tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53104723804602370522023-11-16T09:48:22.257-08:00The Secrets Are EverywhereAn exploration of the phenomenal world through the lens of ancient esoteric knowledge.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.comBlogger275125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-76935783550231370972017-11-11T23:22:00.000-08:002017-11-11T23:22:57.376-08:00Winds from Four Corners<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</xml><![endif]-->I am very hard to see, as delicate as a dandelion puff. I
struggle against the ferocious gusts that have been coming in increasing
cycles. They started off gently, almost like a tickle against my skin, but now
there is no denying their rampages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I can see yellow sloping hills in the distance, speckled
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visible in the distance. It is slate colored and seems locked in place, as
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I still linger in the walls and carpets, holding on to the
orange mug in the cabinet, the books that line the shelves of my room. The twisted
blankets of the bed hold my smell. I recognize it all. I know every dusty, neglected
corner. The contents of every drawer, the waft lavender from the closet
sachets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hold on to the house with open arms, large enough that I
can fit it all within my grasp. Every paper and stray hair, I hold. I cling,
cling as tightly as I can, against the current. <br />
What is it that is on top of me? That light, that heat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those gusts which don’t seem to move a tree
canopy in any direction, and yet they spiral around me, coming towards me from
every angle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
And then I feel it inside, rolling, tossing what I know, shattering those
memories of silverware and linen drawers. The dreams that fill countless
notebooks, it all spills outwards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bursts of hot energy light up in different directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t go there, don’t step outside the
lines,” I think. I bury my face in the clothes of my top dresser drawer, smelling
the sun. I look for the cat that once hid in the laundry room and can find not
a piece of fluff. Colorful patterns emerge as I look up, letting myself cry. Beneath
the layers that connect me to a certain gender, I feel a violent stab of
spiraling currents.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel a dozen pairs of eyes, moving slowly up the street.
They pass the house, in unison taking in the wooden tiles of the roof, the red
geraniums beside the front door, the white curtains in the downstairs windows.
They are here, taking me in. <br />
Then I start to move. I can resist no longer. <br />
I follow them for a while, then become entangled in the shifting winds. North,
south, east west, they come at once, enclosing me in intangible threads,
finding the hidden knot where my eyes meet. <br />
Matter becomes a dancing cloud.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I press on the door. I can hear my own voice fading,
descending. Everything pushed up from below. <br />
The labyrinth emerges, whole, reflecting the cosmos. <br />
And then I see it is not a reflection. <br />
The door falls and I hear a familiar voice, not my own. <br />
There is a change of self, a vortex, and the center of it all dissolves.</div>
Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-92063543238111729112016-08-08T19:30:00.000-07:002016-08-08T19:30:07.400-07:00Rewire<div style="text-align: center;">
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
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habit </div>
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relationship to song</div>
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hit</div>
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bop</div>
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habit </div>
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habit</div>
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rewire the relationship</div>
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to father</div>
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to satan</div>
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change</div>
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change</div>
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energy resides <br />
in the change</div>
Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-60247545941212663472016-06-16T22:17:00.000-07:002016-06-16T22:17:50.815-07:00Trace The Lines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<![endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
try to trace the lines back</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
night was dark</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Purple</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Without
stars</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Do
you know what I mean?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">My
body was twisted </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">and
formed of clay and pale powder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Thrown
into the air </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">and
endless rolling hillsides.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
try to trace the lines back</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Red
and white lights </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">streaked
below the bridge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Veins
that carry flesh, soul, meaning. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
peek out from a blanket of forgetfulness, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">stretching
from California to Arizona.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Catch
the road, straight and black.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Look
for a star.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
try to trace the lines back</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Somebody
was there</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">a mirror</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">just
past the shabby brick building.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
dismissed the thought</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Curious,
slashing in the wind, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">those
elements tangled me in color,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">leading
me to desolate places </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">surrounded
by water </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">and
black carrion birds.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
try to trace the lines back</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There
was a fluttering hand</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">the
ropes of my bondage cut into me</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">the
sound of an animal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
am carried home unto awakening</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">can
see forever in every direction</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
try to trace the lines back</span></div>
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cannot remember</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
cannot remember what I was </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
cannot remember </span></div>
Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-15607396763676675272014-08-20T02:05:00.000-07:002014-08-20T02:05:04.297-07:00Entrance of the Myth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />A single cell took what was there, what was let in through the wet portal that led in and out of the world. And we could not know which was which, what was where, who was what. The world, the very concept implied a particular destination and place we had formed with fixed lines and edges. And here the signifier broke down and assumed its nebulous shape. <br />The boundaries could be defined by skin, but that was much too simple, too primitive a barrier when we could so easily see the flowing channels of neon green and pink, and then deeper still to the level of molecules and atoms so we could know, for just a moment, so we could see, just for a moment, that the shape and skin and thing itself did not exist, that our perception of it, of phenomena itself, was an illusion to which we all passively subscribed. <br />As that single cell accepted what was taken, as the message was sent, the myth penetrated that great boundary separating blood from air. It spread quickly, though time no longer seemed to be passing. God was here now, flowing through and around us, sprinkling seeds. And we flowered. I journeyed down the tunnel, petals and petals unfolding before me so that I could reach out and see the lines in their electric state.<br />Spain and the hot plazas spewing yellow and gold lights, blood red roses and softness, black shiny hair and pale skin and polka dots. Shiny blue cars riding low to the ground, graffiti and rainbow colors on the forgotten cement walls of our urban systems. Dark forests and hairy creeping creatures, dancing, moving, fucking. Deep and dark, raw sex without restraint. <br />The myth was a secret where we teetered on the edge with neon shapes and candlelight, marking the boundaries where the gods came and entered.