The Aural Adventures of Sir Edgemond Almond

Overriding anger and lust ripped through the loins of Sir Edgemond Almond. He had never known this sort of rage. He had desired this for so long. And now he is sure to be deprived of it. On the bed in front of him, what he loved so dearly from afar, was now dead. He tapped her noggin just to be sure. Hmmm. He had not imagined her noggin would sound like that upon tapping. What a spacious, resonant sound it produced. He tapped again. Could it be even more resonant than the first time? She is quite dead, but wow, that is a sparkling percussive sound, he thought.

Again he began to mourn. Oh, he sobbed for the times he'd dreamed they'd have, but never would now realize. Hope was abandoned. He was shaken to the core, and a bitterness took hold. Sir Edgemond Almond's knees buckled, and his left hand fell uncontrollably upon her right breast, which in turn emitted a springy, playful, splashing sound. Edgemond recoiled in horror. He wondered at the sound. What was that again? He re imagined it in his mind, but felt there was something missing. What was that extra aural texture? I can't, he thought. He braced his hands behind his back. I shouldn't, he mumbled. Ohhh, that sound.

"I MUST!" he shouted, and gave her right breast a powerful slap. There it was! More springy and more playful than before. It sounded as if he had just jumped off the edge of a cliff and did a perfect, stinging bellyflop into the water below. He almost felt the sting, as he remembered trying that maneuver quite painfully before.

"I wonder," said Edgemond as he gazed at her nose. He reached over. Hovered for a moment, and the flicked it. The clearest, most brazen trumpet fanfare issued from her ears. Edgemond was entranced. All his life he desired to be a musician. Father said absolutely not and ordered him finance classes at the King's Castle Night School. His mother was helpless when he asked her for direction.

Back from his daydream, music suddenly edged its way into his consciousness. Glorious, rhythmic, resonant music! His hands began to twitch. His arms became wobbly. His neck was bent towards his dead love. His eyes bulged. His legs bent. They gave way. Instead of dropping to the floor, his reflexes kicked in a reversed the fall. Legs solidified and pushed with a mighty exertion. Arms shot into the air. His body left the ground. Soaring high, he saw what was about to occur.

SLAM! WIZZOOT! BLAROOOOMM! TING TING! He landed on the dead woman. A symphonic blare resulted from the collision. Edgemond was now in hysterics. Control of his limbs could not be seized. Flailing, flailing, he attacked the poor corpse and the most contrasting, complex and strangely beautiful music followed. An entire orchestra could do no better than Edgemond did for a few short minutes.

The servants who opened the door and saw the phenomenal occurrence were entranced by the music but somehow found a way to remove Edgemond and place him in the castle's prison. He faced execution for the murder of the princess, and he could not convince them otherwise.

On the way to his head slicing appointment, Edgemond fondly replayed that glorious tune his love had produced. Halfway through its remembrance, it again seized control of his physical contractions, and his arms broke free from his shackles, and he slapped all those around him so silly that they could not react, nor stop him from bounding away. He skipped off. Away from the axe, away from the crowd, away from his demise.

I've heard tell that in a certain woodland, if you play a resonant drum just right, as the princess' right breast had been accidentally played, you can incite the outburst of Sir Edgemond Almond. He will grace you with such a majestic aural experience, that you are not likely to survive it, unless you have climbed a particularly sturdy tree. Please remember to do this if you try.

The Muddly Undergrowth

She bought her status with kind favors done to others. Nevermind what she really wanted. She is a tragedy of loneliness. Of a bit of despair. You don't see it on the outside. On the outside she's loud, clear and engaging. But on the inside she needs. Needs the thing that tells her yes. The sign from a friend that she is fine and needn't buy the luck of the day. She has herself, which she carries across the distance, but she hasn't found it to be a worthy vessel. How could she not? She has forgotten so much that many moments are undecided and torturous. She sits in herself unsure. Waiting to know. Not knowing still. If she catches a quick smile, she's encouraged, but of course it's not enough. She hasn't found what is within that sparks all lights. She hasn't found that place of steady gaze and realization. She has found much, and there is much still to find. She is not truly lost. She simply has to remember. And sometimes she needs help. She will do it alone, but she needs now and again a poke from the outside to remark upon what she has builded. They are not weak, these fibers she has woven. Appearances are not all to see about them. She has the onward glance and only needs to find that yes that is within. Onward is the only direction. She knows, and she will find.

