Paint Me A Picture

Writing Practice 7/5/2019 – Paint me a picture…

Paint me a picture of the sunset. Use red, and orange, and yellow, and sunflower, and orange-red, and burnt sienna, and pink, and pink-grey, and blend the colors together with the last few clouds of the day, and have them standing in stark contrast to the deepening blue of the sky, as the sun sinks lower, becomes larger, swells with its pride of having performed well for yet another day.

Streak the solid blue sky background with the white-blend-grey tops of clouds filling the vision, hanging there suspended as if on strings, or a scaffolding, fixed, waiting. Use the leftover melds of yellow-orange and orange-red and yellow-red-burnt sienna to color the undersides of the clouds, creating that stark contrast between day and night, below and above, the opposite of the way we normally think of the setup. Day is below the clouds, now, at sunset, as Sol has burned himself out once more, performed admirably yet again in bringing heat and power to the world, as she has given of herself to the surface, has divested herself of all that stored potential energy she has, and, instead of keeping it for herself, instead of maintaining herself on it, instead of restraint and inhibition, she has blessed us, with abundance, with abandon, and in so doing she has exhausted herself, like the fat sturgeon fighting the currents to get to her nesting station, as she has deposited her brood in their rightful place, as she, then exhausted, collapses under the weight of the biological urges within her, and dies, to drift back downstream in renewal and in anticipation, in foreshadowing the life of her offspring yet to come. She is the embodiment of self-sacrifice, of service, of giving of oneself for another, and we see the parallel in the sun in the way that she, too, like that mother full of futures, has been filled with our futures, our possibilities of the day, and she, in her infinite patience, has disgorged herself for us. Has given us of her energy, her power, her life-blood, so that we may live, and breath, and drive, and fuck, and we repay not but what we ineffectively, insufficiency, proclaim of her beauty when we write an essay such as this, when we paint a picture such as that, when we sing her praises, insufficiency, inadequately, imperfectly, yet, we still do, we say thank you, we appreciate all you do for us, we spend our time as we rest in the evening with gratitude on our lips and in our hearts and in our notebooks, and we, then, refill ourselves, even as Sol has gone away to fill herself one more, to drink of the eternal spring of Natural Refreshment, to be the way of renewal, to capture and store up, for us, to build up a huge, vibrant, dynamic reservoir of power, and warmth, and inspiration, that she, in her infinite patience and goodness and mercy, will, with the coming of the dawn, once again choose to bless us.

Writing Practice – 8/30/2018

Note – sometimes what comes out when I’m writing really surprises me. This was one of those times.

Myths of Origin, p 75

“Into my reverie bursts the Monkey, turning temple-creature with geometric arms full of sandwiches.”

His stadion radiates a semblance of perfectionary, the image wavers, as if through a desert haze, a mirage of reality, a thinning of the barrier between truth and imaginary. The Monkey, having by virtue of existence, earned his titular M, plays with his titular on the way out. He globules onto the permanence of spasmosticity, inventing new words and arrangements on old themes, transposing and transversing them as easily as a hot knife through ice cream, as deftly as a surgeon at the scalpel.

The MONKEY, monikered now with not only authority but also aggression, begins dismantling his sandwiches in front of me. He un-layers a top half-loaf of bread, then sets aside tomato, lettuce, sardines, a layer of mueslix, and the protein – goat’s tongue, ground up and stuffed inside the goat’s own intestine, flattened and seared so as to make a sandwich patty much like a sausage. I watch MONKEY with prurient interest, enamored with her thin, agile tail, golden and glowing in the moonslights, a reflection of a reflection of the original, and I marvel at the wonders of this universe which allows me to see twice-bounced photons as if the item itself luminesced.

I take off my robe to join MONKEY in its vulnerability. I wonder aloud whether it will join me once all the sandwiches have been autopsied, for that must be what zhir is doing, and therefore I must enjoy the moment, must appreciate the precision, the delicacy, the anticipation fo the coming feast.

So the sandwiches are bare, stripped, lying like skeletons in the moonslights, and I too am naked, flaccid penis hanging proudly down to my knees like so much goat-tongue sausage, before casing and cooking.

I watch MONKEY as it raises arms to the sky. It babbles in MONKEY-SPEAK, and yet my brain immediately translates.

“Bless the land. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the River. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the rain. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the wheat. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the crops. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the air. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the wind. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the Moons. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the Suns. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the humans. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the penis. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the seed. Bless the MONKEY.”

MONKEY drops its arms, takes me by the hand, leads me to the dismembered sandwiches. It stands me astride various piles, my left foot between lettuce and top bun, my right between sausage and bottom bun. MONKEY places a paw on my penis, begins to stroke. MONKEY and I begin the communion, the celebration, the fertilization, the joining of our fates together. My penis becomes erect. MONKEY strokes. It speaks again, but this time my brain allows the words to drift by, uncaptured, free, abandoned to the night.

The climax approaches. My breath comes short, my penis hardens, my pulse quickens. MONKEY strokes harder, intense, tighter. My pleasure maximizes, and I push through to the peak, to the orgasm, to the spilling of the seed, and it erupts out, launches across MONKEY’S PAW to land on lettuce, on tomato, on my foot and MONKEY’S tail, on the ground. MONKEY continues to stroke. To chant. To stare at my eyes. My penis recedes, becomes limp again – I back away when MONKEY releases me.

MONKEY dances atop the dissected ingredients, slick now with my seed, glittering in the moonlight, chanting to echo off the surrounding trees. MONKEY dances, I watch, the earth receives her worship, her spoils, her tribute, MONKEY dances, I retreat, disappear into the forest. MONKEY dances. MONKEY worships. MONKEY tributes. MONKEY lives.