<br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-19628769363516777002014-06-14T22:28:00.001-07:002014-06-14T22:28:45.016-07:00Questions For A Sunday Afternoon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is a simple choice<br />one of gray, with fingers of red and black.<br /><br />There is a simple choice <br />which I ponder, which I let roll over my tongue like goo and<br />the delicate noise of percussive vocalization.<br /><br />There is a simple choice, <br />but it is no choice <br />simply because I cannot understand the alternatives<br />not with the parts of me that wander out windows <br />and stare at the bright lights of coming trains.<br /><br />What can a choice be <br />when I do not see it laid before me <br />on a platter of shiny silver edged in delicate floral patterns?<br /><br />Here there are vultures.<br />Here there are laws where the civilized go to worship<br />where the chant echoes hollow on stone walls<br />where books are torn and stomped under an army of bare feet outlined in black ash.<br /><br />Worship comes in all forms<br />All contortions.<br />I have thought it is for the faint of thought<br />for the weak of body<br />for the stubborn of mind.<br />I am no longer sure of it <br />as I sit on the edge of a plump bed, <br />words dripping off the edge of my tongue, <br />the sticky semen of civilization.<br /><br />Thought is not without consequence.<br />This we have known for far too long.<br />There are places with cages,<br />rooms without windows and touch,<br />procedures with complicated names <br />that kill the part of flesh still seeking <br />the colored fractals of knowledge.<br /><br />There are the rooms in which I have hidden.<br />Rivers crossed which cannot be undone.<br />I have made the choice,<br />There is only one.<br /><br />Stars are out there <br />deep in the black of beyond,<br />I can feel them through the walls,<br />can sense their death long before I came to be here.<br />The moon pushes parts of me onward, <br />how can I say no?<br />Such a pretty light cannot be ignored, <br />not by one as romantic as I.<br />I will follow the waves,<br />waters need no words,<br />each crash is a sentence, <br />a communication beyond symbols and fixed meaning.<br />It is sometimes sex,<br />a thunderous pounding.<br />It is sometimes red<br />And soft like petals.<br />Sometimes roaring or delicate in its nuanced fragrance.<br />We can never tell, <br />and I do not try and understand.<br /><br />Can it happen here?<br />In this place<br />under this lamp<br />in<br />this<br />book <br /><br />In this collection of clutter and mass breathing?<br /><br />For now, the questions await unanswered, wavering in the darkness like flags forgotten.<br />What can words communicate more than a slippery tongue?<br />I will take my chances on the pile of stones.<br /><br />I have arrived at the place for mindless wandering, <br />I have come often.<br />Naked, alone, scared beyond comprehension. <br />I return.<br /><br />There is but one simple choice, <br />though I laugh, sitting here on this plump end of a bed.<br />Laugh, knowing it is not without its temptations.<br /><br />This is for all of the moons that have passed<br />in this country of falsities, <br />of missed turns and rounded corners<br />the devil hides among the faithful<br />the heathens rarely bury their young.</center>
Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-84092928938750544122013-11-19T23:01:00.000-08:002013-11-19T23:01:21.266-08:00For Something Else<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My heart started beating when I realized my turn to speak was coming up, a kind of pounding right in the center of my chest that lightly echoed in a full body reverberation. The dj, wearing a vest made of sheet music, looked towards me, microphone in hand. In a deep, practiced voice, he said: <br />“Now a few words from the sister of the bride and Desiree, the sister of the groom.” <br />My body reacted and I stood up. I walked towards him, reached for the mic and waited as Desiree took her place beside me. The mic was slightly warm in my grip. <br />I stood there, looking first at my sister on my left, sitting in an off the shoulder white dress at a small table just for two, her husband next to her. I looked into the crowd of people, sitting behind plates of food and half filled wine glasses. Some of them I knew from childhood, others were still strangers. <br />I looked into them, but did not really see them, not as individuals, not even like people. They were a mass of energy and even though they appeared as human shapes, my perception went past that simple quality. <br />I took a breath, my body somehow relaxing on its own without brain intervention. I looked at the groom, sitting in a suit and jacket beside my sister. <br />I opened my mouth and got exactly three words out before the fourth caught in my throat. I was immediately surprised by it, hearing it from a stranger’s perspective even though it came out of me. My years of training moved through me in that moment as I calmly kept going, speaking slowly enough for the words to move through me, a vessel talking to the great pulsating mass that went beyond us. <br /><br />Later I understood that my sister wanted a party, a real party with dancing and energy. It was then I understood, it was then I decided that I would be that party. I would be the dancing body, I would help her create that invocation. <br />The only way to make a party is to be a party. I wiggled and jumped to rap. I bounced and sang to early 90s hip hop. I gathered my chiffon skirt up and did some grinding to Justin Timberlake. <br />We were on a patio, just steps from the ocean waters now black under the night sky. Between us and the ocean was a cement promenade, even at night there were people walking by. I realized we were on display, the dancers, the people standing on the sidelines grabbing drinks at the bar, the older couples standing against the cement ledge, we were all on display and I let myself be a spectacle, giving up self conscious thoughts about what the three black guys thought of us dancing to Tupac or what the couple walking hand in hand perceived as they saw us dancing in a circle around the bride and groom. I flowed into the pure ritual of it, allowing myself to be a dancer, a singer of repeated tunes, a sister of the bride, a wild invocant mixing tribal movements and fist pumping and flamenco to “I like big butts and I cannot lie…”<br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-41581594477053737172013-10-22T22:46:00.001-07:002013-10-22T22:46:57.306-07:00The Last Painting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I remember the last painting he ever made. The colors, the memory of its creation, its absence from the walls of the family home haunt me and often come to me in fragmented thoughts and dreams that rise from the black and green pools of unconscious thought and find my waking mind like water drawn to the surface of a desert by some miraculous force. <br />I wonder how much of his life, how much of my life was reflected in that paint, in the colors and shapes he brought into existence. How much of it was a blueprint for what was to come, the tea leaves of a man brought to vibrant life by his own hands, delicately choosing the brush thickness and pigments that would forever remain, at least in my thoughts. <br /><br />The metal easel was set up in the corner of our large, light filled patio, my red child’s size easel was close to his…papa bear and baby side by side. The homeowners before us had added the patio and we used it for birthday parties and occasional grilling and for some time, perhaps years, I don’t remember exactly, an art studio. <br />The walls extended just to hip height, above that it was windows to the ceiling. In the right hand corner, just off from the sliding glass door which led to the formal living room, was a world of paint and chemicals in small metal canisters with thumbprints over them in red and black and mixtures of the rainbow. <br />Our large table he had made of an old wooden door that had been left in the garage and it was held horizontally by two wooden legs he had also made, using crude and rough lumber. Serving as a thick six foot table, he pushed it against the wall which faced the wooden deck. <br /><br />In the corner, to the left of the table, were the easels, directly facing the blue pool just beyond the windows. He arranged his years of collected supplies in a methodical way along the back edges of the table. <br />Towards the middle were old jars in a variety of shapes and sizes which held the brushes. There seemed to me every size and option, thick-handled ones of smooth wood with a thick bunch of hairs at the end, other more dainty, with thin handles and perfectly pointed tips meant for delicate line work. Others had bristles in the shape of thin fans and there were dozens of other brushes, each designed for a particular purpose. <br />To the right of the jars and brushes were the chemicals; turpentine and paint thinner and half a dozen others I never bothered to learn. Beside them were empty jars to use during cleaning and a small pile of rags meant to wipe off paint and solution, though I ruined many of his brushes by neglecting this crucial step.