Hills be praised.

Even the winds are dashed to bits by what comes.

I guess she was too busy eating moist grapes from a plastic baggie to notice the destruction of the entire world that was going on right before her eyes. All she knew was the seedless wonder that was enrapturing her taste buds. Perhaps if she held one in her open mouth, on her tongue, with the sun's rays shining to the top of it, she could make half a raisin. Or perhaps she would run out and begin to notice what was going on around her. Everyone running and crying and calling names. Names. Naming names that no longer had relevance. There was simply the person next to you, friend or foe. The squirrels still danced for her though. They still knew the spirit of fun. She imagined how she would play with them if she was a squirrel. Her tail would be quite bushy and swift. The breeze would run through it and straighten it out, while she would flick it to make a singular pattern in the wind.

She would also tell her boyfriend to do the dishes. Where has he been the last few days? Why hasn't he called. He knows of the destruction of the world, and he is preparing himself accordingly. He cannot dote too much on her these days. But she is not an idiot. She just doesn't know yet. She will. She will help a great many people, and will know just what to do. She has courage in times of crisis that outstrips all reason or necessity. She will find that man in the bar, huddling and crooning for drinks, and tell him to go home and visit with his wife. Things are so temporary, and imagine if he did not do what was in his heart. If he did not give the care he ought to. If he stopped looking after his own troubles. If he looked outside himself. Looked with wonder, then he would find something.

It's never too late.

Trader Joe's

He saw an easy smile rove onto her face. Boy was he glad for that. She had sunglasses on, long brunette hair and looked absolutely buoyant and stunning. Too clinical a description, perhaps. Buoyant works well to address all aspects. What was the joke that made her laugh? She bagged her own groceries, which was terrific synergy for him. He wonders...And then he is silent. Well within himself and wondering. Wishing, perhaps. Hoping for a time that is not today. He has impressed as much as he could. He cannot pursue further. Now he looks quite serious at this thought. And there he is. He gives her her change. No hint of further interest from him. He wants to give it, but again, he finds that this is not the place. It's ok. She looks a marvel. Next customer, please.

Keep what you've got while you're young. Hopefully there is unconditional love to be had. When it is just you and you have learned many things of life, it will be different. A mother can love no one like her son. Who becomes her husband and was her lover must get used to this. Love must have its ups and downs and must sit a while without seeming to be there at all. Devoted to her son. What a statement. She was devoted to his nurturing, his growth. All that was her went to him. Flowed to him in a wave that came from the mighty ocean. It takes hindsight to see this. All her attention, all her patience. If you want to test a woman's might, see her raise a child. See her raise it with care and concern. See her in the process she must endure to teach them. The wonder as to whether she leads them wrong or just right.

I saw a woman and her concern as to how she ought to direct her child's behavior. It was beautiful. She cares so much. Loves so deeply. These little men and women we see brought about. It takes such strength to grow and help grow.

So don't miss a moment. Take the time now. See the richness of life. See it in those who brought us here and those we meet for a while. Keep the wonder of a child even with all the experience you gain.

Life is very very short. There are landmarks along the way. We hit all those and then we pass. And then what have we done? Let us say we've done something marvelous. Whether with someone or without. Perhaps we get to share and perhaps the greatest part of ourselves never reaches another.

But let all things show. Let all things be true. Let it be known that what you think and what you do is yours. Very often those who say no to you have no right to stop you from what you seek or what you love. They don't know you.

In the exploration of things, reach for what you need with eyes fully closed. Your fingers know the way. That which is deepest in you and loves what comes and all that is. Observe the silent observer taking notes.

Listen to Chopin.

