at a local cafe-bakery.  Sitting down to tuck in, I was facing the door where I had a good angle for people watching.  People watching is one of my favorite things to do while noshing.

So, I was sitting at the table when she came in.  She was a blond, 'the kind of blond that would make a bishop want to kick a hole in a stained glass window'**. She was walking towards the direction of my table, so I had a great line of sight. She was quite attractive, but it wasn't that in specific that grabbed my attention.  It was The Gesture.

She reached up with a well-turned hand, and tucked her hair behind her right ear...and I almost fell out of my chair.  How did she do that?  In that moment, I felt like a goofy teenager again, thoroughly entranced by such a simple but amazingly feminine gesture, one that almost never has failed to gobsmack me.  I found it hard to take my eyes off of her for almost the entire time I was eating.

These gestures have been and continue to be an Achilles' heel of mine.  And I cannot explain it.  All I know is that women in general seem to have these somewhat unique ways of moving, of existing in space-time, that are my kryptonite.  These ways are to my mind innately feminine in the deepest, most mysterious sense.  They are motions or looks that I think of as 'sacred feminine' in some way, and in most cases they reduce me to the level of a awestruck puppy.  This has the unfortunate side effect of making me too foggy-headed to have the presence of mind to actually try talking to some of the ladies who have had that power over me.  I'm afraid I'd open my mouth and I'd sound like the adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.  Or just stand there, slack-jawed and saying "You pretty."

Longtime readers know I have written of this phenomena before (HERE, HERE, HERE and HERE).  So you can see the history.

I think I'm doomed.

So, if you see me staring?  Please know its because I'm stunned, and at least you'll know why: it's because I'm a sap.

---

*The use of that phrase, in and of itself, is enough to brand me a sap.

**I heard that line on a radio comedy bit years ago.  Loved it ever since.

Irish Gumbo's Handy Breakfast Tips: Edition the First

I know we all need a little eye opener in the mornings many days, but here's a little tip for you:

When sprinkling a favorite spice on one's breakfast cereal and bananas, make sure that spice is cinnamon and not cayenne pepper.  Otherwise, that may be more 'zing' than one is looking for to jump start the day.

Just sayin'.

Knowing Mil

Brother Kieran hung up his leather apron on the stout oak peg jutting from the king post near the door.  The summer sunlight lay gold upon the air, motes of dust and hay drifting like snow.  His fatigue was a wet cloak draped on aching shoulders.  Kieran sighed, drew a deep breath, and gently rubbed his hands together.  Three stings today, more than he had endured in many a fortnight.  His charges had seemed unusually rambunctious today, and harder to control.  He had been stung so many times over the years, he had ceased to question the occurrence.

But today was different.  The stings hurt more than usual.  The first had taken him by surprise, and in reflex he had swatted the bee, killing it.  This troubled him greatly.  He took quiet pride in never harming the miraculous creatures that gave forth of the blessed bounty that made life possible in the monastery.  He was so distracted by the image of the dead bee that he was more careless than his habit, and the bees could sense it.  For the first time, Kieran had begun to resent the bees...and this was not right before God, in the monk's mind.  He locked the door to the shed, and hurried back to the abbey.

That evening during vespers, Brother Kieran could not concentrate.  He was still hungry, and his hands throbbed , red and still puffy from the stings.  He tried to summon up the energy to make his recitations honest, but to no avail.  A single thought had seized his mind, and looped over and over as he prayed:
"I've yet to taste the honey" he heard himself saying in a voice low and gravelly.

It was true.  In all the years Kieran had been at the monastery, from the time he was a scrawny waif left at the gate all the way up to this, his 35th year, he had never tasted the golden nectar he and his fellow monks worked so hard to produce.  God had forbidden it, he had been told, and those who disobeyed God would be harshly punished.  The best honey was reserved for a chosen few, officially the king, the royal family and high church officials.  To the extent that some of his brethren had sneaked a taste here and there, and had gotten caught, Kieran understood it to be true.  The offenders had been cast out, stripped of their robes and sent on their way with the traditional bee sting on the lip, so that others could see and know.