<br />Along the back left side of the table were a mountain of white tubes, each one with a strip of color at the top which promised the containment of vibrant oil paint in every shade imaginable. <br /><br />I knew he had been a painter, the walls of our living room attested to that. There were several rich and moody paintings of surreal shapes and people, the subjects of which seemed barely real. There was an aesthetic about his work that seemed to favor particular colors, or particular shapes of particular colors; he loved maroon, black, green and orange and touches of white for shading. <br />But though I knew he had been a painter, I had never seen him paint until the day he began his last.<br /><br />The canvas on the easel went through a series of changes, I watched from my seat on the couch just past the other set of double sliding glass doors which led to the informal living room as he applied the first layer of white gesso, then later above it a background of dark green and black. He used the fine edge of his palette knife to push the paint on the canvas, the effect creating simultaneously smooth strokes with slightly thicker edges, all of which made subtle mixed textures of the green and black paint, blending them in such as way that it was hard to tell what was black and what was green, they seemed to melt into each other, just hinting of the other’s presence, an allusion to color that seemed to me full of questions and mystery and deep penetrating substance. Two colors that were full and alive, whose presence seemed to go deeper beyond the simple thickness of the canvas, deep into time and lineage and space.<br /><br />For weeks, perhaps months, I cannot remember, he added more. Above the magical darkness, suspended among the undulating green and black was a single leaf. With no tree or branch beside it, the leaf hovered in bright contrast to the rich darkness and texture of the background. <br />It had a somewhat tropical feel, with a wide face and slightly wavy edges that seemed to mirror moving water in their ripples. I watched its existence manifest with layers of green, dark and light along some contours and in other areas of the leaf a hint of yellow. <br />He added strokes of white using both the thick and thin brushes and created definition and shading and movement on an still surface. To me, the leaf was bright and buoyant and perfectly contrasted the deep darkness where it floated. <br /><br />I thought he was done, but then several weeks later he added more. They were big and bulbous drops of red, yellow and white water which, to me, looked angry and full of vengeance. The drops came from the upper right hand side of the canvas and crashed into the delicate veins and cellulose of the leaf in the center, pushing into it and destroying its simple existence. <br />If the leaf had contrasted the color and mysterious mood of the darkness behind it, then the drops were in direct conflict with the mood of the leaf. To me they seemed to vibrate with vicious violence, intent on destroying the cool elegance of the leaf with raw red power. <br />I was scared of what the painting had become. The drops of red and yellow and white filled me with a sense of fear. I cannot remember what I said to him, if it was anything at all. <br /><br />The canvas never made it to our living room walls where the few survivors of his days as a painter hung. I never saw it again. <br />It took years, but at some point the many jars of brushes, the tubes, the table, the easel, it all went away, perhaps slowly, perhaps all in one day, I cannot remember. I do know it was the last painting he ever made. <br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-73744556795744917712013-09-03T22:19:00.001-07:002013-09-03T22:19:49.816-07:00A World Within A World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Open and exposed<br />we watched the tide.<br />A trail of white lingered behind the breaking waves,<br />bread crumbs left behind for our thoughts.<br />I looked at her, wind blowing that long straight hair<br />like it was in a battle with the elements.<br />We were forest creatures,<br />standing beside this place of water.<br />Sounds we had still not become accustomed to,<br />scents never experienced.<br />If we remembered the trail of ants<br />over stumps left behind,<br />if we thought of mushrooms<br />and ferns and the rotting mulch of our<br />rain-drenched home- <br />no, I could not think of it. <br />We would fall.<br />There are some things we cannot do, not now.<br />A dotted line entered my consciousness.<br />Two double-stranded helixes.<br />A diagram.<br />Pure form, all lines and angles, twisting,<br />Making bodies, shapes, information.<br />I looked again at her,<br />A world within a world.<br />A rose, within a rose.<br />We watched the tide, the fading white to blue,<br />Blue to white.<br />Long trails along the water like our thoughts lingering<br />on far away places.<br />She was an angel beside me, one angel<br />consisting only of truth, of beauty which opened wider<br />the more I looked. <br />We were forest creatures<br />made on the kitchen sink.<br />Dirt, the remains of bitter greens<br />and a splash of water. <br />It was simple once,<br />perhaps it still was, but my mind <br />was running with shadows, <br /><br />words,<br />with extra words<br />which seemed to spill over into the water <br />and run away from me. <br />I could not even make a move<br />to chase after them,<br />I could not spook the angel.<br />I stood still<br />presenting myself with a bit of falsehood.<br />Direct correspondence could cause the<br />winds to change.<br />The gray pearl might dart, might<br />jump into the choppy waters<br />that seemed to so adequately mirror the <br />tumult inside.<br />We had wanted for nothing<br />there with the shade, with the dampness of<br />winters that never quite left.<br />Not now, there are some things I cannot say.<br />Not now.<br />The water speaks, <br />a rose opens.<br />The fractal widens,<br />showing itself finally to<br />my fractured mind.<br />The cracks widen, <br />it seeps in, finally finding the opening for which<br />it had long awaited.<br />My gates had been sealed, <br />tightened and bolted.<br />The sea air has done its work, <br />smelling as sweet<br />as all that has been forgotten.<br />Unhinged, I now grasp.<br />Another speaks<br />the words.<br />We forgot all the names.<br />In the garden<br />our jaws opened,<br />your own widening perception<br />blossomed.<br />Mine broke and crumbled.<br />Then we wanted.<br />Just briefly,<br />we wanted.<br />Speaking,<br />laughing<br />desire had been born.<br />Perhaps we would put it to rest.<br />The angel and I<br />the waters and the new passage available,<br />For a moment, a minute, a day?<br />We must jump,<br />Now.<br />The path is open,<br />oozing and bloody,<br />the seals and cement, the path<br />the darkness.<br />The secrets are open<br />available<br />and we must jump while we can.<br />The new world of waves<br />of seaweed and mermaids<br />in this new, unfamiliar world.<br />We finally jump away <br />from the trees and earth so familiar, <br />into the darkness.<br />A world within a world.</center>
Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-9863741140888981182013-03-31T18:48:00.000-07:002013-03-31T18:48:13.133-07:00Drink Of Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Drink of life- like my mother did once. <br />Not alone in the bedroom, she opened and took and the pungent seeds of time spilled into the darkness of space alight with imagination and moans and shrieks and luminous suns.<br />Let the blackness talk and whisper the secrets of life eternal, but do not mistake the body as its only source. The sky is full and traveling is not done only in carbon and flesh. <br />Drink of life like my mother did once.<br />Then drink again.<br />Water like my father did once. <br />Again drink. <br />Like my father. <br />Forever is not the end. <br />End. <br />There is only eternal<br />Return. Again.<br />Eternal return. <br />Again.<br />Eternal return.<br />Again.<br /><br />An endless loop of purple and black, we sit in this circle and live out the revolution.<br />Time shifts as this carpet accepts our weight. As the walls hold us in and the black curtains postpone the sunlight from our eyes. <br />We go back into the dream state and journey through darkness and quiet spaces while the walls melt like jelly. We walk through them, licking the paint until our tongues taste like ocean water. <br />We circle back and flow in and out of the speckled windows, hearing the squeaks and moans of cars rounding the corner and delivery trucks halting by the door. The walls hold us in, ever intent on their quiet role, their shelter against the demanding brightness of day. <br />Grinding and sliding through the maze of our consciousness- like a serpent, the circle comes back once again. It is my turn to speak. <br />Cycle.<br />The ends are woven perfectly together and for once the ends of our fingertips flow out and back in like wisteria branches. Perfectly pungent and delicate- we glow imperceptibly in the darkness behind the curtains. Eventually the walls take in our vibration and the light between you and I starts to move like heat off a desert floor. Though my eyes are closed, I dance and dance, hoping over sand and the scent of old gun smoke and greased leather.