I am an Ant Hill Farmer

I'll grow it all just right and then tear it all apart. For what should not be torn that is fully grown? Should the earth not be eroded to expose what lies beneath? Should the flower stay always in bloom, so as not to challenge the supremacy of life? Or shall it rise majestically and then die in full view, with no vanity to save. The grass shall take the harshest heat and then be laid anew. Things will die in the most heroic fashion, and then they will remember that they have no business staying brave. It was for the moment and it has extended itself quite enough for one day. But there are other moments of course. All things done and then all things laid to rest. All things builded, and then all things back down again.

The juice squeezed from all the lovely fruit. Straight into the mouth for quick consumption. There is no waste in nature.

A quick comment builded within goes any of a million ways.

A dog has no business staying hungry, and every once in a while, it's time to say goodnight for far too long.

No Desperate Tango

Captain Jiggle-Wobble stood quietly for a moment. The phrase "it's now or never" echoed from all corners of his mind. He nodded. His eyes flashed alert.

"Goodbye, Stevens," Captain Jiggle-Wobble said.
"Good luck, Sir."

Captain Jiggle-Wobble leaped. And splashed, and sank deep. He could see her from above, but now that he was in the water, he wasn't quite sure where she had gone. He had enough of looking about, so he decided the only way to begin was to pick a direction. Right meant north east. Go.

As he swam, he remembered what was. She had never really cared for his career. He never knew why. He asked and asked and asked, but the response he got never sounded quite true. He inferred as best he could, but how can he know for sure?

Deeper and deeper he plodded. More north, more east. Maybe it was because he had to leave her alone so often. Why wouldn't she like some time to herself? He always came back with a gift and a song, and great, big, wide loving, but he could see now that it wasn't what she wanted, needed. She just needed him. Not the job. Not the income. She would take him as an accountant, but he could not take himself as such. So he did and lived for himself. Accommodating her as best he could. And how he loved her. He needs never speak of how much, for it was evident.

It was getting much darker now. His sharp eyes couldn't make out the ocean life around him except for subtle images darting by. He felt the disturbance in the ocean around him that they caused. And by that he knew their type. Lots of angelfish.

He turned on the light attached to his headgear. So vast and so deep. His thoughts were the only predator he saw. The questions "why", and "what can be done?" The answer is: "We'll see."

Of course he knows he end already. He's just trying to set the waking world straight. He needs the body, and the body needs a place to rest. Isn't down here good enough? Maybe, he thought, but he needs to see. He needs to do what he can for her, and not leave her alone anymore. He would never have abandoned her like this.

She was absolutely wonderful. In all ways. A few dark corners here and there as we all possess and guard, but she was as perfect as he knew anyone to be.

"Have you found her, Sir?" Captain Jiggle-Wobble spasmed slightly from the harsh interruption.
"No, Seabird."
"Are you cold?"
"Fucking freezing."
"Sir, I'm more than willing..."
"Thank you, Seabird."
"Yes, Sir."
"Goodbye."

There was really no need for communication down here.

He knew her by her hair, and that is what he saw first. Long black hair so smooth that at sight, he could feel it against his neck as he would while they embraced. He just allowed himself to sink, staring at her. His beam illuminating all her features that had now grown slightly dark. Never a careful embrace. Always a bit of a fling into the arms of the other. He loved that about her. She never held back from contact. She was so generous in many ways. He sank and was pulled towards her by some current. He didn't want to go closer. He could see all the ways she died. With pain, with struggle, with agony, with unwillingness. And yet he was inched forward. He fought for a moment, then touched where his breathing apparatus reached his mouth. It is only moments away in this environment.

"Seabird." He engaged his com.
"Yes sir."
"Go home."
"Sir, permission to speak my mind?"
"Once."
"I'll help you carry her up."
"No."
"If you'll please let me..."
"Seabird."
"Sir?"
"It seems there's a whole world above and below me. I'm not going to leave. I'm going to take it in."
"I'll make your name grand, Sir. You've done a lot that needs remembering."
"I only remember some of it. Shoulda kept better records."
"We carry on, Sir."

