from the unpublished archives
All I really need to do is feign vanishing, close my door or windows, and then they start knocking and peeking in. When I am open and calling, no one’s home. Funny how we switch our status dependent upon others’ availability. How much of a social creature are we? …One with THINGS to prove.
Our food is a poor mimicry of the natural world. We are divorced from our land and our crops; we are married to industry and infatuated with “freedom.”
(How can one live by oneself forever?)
We see mathematical programming, and we think “nature.”
Let’s not forget who we are, sitting on the edge of the world.
The writer experiences; the readers wish to. How many readers are there to writers proportionally? Writers need to remember chronology, or intuit it. They are on the outside, playing god… while musicians are IN IT so completely that they diffuse to the water surface over all.
Dates are really just new titles.
I love being injected into a band’s life for tasting. Sometimes our palettes are so close, it floors me.
When we cannot orient ourselves, we look for reflections; it’s a natural occurrence.
Sometimes I really hate the outside world, and the choices it made without me. When did we all become arbitrary numbers? *thinks*… however…. Arbitrary numbers will always perpetuate themselves in arbitrary systems. Do we act out in these human-suits, (for so long we have worn them after the war), being arbitrary numbers? Or do we shed our suits and demolish the system?
The writing prompt I was given: “Write, taking off from visual projections, whether mental or mechanical, without thought to the word in the ordinary sense, no craft” is my default “how”… just the Way I am. People actively ignore their senses constantly. It fascinates me what people need to be prompted on and what they do not.
I kn(o/e)w the ending at the beginning and vice versa… if the speed of light means anything to you.
…1100 words in no particular order conveying fantastical imagery of pierced-sky blue and we all, at every end, curling the space up and out so we all meet again.
(We never live completely alone.)
DISCIPLINE has its own temptations; don’t let them make you believe differently. (It is the values of steps that we drew out.)
Remember that we all kept the same stories…
So that we could tell them to each other
And share them at each round.
Convince yourself that a story heard from back to forwards is the same story as heard from the front to back. All stories are the same story… there are always loose ends, but never ends. We cannot be pulled from the paper, the story, the position until it is all out. This is why people hang on; to get it all out.
The Synopsis: Evolution through Art (that you cannot see, but I will describe)
I am a love of that I am a reflection and emanation. Kisses under the stars. Tall grass reaching for our bodies. This figurative heart is also the lips of Nuit.
I am suspended in Time and Space. Hanging from my foot, I feel the rush of blood to my head. I am Red at every extremity.
I offer up my heart as a torn entity. In my struggle between the binaries, I express both forms simultaneously.
I am captured by Life. Celestial forces pull at my chest and wrap me in electromagnetic fields. These forces are hands in my flow, attempting to redirect. When my eyes close, stars explode behind my eyelids and the fire rises within me.
Caught in a sea of darkness, I see my monsters and the spoils of war float by. Temptations to which I submitted mimic the color of the bleeding sun. The rope is within reach. I seek to extract myself from this Ocean of bruise-blue and this Sky of blood tears.
One foot on a black hole, another on the sun that is slowly being sucked in, I stand, a knife in one hand, with broken skin and bruised body to face the shooting stars and Windows of opportunities floating in Outer Space.
Masked I am: all Blue and smirking.
Fires and serpents at my feet that I cannot fight: my hands are tied and my arms spread wide. There will be no yelling through this duct tape. There will be nowhere to move when the archers take aim at the bulls eye marked on my chest. A phantom heart resides in the background, with the rainbows peeking from the storm clouds and the incentive on which I am to focus.
Tied up in electricity, I cannot help my fascination with the fire butterfly in front of me.
I wince.
A hand emerges in the heavenly light. Inside its palm is an eye that cries for a reason that I do not know. The walls of this room have no beginning and no end. The doorway is through the flesh, and the night sky can be seen out my window.
I am bound in the colors of Fire, though I don the colors of Water. I reach through my element to the one that binds me, never allowing the physical abomination I face to shake me. I even ignore the easy way out.
I stand in front of an explosion. It is not for others to know if I initiated it or not.