<br />What is this space? I hear my mind ask. Never content to let the eyes talk for us, to let time shift and strain and begin to rewind and then leap forward in a spiraling dance around the circle of our words. And back again, receding into the darkness between the black curtains. <br />Endless circles as our fingers and toes merge back into roots and trees.<br /><br />Eternal return. <br />Again.<br />Eternal return.<br />Again.<br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-46315135648377052102013-03-11T15:30:00.000-07:002013-03-11T15:30:08.158-07:00Distant Battles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is a battle for power going on in the east. Men in blue and gray. Seduced by glory and the faint purple dream of gold and long-weaving tales that could twist and pull in even the most modest of girls. <br />In the east the men fight, not just each other but the bugs and the cold that reaches in under their worn-out ratty wool blankets. <br />Each one stinks and is darkened with grease and drops of blackened blood. All blankets are futile attempts to stop cold or bleeding. The rations are paltry; the young men, babyfaced and pale, hold the balled up blankets to their cavernous stomachs to blot out the noises of hunger, they press them tighter to drown out the needling pain. Older recruits warned of the hunger. It would crawl inside and start to eat and gnaw from the inside, hollowing out fingers and toes first, it would soon find the plentiful reserves of thick, purple organs. <br />Just outside the camps made of canvas and dirt are the muskets and hastily made trenches, the mis-read maps that will lead to so many fallen lives on coming autumn days. <br />Out there in the fields and meadows and under the old trees they lay. Sometimes thousands in a week, sometimes hundreds in an hour. Too many to carry home, too many to bury in the soil and say a little prayer. They will have to be found by god, buried in snow and picked at by the animals of shadows. They will end up in the woods and meadows, spread out bit by bit by tiny squirrels and swallows. <br />Those gunshots are not even a faint ding on the horizon out in the yellow land of the west. This is the wasteland and the battle hymns and marches fall, losing their way between sand and stone. <br />In the desert and the old dusty towns there are other games to play. Gray and blue are just some of the colors, none are the desert dwellers' concern. The wasteland is full of games, big and small and meaningless, depending on the player. Each rider and beast moves towards gold or glory or woman or the rare gem of purpose at the bottom of a deep flowing river, the great golden treasure that calls from the heart of an ever receding sea. <br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-9917630332201322552013-03-05T22:11:00.000-08:002013-03-05T22:11:29.047-08:00If It Feels Wrong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The night was cold. The moment she stepped from the crowded dance floor and walked down the carpeted hall of dark and worn maroon carpet, the moist chill from outside hit her square in the face. The winter cold slithered quickly down her neck and spiraled counterclockwise around her unbound nipples and then traveled further, circling her hips and thighs covered only in pink and black stockings. <br />She stepped into the white neon light of the women’s bathroom and was met by an open window, the night air smiling hello as she closed to door to the stall. Separated only by a metal barrier, she could hear the woman next to her on the phone- her voice was patient, slow, as she tried to explain driving directions to someone on the other end.<br />“You drive east on Harrison, you’ll see a light ahead of you as you approach Whole Foods. Right before the light there is a driveway on your left. It’s a one-way driveway, but that’s ok, turn into it anyway.”<br />There was a pause as she listened.<br />“Yeah, turn into the one-way driveway. It will feel wrong, but just do it, it’s ok. You just turn into it and continue on and turn left as soon as you can. I am just going to say goodbye to a few people and I will meet you out there. Just make sure to turn into the one-way driveway. It will feel wrong. If it feels wrong, then you are going the right way.”<br />The woman was silent again as she listened to the voice on the other end. Then she said goodbye, flushed the toilet and left. <br />The words rung clear and true against the white walls and fluorescent lights of the bathroom. The night air rang and cried out. <br />If it feels wrong, you’re going the right way. Mechanical feels right, something so smooth, without friction, without the uncomfortable anxiety pounding against muscle and bone and the very rules taught since birth. <br />Try walking uphill as the crowd goes down. Try swimming against the current. Try going against every institution perpetuated by family and state, it will feel wrong. <br />It was late, well past midnight. As waves of weariness and sleep started to massage her eyes and shoulders she smiled, knowing for the moment that she was going against the signs.<br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-15157941516468706312013-02-23T20:16:00.000-08:002013-02-23T20:16:52.888-08:00Stinging Bits Of Doubt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Work through the stinging bits of doubt. <br />They nip at the beautiful sphere we create, puncturing it slowly until it collapses under its own weight. I stare at it, deflated and crumbled as candlelight still flickers- the glow reminding me of what we could have made. I see my reflection on its distorted shiny surface. <br />Work through the stinging bit of doubt. <br />They come up like weeds and sometimes I confuse them for tiny flowers and I let them open. Only when their faces shine up at me do I realize my mistake and see the death skulls laughing. But by that time I am far away and lost, floating on my wooden canoe. <br />Out to sea I remember shore. Far away there is a house and a garden. Far away a sage bush goes to seed. Far away is a protector, but I can no longer see him beyond the horizon. <br />My habits have carried me out here and water spills in over the side. Salt oozes up my leg and I begin to crack. <br />But there you are, holding the door open once again. The pathways are slightly more narrow now and the flowers have lost their scent, but here we are again in the dim afternoon light. The present is open and wide and we look into it with wide glittering eyes. <br />Once again we had stood on the edge, once again we clawed our way back from the crashing waves. Here we are again, a circuit of energy between us tasting of love. <br />Try to remember to breathe you caution. Next time breathe into the stinging bits of doubt, send some air into the caves. <br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-66912600996579686542013-02-05T22:51:00.000-08:002013-02-05T22:51:36.527-08:00Singing The War<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As the music played, soft and sustaining, as the saxophone came in and out like lapping waves against the shore, as it mingled with the heart-grabbing bass and sustained rhythm which moved her to the wordless core, she closed her eyes. <br />Inside where there was at first darkness, the shape of a jigsaw puzzle formed. Hundreds of scattered pieces floated in space, some of them glinted with flecks of yellow and earth and trees blowing in the wind. She heard a voice. <br />“Sing the war,” it urged. “Let it come out in sound.” <br />Her mouth opened and she found the root and from there she bounced up slowly gathering colors. There were large bonfires with orange flames forming great cones of sweeping embers, they scattered up into the twilight. Looking down over the hillsides she could see half a dozen fires. <br />The peasants were running. Barefoot and dressed in white, the soles of their feet almost as white as their dingy rags. They ran as a great horde down the hillside and out of view, children and thick women with bouncing breasts, young women holding their newborns in their arms. They ran leaving all they had in their piece-meal houses of wood and refuse, just a few old men thinking to grab machetes. <br />She jumped up with her voice, going higher. She saw the great metal monsters of the American and Salvadoran army, huge helicopters painted a pale olive green. Men jumped from the open side of the metal birds with their guns in front of them like precious babies. Jaws locked and faces hard, they hit the ground running. They jumped onto the overgrown hillside, the whirlwind of the helicopter blades moving everything in a rush. They ran towards the jungle looking for targets. <br />The sounds of her voice got louder, stronger, coming from a place of complete commitment, the story told in tone and quarter notes while the saxophone kept along, leaping like a faithful dog by her side. <br />And then the face of a pretty young woman, mocha skin and dark eyes and smiling for the camera. The same girl, standing in a jungle clearing, sunlight illuminating her from behind, baggy pants and long sleeved shirt rolled up to her elbows. She stood looking into the distance lost in thought. The same girl, hands tied behind her back moments before the end. <br />And then the singing stopped as a wave of emotion rushed forward like a giant sweeping in, coating not just her eyes, but her legs and arms and chest and back in chills and tears. She opened her eyes and looked around, seeing the same familiar collection of people and things, tables and chairs and an assortment of collected instruments on the shelves. <br />No one was there to meet her eyes, no one had seen the fires or metal birds, no one had seen the girl but her.