He's Mighty Sure of Most Things

Most days the sun don't rise too high in the sky. From what I've seen, it ain't scared to come up any higher, it just knows it don't make not difference to the good people of Soshane, AU. Shoshane wasn't really made for sun. Wasn't really made for people either, but that's what sprung up there: people. It's not a hospitable kind of place. The sun kills everything around with its dry, hot kiss, and it's amazing just thinkin' that, how closely the two words kiss and kill seem to each other. They seem almost like they belong back to back, in the same sentence.

Well, anyway, that's just what the sun does. Those land whales? They do the rest. You ever seen a land whale? I don't suspect so. You look a little too white to be from anywhere that's not covered with a 3 foot wall of brick between you and the natural environment. Yes, the land whales. They'll sneak up on you, too, the suckers! They're quite as heck. Quieter than a turd glidin' in the ocean. How do they do it? I dunno. They just do it, and they git right behind you, and they suck you clean up into their nostrils and shoot you back down into their throat. And that's just how the party starts.

How do I know all this? I've been up my fair share of land whale nostrils. It's not pretty. But I've always survived because I'm constantly protected by what's hangin' here at my waist. No, not that thing. Probably could kill it with that too, but check this out. See? Pure, fine, razor sharp steel. It could cut through a thousand layers of whale bone, skin and cartilage without ever needing sharpened. Least that's what the maker of it said. I intend to find out if it's true. I been down in the belly of at least twenty of them long suckers.

So they're real quiet, get it? They kinda hover off the ground through some terrible, strange trick of gravity. So they don't slither on nothin' but air. Suck you up, shore as the day is dry, and into the belly you go. If you don't get suffocated in the esophagus first, that is. Those whales love to just snatch one of us tiny folks right up, and lodge us in their throat. Play with us for a while. It don't matter to them, none, cause they breath from any number of other holes. So they bat at us with finely tuned muscles in their throats. Try to layer us with mucous, and hope we get tired and give up. But not me. I got that blade, remember?

So I thrust it right up into their esophagus, and just glide my easy way down into their stomach. The blood's rushin' in fast, so I gotta get out of there before both stomach acid and blood kill my luck. I usually puncture the stomach closest to the bottom of the belly. To where their chest ends and their belly begins. That's closest to the ground, and best to use for quick escapes. You always get out of there quickly. Never know what's gonna happen. I made the mistake of takin' my time, causin' high levels of damage on my way out, but that's no good. They either swallow someone else who'll kill you for your knife, or suck a bunch of sand in, bury you alive.

So just get outta there. Stay outta there if you're smart. Live on the edge if you're not.

Don't get me started on them turtles...

Moments of Merry

Happily, happily, happily dance! With sunbleached arms and smooth underpants!

Happily, happily, happily sing! With throats all aflame with a spectacular note or something!

Merrily, merrily, merrily jog! Straight down the street, or through a thick bog!

Silly be, silly be, silly be, still! There's no greater thrill than an arm and leg twirl!

Hats in the air! Slaps in our steps! We wander the streets never needing thick maps!

The land of the mad, the isle of the crazed, we all wish we were sometimes this dazed.

Singer Spun of Strange Designs

It is true: some things once open, never again do close. And this is good, for they will never again lose their spark. They will never again forget themselves. It will be impossible to disempower what has so boldly stepped forward.

It begins with a thrusting of a needle, for she needs new clothes to wear. And they must be fashioned by her, they must be woven according to her own design. Once this is done, and the clothes are hung upon flesh and bone but cling to nothing, she will sit. It is there that she will sit for a good, long while. And while she sits, she will remain perfectly still. Still, until something occurs to her.

And then it will be melodies upon our ears that stand no chance of becoming outdated or inconsequential. She will make them out of her fancies, out of her dreams, and to life they will spring, and to her merriment they shall attend.

Until, until, until.

It Is Satisfactory to Speak Thusly

It is alright, little ones.

The moment of fear may yet come, but we are no longer bound by its inarticulate jargon and hapless phrasing. We know that we are becoming something. There is a definite path we are treading, though its course strays into that which is infinite and never ending. In many years we will surely be somewhere, so we need not collapse and point out the aimlessness of it all. Old pipes will carry the raw sewage out to sea (and to see), and there we will stand, at the end of one chosen course, and yet how much wiser do our yearnings become, to continue to awaken nostalgia and the need for a space of peace.

Already the wheels have turned, and thrust us into the day. We stand alert to some task, and giggle helplessly at some mad magician.

The odds are that we will make it. The odds are that we shall wiggle free from all binding and gesture forth with the truth of who we are.

One and one and one and one. Times fifty billion are the perspectives floating about. We shall take many. The one with faint blinders are worn as we speak from a stance beyond reproach, another pair dials in with hypersensitivity, which are worn with compulsion.

The key lies beyond the echoes of deep chamber hallways. Find it beyond each step, each breath, each malformed half-thought. It is in the perfection of an impulse. A very particular impulse; one which has the power to breach time and space and signal the unison marching continuously, stridently on.

It is more than sublime. It creates a preoccupation with itself and its beauty. It is not one bit selfish or musty, crusty or burnt with disgust. It is a culminating thing within us. It is a carrying on, it is a moving through. It is a profound development, and it is a playful curse. It cannot be spoken of in exactness. Its language is both laughter and tears, and it seeks an equal portion of each.

It is the balance which offers tranquility.