Kieran had never questioned this, but he had noticed that the abbot and some of the senior monks had taken honey for themselves, and nothing had happened to them.  About that time, Kieran had also noticed those same fellows always seemed to be in better health, clearer of skin and carrying more pounds on their frames.  He had never questioned that, either.  Until now.

In the middle of vespers, Kieran rubbed his aching hands together and resolved that he would taste the honey.  He worked hard to get it, and he was hungry.  He was tired of being thin and cold and feeble.  

It took some months before he found his chance.  He worked on his courage, biding his time.  The days and weeks followed their usual pattern, prayer, work, prayer, eat, prayer, sleep.  Days followed nights and the urge to taste grew stronger and stronger.  Finally, towards the end of a long day of field work topped off by collecting honey, he had his chance.  The two monks who usually assisted had left the shed, and Kieran was all alone.  His hands held a cool stone jar, nearly full of dark gold liquid.  He could smell it.  His hands shook.  As if possessed, they brought the jar to his lips.  The thick liquid poured into his waiting mouth.

He knew ecstasy.  He knew lust, although he knew not what to call that sensation.  Energy surged through his limbs, he felt himself coming to life.  Kieran thought he knew in that instant, what it meant to be alive.  He was amused to find himself getting an erection, and he laughed.

The loudness of his laugh startled him, and he set the jar down with a crash.  Honey slopped over the rim, oozing over his fingers.  His heart fluttered in fear.  God knows, he muttered, He knows, and I will be punished.

One of the helpers came back in, asking what had happened, was everything all right?  Kieran hastily replied that it was all fine, he had been clumsy and dropped the jar while trying to move it.  He dabbed at the honey on his hand and silently prayed the brother had not seen the honey on his lips.  The other monk grunted something noncommittal and helped Kieran tidy up.

That night, in his cell, Kieran prayed for forgiveness, but received no assurances.  He feared retribution, punishment, banishment.  He was consumed with feelings of worthlessness at his sin.  He meditated, he fasted, but to no avail.  The memory of that taste would not leave his mouth, and in the months afterward his initial transgression, Kieran found himself sneaking a mouthful of honey whenever he could.   His health improved, his skin cleared, his belly grew soft, but no one seemed to notice.

The days flew by, and Kieran finally began to relax.  The taste of the honey was too good.  But he was caught, on a bright, sunny day that felt like God Himself was taking care of even a sinner like Kieran.

The abbot had been watching.  He had spies, he had other monks keeping a count of honey jars and amounts.  The abbot summoned Kieran to his office and let it be known they knew what was going on.  The abbot said he had no choice but to cast Kieran out.

So it was that Kieran found himself standing at the main gate to the compound, clad in the rough burlap allotted to the outcast, the willful sinner.  In one hand he held a green oak walking stick, ghostly wet for being freshly peeled.  In the other was a small sack, made of coarsely woven fiber and held together with two leather straps.  In the sack was a wooden cross, a hunk of dry bread and a large chunk of hard cheese.  A small gourd served as a water bottle.

The brothers had formed a silent gauntlet, a row on each side of the path out.  They said nothing, heads downcast in the formal display of shunning.  By tradition, the most senior beekeeper stood in his path, a small wooden box in hands.  The box held three bees, and soon the keeper took them out and placed them on Kieran's lips.  The bees were provoked into stinging, and Kieran flinched, eyes watering.  His lips throbbed and felt like they were on fire.  He clenched his jaws, refusing to make a sound.

The keeper stepped aside, gesturing toward the gate.  Two monks were slowly opening it, and through the tears Kieran could see the track leading out and over into the nearby hills.  The abbot bade him Go, Leave Us, you have sinned mightily.

Kieran trudged out the gate.  He pulled the cowl of his burlap tunic over his head, less for shielding from the sun and more so no one could see him smiling.  Inside his tunic, in a hastily made pocket, there was a small stoppered flask.  In it was a mouthful of honey.

Kieran walked into the lengthening shadows, never looking back.  He consoled himself with the thought that surely, God would not be so cruel as to let him taste heaven just once, only to take it away forever.  The land stretched out before him, green and gold in the waning summer sun.  The wind ruffled the grass, and faintly Kieran thought he heard humming coming from the trees up ahead.