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-31589366168566303592013-01-24T23:10:00.000-08:002013-01-24T23:10:03.911-08:00Far Off Songs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I could hear them fighting in the other room. Every few seconds Jonas’ high pitch scream would pierce through the music I was listening to, it would crawl under my skin and make me shiver. <br />I could hear them fighting over the tablet playing cartoons. As I listened to the vocal coaching on my computer and tried to sing along and practice, their constant bickering moved through the glass door and found me and pushed me away from my concentration. <br />I could imagine Noah trying pull the computer more towards him and Jonas pulling back, finally strong enough now to defend himself against his older brother. <br />It was the endless struggle for property that would stay with them until death. Territory and desire and anger, they were fully present even at three years old. They were even more evident than in adults, due to the lack of social flitters and niceties and the many disguises the adult world has devised to cloak those inner urges. When those little boys wanted the computer, the cookie, the train they took it. Available responses of the other was tears, or a scream or to hit back. <br />I could not hear any response from Noah, so I assumed he was the perpetrator. I had stopped trying to intervene. I had grown tired of trying to make them share, or warning them, threatening to take it away, now I had just grown silent. I had other things to do. I sunk back into the music and left them alone, it would be survival of the strongest. <br />Occasionally I heard Jonas’ weapon of choice: that scream. The high pitched wail irked me from the inside, one of those sounds which physically chilled me and made me shake and try and shrug off the noise. I closed the door to the living room. They were going to do what they were going to do. There could be no reasoning, they were too young, they were little machines. <br />The boys used to sit with me as I did my vocal work. When Jonas had just learned to sit up by himself I would put him on a chair next to me and he would look at me with huge, smiling eyes and laugh at some of the sounds. Noah would sometimes sing along and then we would dance. <br />Just a few years later and fully human, they were more interested in Dora and Umizumi and their computers and ignored me as much as I tried to look past their fighting. The babies had recognized the work, they could sit with me, patiently waiting sometimes as I went through the things I wanted to do; these little people did not. <br />They had fallen. It was only a matter of time, all beings must descend, become human, become mere machines. <br />Maybe one day they would stop fighting and hear me singing from the other room. Maybe they would remember some of our early nights together when we sat in three chairs in the living room and they would come out to join me once again: singing, dancing, laughing.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-66878512037507111622013-01-20T21:14:00.000-08:002013-01-20T21:14:30.079-08:00Dig In<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dig in with my feet. Dig in with those callused hands cracking and smelling of blood and iron.<br />Those hands of yours with the roses sprouting from below the white nails are leading to my bed where the sockets sizzle and burn, sometimes exploding like certain moments in a hot jungle with a stove nearby and a woman in a blue uniform caressing the colored light between us. Ouch, the fire of electricity snaps me up. Eyes, open. We know where we are.<br />Eyes open, we look out the window together and regard the little bird at the top of the tree. Ouch. Another slap and yes, I am listening. There is nothing that hurts more than a blind ear. A deaf eye. A mute look.<br />We stare out the window. Stare. Stare and state the purpose. Bird out on the tree, sitting on the tippy top, bending the last of that cypress flare. <br />What hurts more? Out the window, looking in this bed and discovering the world beneath the covers. Covers are for the modest and asses out- the narrow light coming through the window catches us, immodest and glaring white and covered with hair. <br />The savages have come with urine scented hair and teeth, the shamans rarely stand on hilltops with white robes. No- the tribe has arrived, beautifully described with yellow teeth hanging from rope necklaces made of human hair- skulls used easily as drinking cups. All manner of earthly remains used for decorations and I was hoping to get one for the small altar. <br />Pain is my friend, without it I forget. Without it I would forget myself in this warm house covered in sugar and red and white candies and the fluff of terrycloth and inertia. Pain is nothing my friend. Pain is everything. <br />I look into your eyes, share that spark once again. The sockets will be jealous as will the memory of a story in my mind. <br />Can they see us now? Our colors pouring out the small shaft not always meant for light- grunting and brutal- the light hits us from behind, illuminating our forms on the white walls, casting a shadow that travels out and up- beating against the wall of the room, radiating out out out and up up up until we no longer recognize it, have forgotten what was done on the bed in the name of pain and practice and exchange. <br />But the clouds are there and have been since we began, and they seize it all up and turn it into seed and send it back.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-85201073372967653232013-01-13T19:36:00.000-08:002013-01-13T19:36:29.414-08:00Christmas Transgression<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For several years I walked past the little tabletop rosemary trees at Trader Joe's. I drove past the Christmas tree lots donned with white lights and rows of fragrant fir and each time I thought of getting a small tree for my room. <br />For years, every December I would think of buying a living tree from some nursery, or just a tinny-tiny little one that could fit on my kitchen table. I remembered the History Channel special that described the winter tree as a pagan ritual, but I also remembered my mother’s threat to me and my sister: <br />“I hope you know that when I die I’ll be looking down at you from heaven and if you ever have a Christmas tree, I’ll be very disappointed.” <br />My sister was so small standing behind me. We seemed, the three of us, illuminated by a bright stage lamp used in theater productions. <br />And each time I thought of getting a tree, as I drove past the lots, I would caution myself. After all, did I really need to spend $20 on a tree?<br /><br />Today I walked into the lot. Something had come over me, some type of determination that could not be swayed by price, or dire warnings, or the guilt of a thousand generations. <br />The small lot was rich with the sweet-sour smell of northern fir. Children ran between the rows of towering trees and young couples holding each other close for warmth stood by while their chosen tree was assembled with base and stand. <br />Looking around I knew that these were common memories for them all- people who had picked and decorated their trees every year, memories that began before they could form words. For the children, they would perpetuate the tradition. One day these children would bring their own children to these lots, and they would watch as they ran and played and hid behind the cut, fragrant giants. <br />I stood virgin to them all, wondering if they could perhaps sense my alien nature, my shinning brightness that had no precedent. <br /><br />A big black man with an African accent stood beside me as I pointed to the two foot tree. <br />“I’ll take that one.” <br />The narrow trunk ended at a wooden “x” which was nailed into the bottom, allowing the tree to stand upright. <br />“So I just put this whole thing in a bowl of water?’ <br />He looked at me with a perplexed look. “How are you going to do that?”<br />I imagined a very large bowl but was unable to bring it out into the open. <br />“I don’t know,” I said smiling a little nervously, “I’ve never done this before.”<br />“You never had a Christmas tree before?”<br />“No,” I said smiling, shaking my head.<br />“I don believe it. You need a bowl,” he said authoritatively. <br />He took the tree from my hands and used a hammer to knock off the wooden cross it stood on, then attached a plastic bowl and another wooden “x” below it held together by a single nail.<br /><br />As I walked out of the lot holding the tree in front of me like a giant gift finally attained, a wide, somewhat guilty smile on my face, a feeling of happiness and a rush of energy overtook me. <br />I felt as if people could tell. Did they see the obvious clash of symbols with my Semitic nose? I was not supposed to be holding one of these. No matter how much Brandon Tulley tried to persuade our Hebrew school teacher twenty-five years ago, there was no such thing as a Hanukkah bush. I could hear my mother’s warning through the day: "not even dead." <br /><br />I spent the next few days decorating the tree with small shells and pearls and beads from my collection. A ribbon of bright green sequins wrapped around its trunk. This was the tree I was not born to have, yet it was here, atop my small fridge.