Locked in a space I can reach through, I peer into the Unknown. Perhaps I care little to use the key I know is there to unlock myself at the present moment, despite the water slowly rising in my cell.
An angel stands in a stream of Water and Light. All that she emits conspires to spell out your name.
Perhaps I look much like a leprechaun among the flora. Yet I sit within the constructs of this world, laughing all the time in the face of Death.
My strength keeps me hanging on and glaring into the face of my opponents.
I am both the malformed entity with dragon wings and the one that loves such creatures.
The epiphanies I come to are etched in my skin. I write my Truth on my body for all to see.
The saga presented in the beginning continues… lovers on the beach, hand in hand and skin to skin. There are two fish I know so well that keep us adhered.
He looks like a nazi, with anger and coldness to match. I am naked before him, coming out of the Water to face whatever may be waiting for me in the blood of the setting sun.
Within me thrive beauty, music, life, fantasy, destruction, innocence, enchantment and growth.
Beyond Time and these cities of Men, we reside in the clouds together, as forms of what we can conceive.
Possessed by something else entirely, my eyes are now in reverse.
I will break through that which holds the key in order to get it.
These images and forms are cast in beauty and pale pink and live within alien landscapes.
I see. I listen. My mouth is shut.
All incarnations were called to join in one room. I was lying on the floor. The first to arrive included the Angelic, the Demonic, the Primal, the Sullen and the Fantastic.
One of the stories: The hunter holds his fallen love.
Within my eyes, his image is never really gone. The fires and finely sculpted body, complete with the Mythical implications, still burn my eyes.
I am leaving. I am taking this key and locking the door behind me. I know not what the Path holds for me, but I see vague images of Lovers, Guides, Demons and the cloak of Night.
This Djinn is too sultry to not become captivated.
A target for some unknown archers, I sit with a crown on my head and scepter in my hand. My throne is stone and these blues and violets are so heavy this time.
Where Ocean, Sky and Moon meet, the Goddess emerges. She absentmindedly creates whirlpools with her fingers as she is so lost in her own head.
Another of the stories: This time she cries out among fallen trees as she holds her lifeless Lover in her arms.
Incomplete: A fire dancer and a woman meet.
He enters from the back door. He is cast among shadows and holds clenched fists. The bare light bulb swings above my head, and all I can do is look at the ground.
In the green-blue haze, a new creature emerges in the face of dragons and clown-faced skeletons.
Laughing ‘til tears spill down my face, a rainbow wash of entities spring forth from the subconscious. She touches my head while this one dances by my shoulders. I see the ones I know from dreams and the One we shall all know on our last day.
Incomplete: Her eyes are new and fashioned by the magic he weaves. Faces, jewels, symbols, and gifts float from his spirit to dress her as he wishes.
The Witch spins and weaves, playing with Infinity. Her tools are represented. Their fear is evident.
Fangs materialize over her. She is blue and black with Death entering her eyes, spiders crawling up her body and serpents reaching for her. A hand from below reaches through her chest to pull her down.
The Rogue Alchemist meets the Eye in the Sky. He masks himself in the presence of the Eye. The flow of Power is both ways, from him to the Eye and from the Eye to him. The water is blood and the sky is fire. His totem, the Raven, responds to his calls.
Incomplete: This Devil has maces fastened to his wrists. The poison plant people and fire woman appeal to him.
A boot squashes the sun. This man with the hammer hand falls under rain while snakes turn to flowers.
I ran and exploded into pure energy. On the other side, I emerged as a beautiful Faery from a red flower.
*****
My totem speaks; he brings some Faery friends.
The Bull King comes to greet us. We become possessed: everything tainted red and blue.
Her gown eats the floor and her throne eats the sky. She sits with a cat on her lap. Her eyes have no pupils.
Abstract: Colors! A tree hand reaches for a pear. A sinister goatee is the stem to the pear. Eyes cry or protect. Hearts are flowers that birth spirals. Violet fire burns in the corner.
A portrait with a loving glow.
A boy sits in the corner. The shadow he casts creates a hungry woman.
Close-up of fascination.
The primordial Beach and Creation.
Elven couple by Water.