His smile came back.  The world was not so empty as he had thought.  Honey was there, he would find it.  He would taste it, again.

From Grace

The song said a man will rise,

a man will fall,

from the sheer face of love

like a fly on a wall

but he has no wings

only the memory thereof

from her he understood rise,

now he understands fall,

arms outstretched in blackness

fingers brush a surface he cannot see

only feel, now raspy, now smooth,

with no purchase for his heart

---

Italicized words above are lyrics from "The Fly", by U2, from the album Achtung, Baby. But you probably already knew that...

Love Bomb

What do you really think of love do you know do you know I'm not sure I know because I have been thinking about it long too long way too long

and it occurred to me I still don't know how could that be after all these years? Maybe maybe its because I didn't understand it then and I don't now but back then I didn't know I didn't understand, you dig it?

Good good I knew that you could so dig this my pretties tonight I had the flash the realization the kick in the cerebrum that if I were to try writing what I really think of love

oh my god my head might explode or my heart burst and yours might too (though I doubt that I suspect yours is stronger than mine) but what I do know is this:

I had love and then it slipped away and that makes me wonder if my grasp was weak,

or love too strong,

or me just unlucky,

and maybe love was a bomb that I could not defuse and it blew up in my face to scatter me to the wind,

or maybe love was a bomb that I should have let explode, catching me in the fallout of grace and the dust of being wanted by someone...swept away by the overpressure of knowing

I

am

love(d).

River on Fire

Far bank quivering from heat-haze,
her profile etched on aureate air
turned to glass from a liquid inferno
flowing unchecked beneath the deck

She turns away, he groans, animal howl,
hands raised to cheeks tortured cheeks,
palms come away filled with fire that
tracks down their bodies, into the water

Tolling hearts become broken bells
and speakers for the dead, who understand
bridges burn but cannot accept tears
setting the river afire that they may not cross

Starry, Starry Night, with Friends

'Whatever gets you through the night' the song says, 'is alright' yet I can't help but wonder if that is true.  The presumption is that one has something to get one through the night.  What if there is nothing, or no one?  What if the only solution is a bottle or a pill?

Progress has made it so easy to find a fix, nearly always within arms reach.  This may be a problem in and of itself.  Why figure it out inside, why listen to the body, when all you need to do is open your mouth and swallow?

really, why?

Sometimes, alas, it may be the only way to get through a tight spot.  This lies uneasy on the mind, especially one that is dulled by lack of rest.  Not just sleep, rest.  Rest, the forgotten country.

I thought of this tonight as I drove home from class, under a clear sky and cold to ache the bones.  I watched the lights shining through the trees bare of leaves.  A diamond necklace, twinkling and civilized, and choking the life out of life.  To see so many lights reminds  me that the season has changed, leaves are down and the trees are showing their bones to the sky.

I am also reminded of how long it has been since I have walked in the woods.  I felt the river calling to me, and the rocks and leaves.  They wondered where I have been, and I told them I been away, trying to keep up with life.

They laughed, and reminded me that they are life, and that I can rest with them.

This I could not refute, and if I had more fortitude (and a sleeping bag) I would have walked down by the river, and slept on the bank.  The earth, the water, the rocks and the sky: get me through the night, please.

If only.  Right now, I have as my companions two small stuffed animals, bequeathed upon me by my thoughtful and wonderful daughter.  She hand picked "Mr. Eagle" (stuffed eagle that, when squeezed, emits the call of a bald eagle) and 'Ballou' from "The Jungle Book".  Wee Lass even carefully placed them next to the pillows on the other side of the bed, so they could watch over me as I sleep.

Tonight, as always, I am grateful for their company.

Nightfishing in the Mare Cerebrum

I wonder sometimes, what will come out of the depths of my head.  I worry, occasionally.  It's dark down there in the caves.  Not much room in some places, all those ideas crammed together, piled on the floor and dripping from the ceiling.  Assuming there is a ceiling.  It doesn't feel like it when all alone in the murk and the batteries just ran out.