<br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-14394759845728351542012-11-25T19:39:00.000-08:002012-11-25T19:39:37.101-08:00The World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />The world is not infinite. And that is what I have been saying, but you never listen. <br />The clouds stomp their feet in prayer and I hold my hands up to them so I can taste those sweet drops of milk. It was like the poem I once read, “her milk created the stars.” The drawing it once inspired. A pink and white breast against a sky of black, a waterfall of white and a sprinkling of twinkling lights. Open up your arms so you may taste the sweet drops of life. <br />The clouds are there, ready to give and yet we long for the sun, to feel the warmth and hide from the gray rain clouds. We resort to what feels good rather than what is helpful, what will keep these plants alive, what will finally help me to push open the door. We need the rain they shout! Those little tender sprouts looking up, drying to ash under the blanket of blue. Heat drying the land, turning my skin into parchment. But it feels good doesn’t it?<br />I let that skin go as I crawl over the rocks, I turn red and then black, as devilish as they fear, as conniving as the books and old tales warned. I have a tail and it will sting. It will cover you with bruises and I hope that we do meet, for I need exercise. I crawl, as evil as the men saw, turning from red and blue into clear water, covering the land that refuses to let me go. I will not die. <br />The world is not infinite, and yet the numbers do not lie. There are a billion micro spaces and I have known almost all. Each story is another chapter, each life another variation of the same old tale. The castles and the caves, the donkeys and their pet mice. <br />I have known almost all, and still, I am surprised by their little changes. The red flower instead of the blue. The upturned smile instead of the light as I remember, catching her eyes in a moment of thought. Let the thoughts flow out, but stay here, not in the tiny worlds of the market and their petty transactions, let it stay here, on this world. <br />The micro state of soothing electronic pulses playing a few feet from my head, where the fan whirls continuously, a drone among drones. The plush bed covered in Nordic flannel sheets of red and white, somehow making me feel warm by design, the veined fingers moving fast. <br />The world. Will I one day know its entirety? How many micro states are there? How many people could be in this room right now with me? <br />Johnny on the desk, Johnny rubbing my feet, Johnny slapping my precious cheek. The tear can fall by the window, on the sheet and quickly vanish, over my arm leaving a trail of salt. I can see each one and am gladdened by their multitude. <br />Too soon, this could end. But this will all be back. It will come again slightly different than before. More complex in shape. Unknowable.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />It escapes from you. Or you escape it. For you hide your eyes and go under the covers like a young girl hiding from a dream. <br />She saw those woods, the coming light of day her only reassurance. But soon it turned to night again and she was scared of the dark branches and the thick trunks and the man who walked up ahead telling stories that terrified her flesh and made her think of death and the iron smell of fear. <br />Do you hide like that, from the dreams of this world; or does it escape you- running. Does it dance in the corners waiting for a moment of attention, one that almost never comes? How can little girls hopped up on sugar and chocolate cupcakes look into the corners of the room, where the sparking light takes on a multitude of colors, where chairs become vehicles of transportation, not just a resting point for a fat ass. Who escapes whom?<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />It is a place that sinks into the ground by the weight, the world on our rounded shoulders. I try to wash it down the drain at night. <br />I try and let those hands and the dollar bills and the forced laughter go washing down the sides of my wide hips and pass the obstacle of the clogged drain and down into the pipes, flowing to the ocean of salt and silt and all those other nasty things we have tried to bury and hide. <br />It goes to a land of layered memories and all we need to do is watch the tide come in and look out for its hands. It is never fully buried.<br /><br />In the middle of the world lies the dusty valley of wheat, rags, boots, brown skin, red faces and dirty blue trucks. A little graffiti done in a rough style, like the young boys still did not know how to hold the canisters the right way, like they had yet to lose that feeling of fear that the cops would show up at any moment- we all know the older boys would go down swinging, even longed for those red and blue lights to turn ‘round the corner, to catch them with blackened fingers and bandanas over their mouths. <br />And though I imagine you, dust still finds its way into my mouth. The town is covered in it and I choke slightly as the scene passes. <br />Everything is yellow and tan- a lone young woman sits on a fallen rock by the only mini-mart for hundreds of flat miles. She’s wearing a long dress held up by worn spaghetti straps- her shoulders covered in freckles and dust. My tires kick up dingy clouds as I make a wide left turn and pull into the gas station- a bell rings and she turns her head towards me. <br />Did I come for the rocks and sausage? Does she wait for the one truck that will come and take her away? Or is she a fixture in this town, like a lamppost or a flag sticking out of the eaves from an old house. Eternity in a body by the side of the road.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Forests, rivers, tears and glimpses of laughter, overheard from a distance. This is what I see in her eyes. They are blue, I can tell from here. Shaded by the light green awning at the gas station- the girl continues to look at me and I at her. <br />Soon I will go on and she will stay, warmed and browned by the sun. We will trade places for a moment and I will sit on that rock, letting the world pass by on the two-lane highway not five steps from where I sit. <br />The days pass slow, the afternoon marked by birds overhead, the cars that I count, the colors that add a moment of excitement to the yellow and tan landscape. The hills behind me whisper to the sun, they match, the colors blending and punctuated only by the sky.<br />She goes on, taking my car, using the wheels, moving on. The world is shaped like a tilted rectangle if you watch it from above where there is safety. Here there is none. <br />A part of me longs for what I left, she flies like a bird in a windstorm. There is no end.<br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-57779810526192002232012-11-16T18:04:00.000-08:002012-11-16T18:04:59.506-08:00Open Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Open up and smell the rain. It is coming. <br />Soon the clouds will topple over with accumulated sweet tears and I will be there to drink it in. I will have my pearl goblet embellished in skulls and teeth and the sweetness of sky will move through me, turning me from flesh to air. <br />Open up and smell the coming rain. Open up and let the walls of your chest creak, they will make a joyful noise and sing with mine as we stumble into awakening. <br />Like rusty doors in long forgotten castles, the sound is wild and out of place. Now is the moment to take the scuffed up brass skeleton key from the old woolen pocket. It is time to twist, yes, with a shaky hand, and let the gates crack. <br />Open up and smell the rain. It comes as a gift without words and explanation. The scent of night moves towards us in lustful abandon, coming with its sweet tears. Clouds full of wetness sweep in covering us in newness. <br />Now take this knife, make perfect slits along the length of our single piece of okra. The glue on our fingers will bind us to the walls and from time to time we can hang from the ceiling and look at the world like geckos. <br />Or you can take the form of a purple goddess and travel among the trees like the wind. There are no obstructions as purple scented air. You move wildly through thickets of oak leaves, sending a torrent of them to the ground. You bash against the boughs, bouncing and twisting over shapes and continue forward. Perhaps these things will eventually slow you down, all these rocks and faces of matter, but for now you roll over them as purple scented air. <br />Or you can dance ecstatically without form, picking up pollen and dispersing it over fields and houses. Twisting, twisting, you bend the clouds into mermaids and smiling paintbrushes, an entire canvas of sky all orange and red and glowing. <br />Or you can lie down and become gold grass. Feel the skinny white roots slowly digging into the soil, pushing so softly past the tiny bugs dwelling in the folds of pungent earth. Feel the sun turning to food on your delicate upturned blades. Can you feel the green of your flesh? <br />Open up and smell the rain. The clouds are colliding and soon we will be droplets once again. Gold is the sky as we take the form of clouds, there are no obstructions as we take new shape.