Captain released the com and was staring into the eyes of his wife. The impossibility of life and response is terrifying. He felt her hand through his suit. Too far removed. He sat on the bit of reef next to her. Hoped to see what she saw. Still, just a few fish and a lot of nothing. Specks floating. She wouldn't have even seen this far down. Death takes hold so quickly hear.

He imagined she would have been quite happy had they borne a child. He could see how her eyes would have lit and stayed aflame for so long. Even the tough parts would not phase them. And they would have done it together. Every inch of it. They would have flown as far as they could.

He cupped her head. Raised it a bit. Body was so rigid her upper half moved with it. He set her back down.

She was the only thing that died in all the ocean that night. He left her there and followed the remains of his dreams.

The Cannibal Who Only Ate Himself

He does it slowly, of course, because he does not want to die today. He does not know when he wants to die. He doesn't want to die at all. He just loves the taste of his own skin. The soft tear as it parts from his body. He especially loves the area around his navel. He saves that for lonely Saturday nights. He lights a few candles in anticipation of the time alone. He reads some poetry, and then he dines.

Because he never eats his entire self, he gets the rest of his sustenance from fish he catches himself. Fish oil makes his skin so smooth. He cannot remember when he started this habit. It was when he was young. Perhaps born of a nervous tendency to bite the skin around his fingernails. At age 6, on a Thursday in January 1980, he tripped while finishing the stairs without the aid of a light. Down he went, and off came the tip of his tongue. The tip stayed in his mouth and was accidentally swallowed and even more accidentally, enjoyed. If he had hair on the part of his body he wished to snack from, he always shaved it. Even to cannibals, hair is disgusting on food.

One day he ate too much, and yelped, "Great Scott, I'm going to pass!" And he did.

Found

I lay down my arms. The Battle is over. No one has won, I don't think. I see them all leaving. I do. The ones lying on the ground. I hear their last breath. It is a whisper of a plea. It should be a shout. It should have yelled, "Stop!" long ago. But it didn't. And it couldn't. Only on the brink can we see such truths. Only when faced with the conclusion can the summation of life seem so clear, so pointed.

I kick the rusty rifle out of my sight to the left. I take a few steps. I am bent, almost to fall. But I must see, and I must understand. Not being on the brink, I grow old with worry. I have not lost, and I will not claim a victory. I will not face this sight again. One more exhale, and I might seek my last. But wait. There is still something else. In the air. One moment please. One moment, wait, you fallen foes, friends. It is I who feel alone, not you. It is I, in the space you have left. Cross legged sitting takes a load off.

The winds have won this time. They would not claim this land, but to ceaselessly wear on it. To carry us messages. Of delight, of change. It would occupy our hearts, and bring to us what is strange. But man would rule. And we can rule nothing now. If there is no one left, then I shall die alone. If there is one person found, then we shall see.

With eyes opened up, there is only straight ahead. A newness to this land. A freshness to the soil. Many years after all bodies have been claimed. A broad expanse, with only bright hills to eclipse a perfect horizon.

The way we walk, no one shall talk. We are past the time of speech. We are on to different things. Things more evenly shared. We are now meeting the day. If we stood hand in hand and arm in arm, there'd still be nothing to speak. The quiet eludes to something greater. The heart anticipates this, you see. It knows, and it waits. It is not ashamed.

Again we ride. Less narrowly than before. We cross all unclaimed fields. The paths are beaten right.

Into mist we all dissolve. And then we meet one end. And then we shall see.

It only takes one dance to start the revolution.

Be aware, they do stand in awe of your talent, though they speak it not. Their minds are wrapped in other matters. Your beauty makes them pause. They find it so lovely. But they must quickly move on. Something impels them further. So stick to your truth. Your way of finding out. And follow those byways, they never confuse themselves to be the only path to truth, they know they are one of many ways.

Above all, above all, above all. SING.

The Spread of Tragic Destiny

No matter the tragic way, in which one may start the day, it is helpful to know, there's a way to let it show. You may show it blankly, or show it fully, but please do not lie about it. Lies only spread the tragedy further.