Abstract: Green man covered in occult symbols with a snake arm is distracted by the tongue of a half-face woman. She is hanging in the air by a neon eye as her face also emerges from a psychedelic tree. From the tree hangs a man in a noose and flowers grow. A butterfly with eyes flies by. A night Faery dances on spirals of Love next to the Raven of the Night.
A figure in a purple cloak approaches the light at the end of a maroon hallway of mirrors and torches.
A redhead by a brick wall.
Abstract: Happy, neon fish-face swims under the cartoon dog with a genie lamp for ears. A pink and purple Faery Steed is vaguely recognizable.
Abstract: A blue eye has eyelashes of feathers from which hearts trail. The hearts flow into cotton-candy clouds that pass over the full moon. These same colors spiral into fires in the corner, over which, “RED MEAT” is written. RED MEAT is at the foot of the bed, which remains unmade. Zzzzs trail off to the door, beyond which, the cat explores a tunnel. Dreamers’ thought-bubbles contain “X,” which runs into a path leading back to the blue eye. Clovers and clubs hang in the background, along with dancing plant people.
The Cosmic Jester peers into the ring of Existence, where pregnancies, births, deaths, reincarnation occurs. The lotus flower sits within the heart, that ends in Infinity. “ZERO” creates its own trails in the sphere. The Eye sees “SOUL.” The Jester smiles as the Dice at the end of his hat reflect in his eyes. Sun, Moon and Stars are all contained in his silly hat. Behind him, the Goddess stands among spirals of Creation.
A comic strip of a night of drunkenness.
Portraits of my friends and a coffee house conversation.
1st panel: I’m wearing a t-shirt that says “RAGE” as I crush cars, destroy buildings and burn people. 2nd panel: My face contorted in anger, I am fantasizing about throwing punches at some choice people.
A green-eyed man.
Fishies kissing my toes as I stand with a flower in hand, balancing against a tree and a toe in the pond.
Goddess(/I) emerges from a water lily. The full moon and a water snake are behind her.
Abstract: A cat hangs out in the clouds as a message in a bottle travels through the water below. Flowers spontaneously spring from the water, which gets kissed by a fish. Balloons soar upwards from the road with a cartoon car. A strawberry in the sun is dipped in a chocolate well.
Abstract: A woman’s face covers the page. There is the sun in her eyes. A fire butterfly passes over an unmade bed. Ice cream cones and cherries are directly above the bed, being licked. The moon makes music from the clouds. A cat is made from the letters in “MEOW.”
Realism: Tree Frog
Realism: Snowy Mountain Lion
Bucky Katt
Faery sitting on a pentacle. Lizard face eating a flaming ball on a fork.
Man emerges from a flower. A snake wraps around his waist. The sun is in the sky and a heart-shaped woman’s face with puckered lips is in the background.
A woman (me) from the waist down, in a mini skirt and heels. Young, hot man’s face in the corner reacting.
Infinity symbol wrapped around a crescent moon.
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Temperature
One pair of eyes here; another there. There are certainly more; there are always more than are apparent. Sometimes they familiar, and other times they are completely alien. Does it matter if they are the same color or not?
…………
The ideas pass from one to another and are repeated, morphed, passed through filters. It mutates. It mutates from thoughts as it mutates from eyes. The same purity that was there when it was found, is gone among the passing. Sometimes there are those that do not realize this or care at all that it happens. The information is the gem, the sought-after asset. The origin, the evolution, the clarity upon arrival or purity in revelation matter little compared to the exchange of the idea or the act of brainstorming. Coming to realizations together is different from taking another’s concept and adopting it, inherently changing it, to claim as one’s own.
…………
We train ourselves to forget as we train ourselves to remember, continually fabricating a consciousness. The moves are not random, but this is not to say that they are predictable in the least. Like metallic balls traveling through searing liquid, we change form under the influence. All those physical laws descend with light-year speed, and we morph under the pressure.
…………
A rebel is a single entity onto oneself. Rebellion is an assertion of a line, a barrier, a stop. Rebellion can be a risky or protective act, but it is always one of preservation of an aspect of Self, of integrity, a concept held dear… or at least held, anyway. That’s what matters: the holding, the ownership of the assertion.