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-16512653218889890362012-09-25T17:24:00.000-07:002012-09-25T17:24:10.371-07:00The Birth of Myth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We all laughed yesterday as the barriers that divided us started to crumble just slightly under the weight of smiles and eye contact. Icy waters began to subside just slightly, and I felt the twinge of family, the strangeness of three people sitting at a round table in the middle of a night filled with fog and gusts of stinging moisture. <br />The world seemed to open up and I had a bird’s eye view of three people below the roof of a house, a blue and green sphere in the midst of blackness, amidst a collection of sparkling lights. <br />How strange to be sitting here, talking of myths and words, mostly listening, because I don’t know of these things. <br />I will forget that we live in the midst of myths, like lights being born of gas and dust, we live in the midst of words and associations and archetypes that rise from our consciousness and reveal themselves like a blossoming flower. Their shapes of darkness and pungent earth, their swirling white spheres of grand-moving strangeness. <br />Some will paint them as evil, some will call them angels and avengers. And still others will see them just as tales, like the ones that came before but painted in different colors. <br />The names change from story to book to legend to movie to speech to show to story. <br />We live in the place of the spawning of myth. The same shapes, the same players, the same figures, the same arcs. Dirt creates them, from the soil they arise, and we are the fertile earth that gives them nourishment and the plowed mind and the twisting energy that creates them over and over, reproducing the same villains and heroes, the same turns and twists, remixing them endlessly, giving new outbursts of detail to the receptive arms of eternal skeletons. <br />Great journey-makers that come from a land far away on the vast wooden ship Tharnackla. Those anti-heroes have taken a humble nation and turned it into a corrupting evil and death realm where the inhabitants are afraid to love and kiss each other. <br />But once we cried together, in the arms of each other, just as the myth was born, as the people rejoiced and fell to the ground in awe. The myth was being born, and it was painful and joyous at once. <br />Tears ran down your face as we felt the sprouting green root take hold, as we felt the archetype of the redeemer claim victory in one shining night under the moon. <br />You got on top of me and we celebrated with love and skin and soft grunts of pleasure. This was the birth of something, the celebration of a golden legend come home, the beginning of a battle to reclaim the land from sea to mountain and back again. <br />We sat at a table and the story spiraled between us like falling stars.<br />And yesterday we laughed. And we lived the myth of us as I saw it from high above. <br />No such thing as old. No such thing as new.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-82847929973066234602012-09-16T17:17:00.001-07:002012-09-16T17:17:29.149-07:00The Golden Eye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The hilltops are high above me as I search for my brother with the golden eye. <br />All the others have fallen, somewhere between the sea and the desert there are many corpses, brown hair with waves, blue eyed boys who stare up at the sun without blinking, a mother who has lost her young. <br />They are there, on the land, in the rivers, boys, brothers. And it is me who climbs these cliffs still searching for the one with the golden eye. <br />Brother or god? Man and lover, father of life and creation. <br />I scan the black ravines and wonder if he can see me here on this treetop, my strong thighs gripping the bark as I cling and scan and squint. Birds come and perch on my thin white arms like branches, they sing in my ear little melodies of encouragement. <br />The black streaked ones sing a melancholic tune, and when they sing my body grows desperate. Perhaps he is gone forever, our father and lover, our king and creator, our leader with the golden eye. <br />Does he run or is he lost? Does he hide or does he wait to be found? <br />I am unsure as I take each step, not quite able to read my heart in the clouds. The leaves stir on the parched ground, all red and yellow and crackling beneath my soft footsteps. They are of no help. I can't read them, their silent fortunes are obscure and lost to the wind. <br />I keep walking, I have been here before, so many times on this search. <br />Brother, brother- I have written about you before. Father lover, I have written of your name and this search. My fallen kin among the seas and sands, I have written of you in countless pages. <br />I walk clutching my breasts, yearning for comfort, for the mother that is lost in these trees and shadows. I add my tears to the ocean, lending them only briefly to the trickle of the river. <br />Perhaps in the next world I will drink my own sadness in a goblet of glass. These steps seem like a very wide circle, so wide it becomes invisible. <br />My brothers are gone and I continue on, still looking for the man with the golden eye.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-60607308290867400442012-09-07T15:21:00.002-07:002012-09-07T15:21:23.397-07:00Made In China<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was night outside the double wide glass doors of the discount store where it smelled faintly of chemicals and leather. Beyond the thick walls housing many items of desire, the moon shone down, bright and brilliant in its glorious fullness. <br />The taste of mint chocolate ice cream still lingered on the back of her tongue as she wandered the aisles, looking at the assortment of pants and shirts and boots with an apathetic gaze that sometimes crossed over into brief curiosity. She rode the escalator up to the second floor and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored pillars that stretched from the ceiling to the white tiled floor. <br />Bright maroon lipstick over her lips, her wild mess of hair restrained by a furry white beret. Her oversized green pajama pants were tucked into the wide cuffs of suede boots. There she was, allowing the moon to travel above, for the night of blinking stars to pass unnoticed as she slowly walked through the two floors of metal racks and clear plastic hangers and more discounts than she could have ever wanted. <br />Every now and then she picked up something and held it for a while in her hands. These things were all cheap, her mind would immediately come up with several reasons to walk over to the registers, put them in a bag and take them home. There were lots of reasons: warmth, comfort, beauty, but the nagging thoughts kept coming in. <br />She looked at the label of the sweater tights she had picked up off the back wall by the shoes: made in China. She had heard a story on the radio seven hours before about the province of China where most of America’s cheap products came from. <br />As she drove to the warehouse to drop off her leftover pastries and bread from the farmer’s market, she listened to the stories of young Chinese workers whose hands had became deformed after several years of repetitive movement. They made the clothes, the hangers, the phones, every item that surrounded her. They wore out the workers, till death or deformity set in, then got new younger ones to fill the positions. There were just that many people in China. <br />Hours later she wandered the store and felt the hands of the workers on every item. Her seven dollar tights were paid for by those distant unknown lives. She took the elevator up to the second floor where the household goods were waiting. She picked up a shoe organizer and looked on the bottom of the label: made in china. She looked at a cutlery set that advertised itself as hand-crafted: made in china. <br />As she walked, looking at the brightly colored things, the shoes and jackets, the rugs and feather pillows, her face sunk more and more. Her feet shuffled along the ground as she began to absorb the meaninglessness of almost every item. The manufactured need, the desire for more and more. <br />She could feel it inside, she wanted that rug, those sweater tights. She could hear the voice in her head, she needed them to stay warm, some were even made of bamboo, was there really any harm? Did her small almost meaningless purchase really make a difference when there were thousands of stores across America like this one? <br />She could feel their hands, their eyes, their lost lives. <br />She walked through the aisles, killing time until she could leave and drive to the house were her friend sat with sweet smelling long black hair and stories of explored language. She walked, sinking, changing as the story she had heard earlier moved through her. She could feel the pull of the American need, the hope that with this one new thing everything would be better and change, change forever, change until she needed one more thing- until she needed that other thing, until a new desire clung to reality just beyond her grasp.<br />Just as one orgasm was ending she would pause and think about the next time it might happen. There was no rest for desire, for the want to fill it- she could hear the stories of the people in her mind, the deformed hands, the jumpers off the factory roof, the utter desperation to end repetition. <br />All done so people like her could buy those cheap sweater socks and discounted shoes. It was for her and millions like her. She walked and walked, hurt by what she saw, but unable to leave.