If your way of life has burned down, rebuild. But not today. Leave today to gather the rubble. Sift through what remains. Take a look at what has been left. How could I have forgotten this person? Where did this picture come from? I had forgotten all about her! And then your rebuilding efforts will come from this. You have remembered. And it is time to start anew.

If something hurts and breaks your spirit, sit a spell. You may find yourself remembering it in detail. Building it within your heart only to feel it breaking again. It will not break completely. Or perhaps it has. And now you are left with, again, pieces. But the pieces hold a strength together or apart. The spirit is broken, but all is well, all is well. Sit a minute and replan. Is revenge on your mind? Ok. Let it be. But let the new plan stake out a new direction. Wherever shall we go? It is one thing we have: the ability to find out. To be unaware and yet try that thing. The options are limitless, and let them be fresh. You will not sit and wait for certain madness to sink in. Just set out and walk, once it's quiet again.

If the whole land has erupted with pain and displeasure, watch from some point. If animals lose their beauty and one day rebel, think of them as they are. Point by point we cover this plane. Clouds roll on by.

Each one of us will hear the music of a heart torn symphony. We will walk to it for a while. It will possess us in our walk. It will carry us when we stop. But it will not cease its music. It will evolve, yet be as it always was.

Remember that a friendly path is to follow.

Those days and nights so strong, within them we do belong.

The Isolationist's Regime

Every one to a quarter. Sun up, sun down. In your place. Next to many but seeing no one. Of course you have a place to sit. A white bed with white sheets to take your rest. Maybe a table if you are inclined to write. Notebooks will be provided. Restrooms will not be needed. A single white bulb hangs from above. It will not need replacing. Food will be provided in specific form and quality to ensure time alone is kept.

Every hour on the hour a cautious melody will be heard by all. Separate, but together. You are allowed to hum, but whistling is not permitted. Tapping on the walls in rhythm is also not permitted and will be promptly discouraged. Communication is irrelevant. If you need to speak to someone, a cassette recorder will be provided. Speak your words and drop it in your out slot. It will be picked up and listened to. Expect no response.

You have your memories. You can remember it all. A fond nostalgia keeps the heart alive. Suggestions of memories specific to each individual will be provided to aid your efforts. Memory can be quite vivid.

If you have questions, you may ask them. If you have songs, you can sing them to the quiet. You may find that it becomes a soulful quiet. You may find it disturbing. All emotions are predictable and quite understandable. All equals all.

A label of possible exits will be provided. In contrast to your surroundings, you may begin to believe there is a way out. Each label will be different. The distances to the exits will be different. How do you think you would react to that?

Perhaps you will find no reason to react. There will just be a space of quiet. Which is all you really need anyway. Sustenance is taken care of. The days remain yours.

The mind is the way, it leads for today.

And in a way, there's more to say

Isn't the idea of a home such a weird one?

Like there's always some place you're from, and always some place you have to get back to. You have a limited time to wander, and then it's back to where it's safe. Otherwise, what? We'd wander around and then go where?

There's a true identity to the reality of things. Why does someone act the way they do? Because this is how they are and this is how they see the world. It's all so predictable. Behavior patterns.

A Strategic Walk to an Internal Clock

Have you ever walked a certain way you knew you'd never walked again? Moved a certain way, and thought, I'd like to have that back? I take back all the times I shuffled down the block, and wish to exchange them for one moment of merry dancing in my hallway, late at night.

If twice around the block you sniff the same rose, and twice you sense it strong, then perhaps it's time to plant your own, to have the stimulus nearby. But if once you sense it strong, and once you sense it weak, think not that it does not enter you. It is that simply too much has entered you. Too much for your nose to take. It has been overwhelmed by sense and mandates a break.

So, with your cooperation, we will twice begin the day. Once early, to catch the full dawn, and the second time shortly after when the news of all that is creeps in and the day scatters and grows.

And there is not one other thing to think. Not one other thing. For at least an hour. You are on the cutting edge of time and space. On the brink of what is becoming. So here we pause, and here we rest. What comes next is of the moment and to be trusted.