Away with wounded flesh! For it knows not even how to sew itself up. It would beseech you, as it scrambles through shallow, crystal clear water on its scabby hands and aching knees, that it has lost the tools for joymaking. It would allow all its intestines and bowels and insides to slide through the tiniest incision in the skin. All to the purpose of admitting weakness to facilitate the collection of sympathy. A being never needs be pitiful.

I insist on the quitting of the accumulation of pain.

CATS

It seems like forever since I gave away everything. I don't need much, so I gave it all away and moved to a back alley where plenty of stray cats and trashed magazines keep me company. And people, too, of course. I live in a city; there are people everywhere. It isn’t even just that there are people everywhere. It’s that they get into everything: your business, how you look, the pace of your walk, the flavor of your spit, whether your elbows feel rough. They dig into everything. 

It wasn’t until I started meeting the aforementioned cats that I really understood what was going on. First off, have you ever (cat owners, I’m talking to you) woke to the command of someone who was not you? Spouses, lovers, expert-gymnast-fornicators aside, who will wake you when you least expect it? Who wrests that dream of lazy, sliding-into-nothingness away from you? Cats. You know how and why? Mind control. They are not only limber, light footed, nosy and smelly infiltrators of households; they can inject your head with their thoughts. And you will be none the wiser. 

Ever wonder why you are doing the things you are doing lately? Ever wonder where those stray, tangential thoughts come from? See the word stray? It is time for you to know that cats run everything. For 60 years they have been refining their societal crafting skills. Sometimes they’ve screwed up big time. Vietnam? The cats were learning the ways of humanity during that one (it was also a conflict between rival cat factions). They learned there are consequences for their actions. But that doesn’t keep them from being so damned curious. They picked up after WWII when humans were most vulnerable. This led to easy infiltration of high public offices, but in no way did it keep them from fumbling their first power play. That was Vietnam. The Cold War was no great success either. We’re still in the middle of that one. 

That was a quick span of time told in a sickeningly swift paragraph. I apologize. But the menace is clear and we will not be spared if we do not wake up to what is going on around us.

 

Now, we are not uncomplicated beings. We are influenced by shit we do not even have a clue about. Thoughts, feelings and actions run like programs on our hard drives, and we cycle, cycle, cycle through them until we find some combination of keys that can be pressed to delete them forever. Or seemingly ever. 

Let’s have a word about life. It is magical. It is so magical, on such a dynamic and incredible way, that humans can trick themselves into believing that it could not ever, ever actually be magical. Humans can say, “fuck this” and , “I can’t stand this shit,” but really, they are hesitant to stop doing that thing they hate. They create such momentum of fear and convulsion and heavy, heavy flatulence, that they can no longer remember why they ever crawled out of the womb to begin with. Society changes only in a process of terrifying self-mutilation. The infrastructure is not built to change. Most of it is not. These are not new thoughts. One day it will bound joyfully from its shackles of consumption and waste. Today, as we may see some of the business model change, much of it has not. The infrastructure I mentioned was built to profit by. As such, it must sustain itself through our consumption of its product. So the needs are created and we consume. You know all this. But, again, life is magical. We make use of its magic either to delude and destroy ourselves or remember who we truly are. 

Cats are more aware of magic and its uses than we are. We have invited them into our homes, and we are oblivious as to how to defend against their wiles. Most cats need to be in the presence of the person they are manipulating, while to a select few, distance means nothing. These few are the ones controlling our national leaders from remote dens. They grow fat, lazy and distended, as the cats on the lower rungs of the hierarchy bring them sustenance and carry out the grunt work, controlling humans on a national, regional, state and even town and suburban level. They do it with their eyes. Those hypnotic spheres hide their foul intent. Ever wonder why you’ve immediately disliked someone? Peer beyond the surface and you will see and know that rival gangs of cats are carrying out their agendas through us. Wars have raged because of national den conflicts. They protect their territory because they are selfish. They cannot be blamed entirely. We too are selfish. But, you see, they are the ones who have seized control. Cats have been mobilized for decades, humanity has been sedated into oblivion, and though there are clashes between national and regional dens, they are always loyal to the group they were at birth assigned to. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an alley to prepare for nightfall. 

Trust the way of the winds. For they will carry your message onward. 

Who Shall We Be to Each Other?

Ask the question intuitively and in each moment. For we will not know until the end. Within the essence of choice lies intuition. It is available in every moment and comes without question, though it may have one to pose or resolve. 

Will you dare to knock on the door of Life? Will you demand entry and will you seek that which only lies within? The tools are available, the mission is clear. There is no path but onwards, there are no seeds but what are daily sown. There is always knowing there is more. There is higher and there is farther. But there is also much right where you are today. In every moment an infinity, of course. 

Here lies the way.

Along This Sojourn

Beauty, in all its forms, never topples, never falls. It never trembles with reluctance and it never apologizes. It speaks boldly, often quietly. It does not age, it does not regret. It surges forward like a tidal wave. It does not stop. It only looks ahead, and it will not ever limit itself. For you are beautiful. You are not these words. You are beyond the speaking of any phrase or description. 

She offers it up, and whispers a goodbye. 

Ah, "so long" is said at last. It will not be long until we meet again. You seek the silence, and you answer its hidden melody. It is here. It is with you. And you are not alone. Great Loves and great Lives have answered the call. To be most humorous in your travels. To be most light upon your step and yet fully aware. Be brave. Be bold. And paint what your heart is made of. Fire and blood and flesh filled with fuel like a rocket. See how the days pass like that. 

The message is not in the words.