Light drizzel, forty degrees and transitioning from Dream to a narrated reality
March 23, 2010, the last Tuesday ever of March 2010.
The ground is littered with earthworms. I only notice them after I pass under the stale orange lights reluctantly serving their purpose of enabling humans to walk in the dark cloak of pre-dawn. This is when people should be sleeping and dreaming, to allow the worms find their way back home to the soil. I likely have their brothers’ blood on my shoes now. Humans walk with heavy feet and persistent footprints.
I couldn’t sleep past 4AM again. What will my life be like when I am 40 or 60, I wonder. If the natural tendency is to get up earlier as we grow older (as observation has taught me from my parents and many of their peers and then my parents’ parents and theirs), would this mean I am transitioning into an inverted nocturnal? Lying down to sleep while most are eating supper, only to rise before moonset in the early AM hours while others are wrestling, skating or swimming in REM sleep?
I am most creative in the mornings. Perhaps that is why I like them so much. I am also left undisturbed, to write the narratives in my head in peace. Many never see paper or word files. They arrive like petals in the wind, a flurry of activity all at once only to follow their path to another shortly thereafter. Muses never rest.
I saw them recently, y’ know… the Muses. They made an appearance at the celebration of the Vernal Equinox. We exchanged nods.
Two days later I am wondering who else sauntered this way. A new dream person is making an appearance. This week was my first encounters with her. In two days time she jumped 15 years in my dreams. Maybe in her world I aged only two days in 15 years. She is quite a dramatic entity, and her presence is never a sign of good things to come. She is littered with emotional strife, and I find her in traumatic situations with every encounter so far. I do admit that I admire her use of symbols. They are in no way subtle, but they are highly effective and evocative.
Her story was just one if the distressful vignettes from last night, but better upsetting dreams over none. Dreams help one to learn about oneself. Dreams are mystical journeys or brain regurgitation. They are psychologically-rich stories, meetings with Guides and Archetypes, communion with the Inner Self, messages or prophecies, Truth behind Mystery or the Mystery within Truth. Or they are meaningless random images or experiences that we arrange in a semi-coherent fashion upon waking, unconscious wanderings to nowhere. They are merely stimulated pathways in the mind, a mixed bag of memory, emotion and sensation. Take your pick. I’ve picked mine. (Maybe they picked me…) I was born in front of the Gate of Dreams.
[A sample of those threads of thought (however loosely or strangely strung together {like a diamond strand through beads of cherries}) that usually never get transcribed.]
Baballooning through Space-Time
The sky called to me, as it often does. So I answered, walking out into the open wheat fields with my shiny balloon-ball (“baballoon”). I could fly just as easily without it; I had been trained years ago. Sometimes I still like to take it with me just in case I hit some wild currents. The baballoon helps with steering and stabilizing, responding to currents with increased mass or increased central gravity that keeps me locked into it as the baballoon acts as a small vehicle. Today felt like the kind of day for wild rides.
My dark-haired, younger sister, a ghost of Alice Liddell, came out to greet me. Her orange-green, malachite-in-gold-dirt, iridescent baballoon contrasted my electric blue-pink, sunset-to-twilight baballoon. The winds picked up, and the wheat rolled like a golden ocean. There were no words between us, just smiles and nods as we mounted our baballoons and then shot off into the horizon.
We traveled our well-beaten path in the sky, over the wheat fields, beyond the neighboring towns, to the quarry and across the miles of woodlands. We hardly ventured much farther than the woodlands on the average baballoon ride. The thicket beyond, the jagged rocks, the old mountains, and the ancient ruins that all lay before the wild and turbulent Passion Ocean were all a bit daunting. We never saw that Ocean, only heard stories, old-wives tales about sailors that never returned, creatures that lived in the deep and voices released from the breaking waves that rode on the wind. Part of our caution was also due to the amount of daylight we had for traveling. Neither of us wanted to be stuck by that Ocean as the black of Night cloaked all. Who knows what happens there at Night. I do not dare tempt an angry Poseidon or his army of Tritones.