I liken this exploration of my head to net fishing in a subterranean river, with only a feeble and shaky miner's lamp for illumination.  The water rushes by, mostly unseen, while I stand in it thigh-deep and shivering.  The lamp casts only a small circle of light around me.  It often feels more a nuisance than a help.  Just enough light to see by, but not enough to see really far.  It also attracts...things...from the Stygian dark surrounding my little island of light.

Big things.  Scary things.  Things with fangs and slime.

I've never been comfortable in water through which I cannot see.  I'm fearful of what it might hide, of the terrors that might sneak up on me.  Yet I have no choice but to cast my nets, over and over, to haul in whatever may fall into the strands.  I run the risks because every now and then, the net captures good things.

Shiny things.  Golden things.  Things made of love and heart.

I'm learning to whistle, down there in the dark.  When the mood strikes, I sing, and the nasty things with teeth retract their claws while retreating back into the gloom.  They may terrify me...but sometimes, I confound and trouble them.

So tell me, what's in your psyche?

Electioneering

Surfeit of color and noise
and that was just the crap
in the mailbox, every day
Forests bled to extinction

More shiny noises from the box
Bright hues and gaudy wraps
So many promises! like God and
Marilyn Monroe delivered to your door

The palate dulls, hearing fades
eyesight dims under sensory fatigue
No, under siege! Because you cannot escape
bleat, blather and bother, beyond the end

Necessary evil, this binge and purge
of the body politic, they tell us to care,
we must care, but too many broken promises,
shattered hopes, have eaten our trust.

Heart of the Sun

No no no, this can't be but please let it be, oh yes I won't mind, but for the love of god can it please stop distracting tormenting pleasing exciting me, for a little while at least?  That's why sleep good sleep is a distant memory and the measure of days is how much can be accomplished between flights of fanciful insecurities and transient lonely glories, images of loveliness behind the eyelids.  Afterimages dancing on the retinas like they said the glow of atom bombs could be seen through hands over closed eyes.

Not something that he believes but the idea of it makes sense, carries its own weight its own logic, because he knows, he knows like a wise old dog that has been beaten one too many times by someone he adored, he knows that white-hot intensity of heart-forged ecstasy that mutates into pain and back into love, a crazy sine wave ripping stitches through the soul...

All it takes is a glimpse, a trace or a full on field of view, seeing that cast of skin or color of eye, a waterfall of ravens down the back along with a voice to melt stones and iron, that's all. And it can happen anywhere, anytime, isn't that right? Honest-to-God, in a noisy crowded room, or the hushed stacks of a bookstore or holy smokes grabbing dinner in a hurry.  He hears his master's voice, or sees her hair curled over a shoulder, or those eyes, dear lord, those eyes, why do all dark eyes remind him of those Dark Eyes, the Dark Eyes, the ones at the heart of the Sun where temperatures rise to numbers that don't matter, and fusion occurs and there is no barrier between Ego and Love?  Why, why?

Because after the fusion comes the burnout, the ejection of soul on a plasma wavefront of exploded passion that sprays fragments of the man he became and no longer was, out into the supercold ecliptic, pushed on the solar wind of the Sun he held in his hands once, and lived and wants to live again but dammit, its happening entirely against his will.  All that can be done is to grasp frantically at gravity to stop stop stop the fall among the asteroids, wearing a Kuiper belt of shattered hopes and wants while the heart slowly cools to absolute zero...

He thrashes desperately, fearing superfluidity or worse, which would be no motion at all , god, no that wouldn't be fair, damnit damnit damnit not after knowing infinity and peace, knowing what it was to be revived from freezing in the interstellar black of a foundering soul.  That would be unfair, too unfair, even by the standards of a universe known for monumental unfairness, at least that is what he tells himself every time orbits intersect, suns grow nearer, him clinging to the idea that life was reborn in a frozen heart, and can be born again it can it can, it has to be and for the love of god take comfort in that the battered stone of his heart can still feel...

Hot Soup! MMMM, MMMM, blechhh, cough OW!

That pot o' goodness, above, was a big batch of soup.* It was my dinner.