Today we moved swiftly. We reached the edge of the woodlands with plenty of daylight to spare. We lollygagged at the edge, bouncing in the sky apprehensively at the decision we knew we’d make. Without much exchanges or arguments we agreed to venture onward while the day was still young, far younger than we have ever seen it at this edge. Quickly we bolted forward, our baballoons like knives slicing through the sky. We passed the thicket of thorns and the jagged rocks in nearly a blink of an eye. Traveling so fast, it almost seemed like the journey had a purpose. Dodging the mountains proved to be an easier task than imagined. Traveling over the ruins, we could barely make sense of the desecrated clay walls and stone columns embedded in the sand. We arrived at the Ocean much sooner than we had originally anticipated. The sun was making its journey to the horizon again, but it still was rather high in the sky; we had several hours still to explore the Ocean.
We floated high above in the gray-blue sky, where the waves could not reach us. Seagulls and other sea birds flew about not too far from us; they talked amongst themselves while eyeing our presence. The waves were angry alright, twisting, crashing tubes and towers of dark green-gray angst. The white foam was the touch of beauty to this violent scene; they made beautiful patterns in the dark breaks. I found myself and my sister slowly lowering to get a closer look at the patterns. Were they words or messages? Were they fractal designs or images of the Ocean’s inhabitants? Why it was so important that we should know, I couldn’t tell you. Within only a few minutes we were at the top of the towering waves, the water licking our feet and splashing up to our knees. Our baballoons were almost buoys at the tops of the waves. And somehow, we slid down even further to greet more of the Ocean. Before long we realized that we were about to be “in it,” as the waves started dancing around us. They were no longer a friendly coax inward, but now a hungry push downward.
“We need to surf this,” I called to my sister. “It’s the only way we’ll be safe. We must ride the waves.”
I repositioned myself on my baballoon, and my sister mimicked me. “Ready?” The baballoon almost knew what to do. We sped down the waves almost effortlessly, which almost seemed to make it all the more terrifying. I realized that the baballoons were carrying us through this trial. We had to trust in them. It was as if they had a memory of the waves or else predicted the next movement of the water just before it occurred. I was immensely thankful to have my baballoon with me. My sister was having a bit of trouble. I kept yelling to her to “Let go! The baballoon will carry you. If you try to control it, you’ll be worse off.” Once she was able to relinquish her urge to control, her ride was smooth. What helped me let go to allow the baballoon total control was insane laughter in the face of my terror.
Shore was just ahead. The baballoons picked up speed, and before the waves broke on the shore, the baballoons lifted back into the air. My sister and I sat back down on our baballoons and floated quietly as we regained composure. My face was wet and wind-lashed, stinging from salt. My clothes were drenched and heavy. My breath was irregular but slowing as I watched in disbelief at our feat as the Ocean roared and writhed, pained by a missed meal.
We didn’t meditate on the shore long. Turning our backs to the Ocean, we headed off in another direction, to follow a different path home. As we moved through the sky at an even pace (though seemingly much slower than the pace to the Ocean), Time seemed to stand still. After traveling over and through some different scenery (Forests of Autumn, Dunes of Winter, Lakes of Spring), we realized that we were indeed traveling through Time. At this realization our speed of travel became strangely modulated. We whisked through seasons and years without stopping. We were no closer to home than we were on the shore. It seemed that we needed to make an arbitrary decision on When and Where to stop. Our baballoons would carry us where-ever and as long as we desired, but where we were headed was a Mystery to us.
Stir, stir…
So the bottom comes up
that passage
again.
Cows chew their own sick
Are you a cow, Dear?
No new channels are made.
Though the Self is fed the lines
that new channels
are a goal;
stir for the sake of stirring…
sediment rises with acid
and nowhere to go.
boot-eye-ship
Some things linger, tripping in the grooves of my gray matter. Two months of jumbled transmission; my spaceships keep jumping across the grids. My familiar likes space travel; he gets to play Navigator. Ghosts of my ships I can see out of the corners of my eyes (I often cannot keep track of them all.)
Eyes or ships?
What’s the difference?
It’s a term associated with subtraction.
My current boots have sub-traction. It is time for a new pair.
From the Horse's Mouth 
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