I'll call it Tired 'N' Lazy Soup. Because I was real tired when I got home...and feeling lazy. So it was some broth and noodles from the pantry, some fresh carrot, and (alas) canned peas and corn. Ordinarily those ingredients, left all alone, would have filled the belly but bored the tastebuds. I have a big jar of bay leaves on top of my Chinese Medicine Cabinet, and they always add some oomph to basic broth. A nice leaf in the pot, I say, along with a few white peppercorns. Nosing around in the fridge, I spied a serrano chili pepper lounging in the vegetable bin. Yeah, man, just the thing. So I minced up the pepper and put that in the broth.

Looks innocent, yes?

Now, I wasn't expecting this to be a culinary masterpiece, and that was the case. It did what it was supposed to do, which was feed me without a lot of fuss.

But remember that bay leaf?

I finished the soup, and was ladling it up, when I snagged the bay leaf to get it out of the pot. Bay leaves (as many of you already know) are meant to flavor food, not be the food. This I know, but somewhere between the stove and the sink I forgot...without thinking I stuck the leaf in my mouth and for who knows why I bit down on it. 

Oh good lawd...talk about bitter. My mouth twisted up like it had just discovered the King of the Lemons. Blechhh, erk...I quickly spit it out. I was licking my lips and scraping my tongue like a golden retriever with a mouthful of Jif. Fortunately, the soup and a glass of beer removed the taste of alimony from my mouth.

So dinner was over, I'm cleaning up. Full belly and time to relax! I went to the bathroom to wash up. On the way there, something ended up in the corner of my eye. I reached up with a fingertip to try and dislodge it.

Remember that serrano pepper?

I hadn't washed my hands after cutting up the pepper. The capsaicin was still on my fingers. It quickly made its way into my eye.

Ow. OW. OW! Jay-zus, that hurt! I looked like Popeye as I staggered into the bathroom.

After my eye stopped burning, I made a beeline for the couch, staying far away from the leftover soup. It sat there on the counter, staring at me...I think it even laughed...

*Really? Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious, for illuminating that for us!

A Case of the Vapors

I write this on a Friday night, slowly decompressing whilst sitting on the couch. A long week of tired, my Wee Lass is in bed and I am soon to follow. I'm in a bit of a brown study, to go a bit old school. Old school, like 14th Century type old school.

Physical fatigue plays a part, surely, in this flirtation with melancholy. Being tired increases the degree of difficulty in keeping a stiff upper lip, the lights on, a smile on the face. Sometimes, I'm just too tired to try. Mental fatigue is a whole other matter, and that is what has me sitting still and quiet and just letting the mind breathe without trying to digest.

The trigger event occurred on the ride home from work. I was intent on picking up my daughter from school, and traffic was moderate, so I was focused without being blindered. Somewhere around the halfway point, I was seized by this thought:

I forgot at least three story ideas today. Three. I swore I would remember them, they seemed so clear and bright, there was no way...but I did forget.

This after telling myself for the umpteenth time that I didn't need to write them down because they were so strong and vivid. Pffft. Like Balzac supposedly said after having sex "There goes another novel", I allowed the distractions and demands of the World In My Face to displace a few notions of mine. Except I did not have the precious luxury of sex, it was the daily grind of work. Fatigue and reality, a hurricane in the head...

This happens to me a lot. I have a phrase pop up in my mind, or I see or hear something inspiring and I tell myself it would make a good story or essay and I'll write about it when I get home, this is going to be great! 

Fail. Fail. Fail.

It irritates me to no end, that even with multiple notebooks stashed in my briefcase, my car, my nightstand, that I am frequently too lazy to simply put a few words down for reminding myself later. I even carry a pen in my shirt pocket most of the day, and have one at hand when I am home.

So the net result is, I end up writing stuff like this. Because I cannot fight the push to write that balloons in my head, every day all day on occasion. I must. I have to write...I wish they could all be diamonds, but sometimes they are only coal.

Winter Skank

February can suck it.

Time to show that bee-yotch the door.

Word.

"You Cannot Possibly Comprehend The Forces Arrayed Against You"

Mommy, I'm skeered....

Believe It