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-61315356235136111652012-09-02T22:45:00.000-07:002012-09-02T22:45:31.387-07:00Thoughts In The Labyrinth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><br />They sit in a circle in a dimly lit room. Candles flicker on the fireplace mantle and cast shadows from the wiry kiwi branches onto the ceiling. The black curtains are drawn and they are all alone- three bodies who try for a moment to leave the labyrinth and cortex behind, to emerge new from the trappings of intelligence and talk without walls. <br />She looks at the man in front of her. In most societies he would be considered an adult, a man with graying hair, more than forty years of age. He sits in front of her illuminated in the golden light, imitating her sounds and creating syllables without meaning.<br /><br />“dooooahhh” she says.<br />“dooahhhhhhhhh” he repeats one octave below.<br />“ti ti ta ma to sooooo.”<br />“ta toooo ta ma to sooooo.”<br /><br />They all smile. Someone shifts slightly on the futon. A part of her ego breaks off and wanders down the labyrinth alone. <br />She wonders just where she is and who she’s with. Who is the man in front of her? The man making sounds? <br />The strangeness of the moment hits her, rustles up against old thought patterns and rubs at convention. Do adults do this? Do they sit in a circle, letting the stars and night turn to day? Do they make sounds and sing together, pushing their bodies beyond normal comfort to remain seated in a circle? Do they breathe loudly, moving their hands wildly as though there were music, though none is playing?<br /><br />“MUUahhhhh, sahhhh, tiiiii.”<br />“MUUahhhhh, sahhhh, tiiiiiaaaaaa.”<br /><br />Her ego searches through the known, all those layers sitting, accumulating since birth, waiting for a moment in the light. “Known” meaning words, thoughts, convention. <br />She looks again at the man, long wisps of white hair shine in the candlelight. <br />This is not what adults do, though they could all be considered adults with driver’s licenses, bills, kids, cars, jobs- and yet they are not.<br /><br />In another space she watches two young boys, both just a few feet off the ground. She is supposed to be the adult there. She feeds them noodles and bananas and makes sure they are warm and dry. She comforts them after a fall and tucks them into bed with a lullaby. <br />And yet, she does not only do what the other adults do. Before bed she sits them next to her by the computer, she practices her singing while they watch and sometimes follow along, clapping as they sing along. She imitates them in the hallway with her body, stomping her foot when they do, she jumps when they do, yells into the air when they do- they notice what she does and laugh- delighting in the exchange. <br />But that is not what adults do. Not the adults they know. She is their Other. She is like the graying man, a living signifier for another path. <br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-37620831712427646932012-08-25T20:57:00.000-07:002012-08-25T20:57:15.431-07:00Detectives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We search, picking through the clues left behind- piles of letters in the mailbox and a fuzzy videotape that leaves more questions than answers. <br />They have combed their mind for answers- praying, hoping for a final answer to the questions that keep them awake night after night. It has been years now- years, and the nights when they should be sleeping drag out forever as they adjust themselves over and over on their pillows and twist their sheets and get up for another glass of water or a trip to the bathroom. The nights last forever and the mind races, jumping, searching the corners for clues- something, maybe that one thing they forgot to tell the police. One tiny little detail that will solve it all. <br />Just what happened to them? They disappeared like shadows. <br />We saw them leave in the middle of the night and then their car turned up a few days later in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Where did they go? <br />The night is long and tedious as the questions rise up, over and over. There is no resolution. The wonderful resolution that might be- the death to the constant struggle against wonder. If only the night would end and the day would come and with it, god willing, an answer. <br />We sit now, around a circular table, we draw out what we know, what we don’t. We search and the more we talk, the less the lines connect. A disjointed mandala appears before us on the tiled table and we tend to grasp at the edges, trying to bring it all around. <br />Just where did they go in the middle of the night? <br />My heart starts to beat, not pounding really, but with a slightly sick feeling as it interacts with my chest. This body wants answers, how I want to be that lady who sees the rise of the sun at dawn, light bringing with it the death I seek- those eternal questions that the religions of the world attempt to answer. <br />All the self help gurus and the multi-billion dollar industry cluttered with sticky-sweet titles like “Being Happy in the Digital Age.’ They want it, we want it- an end to the struggle. <br />And then I look at my detective. A sly smile on his face. How he skips, delights in the unknown. I follow him down the twisting path searching for clues. He walks slow, taking his time, enjoying the night. The day might never come and he would still walk, soaking in the damp air, tasting it on his tongue, listening to the sounds of a sleeping world. <br />My beautiful detective. He looks into a hole and sees the endless possibilities, seeing not darkness, but a galaxy of stars. Each one shines from another world, another story ringing behind it. <br />We walk in the night, picking up clues and storing them in our pockets for safekeeping. And we walk, taking the turns in the path with as much delight as the little things we find under the misplaced stones in a driveway covered with tiny pebbles. <br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-60431819877905719072012-08-18T19:31:00.000-07:002012-08-18T19:31:01.452-07:00Black<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />We are dressed in black today, matching the night. Black holding all our purpose. Every color and shape, each breath taken and lost. For all that were and all that could be. <br />The clouds have parted, granting my midnight wish and I stare at a dozen silver moons, a collection of aged children of rock and light. <br />There are a trail of silver dollars illuminating the path from bed to window, from window to door. Each step is first memorized and then taken with care. <br />There were maps and drawings and we practiced one tiny moment among moments. Bursting, we feed it and the circle grows, a wide band of black holding each moment. We take it in, drinking, lapping up the dribbles along the edges. <br />It is all here, not one thing forgotten. We cannot list them all and yet their names are etched into the wrinkles and lines, the scars over her breasts and the wisps of hair misplaced. <br />The boat sails and I remember, a thing in motion is excited, confused and ready for toppling. Bubbling up and spinning, the lights direct my attention, moving from human to bird to car to cat. <br />You cannot stop me as the colors come and STOP! You don’t witness, you mustn’t. <br />The tale must be fulfilled as written and the pages are there, may I direct your attention to the dried up hands telling our story. Look into the black eyes beside the window, nothing has been forgotten. Transience, mortality, they are for others outside this space. With the candles lighting our chamber, we sit as the circle. Bodies are the wires for light, light is the shape of ecstatic motion. We are still, silent but for occasional gasps.Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310472380460237052.post-75468836900913744622012-08-07T19:11:00.004-07:002012-08-07T19:13:25.109-07:00Possibilities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It used to be that freedom was showing up in an airport with a single red backpack covered in carefully sewn decorative patches and a one way plane ticket. <br />
When Ethan wasn’t actually drinking coconut water in Mexico or picking olives in Italy or staring out the window of some meandering train, he would be dreaming of other lands. The carpet beside his bed was cluttered with travel narratives and fiction set in other countries- he thought that every place was more exotic than the west coast and he wanted to see it all: the colors of India, the ocean waters in the South Pacific, the cobblestone and dreary clouds of Eastern Europe. <br />
Occasionally he did go to Latin America for a few months or Europe, but it was not the long term travel he had always dreamed of- the multi-year, multi-continental voyage. The trips were short, and kindled his wanderlust rather than satisfying it. He slept with a map on the ceiling above his pillow and, right before falling asleep (and as he woke up), he would stare at the colored mountains and rivers and all the places he hoped to see.<br />
He always thought back to a particular fall day in Italy. The sky outside the train window was bright blue. There was a bite to the air and all the colors of the rural landscape were shades of brown and beige and fallen twigs. Bright orange persimmon fruits hung on the naked branches of massive trees and they punctuated the world outside the window with bursts of color. <br />
He was alone on a train going south- not alone really, but surrounded by strangers. Without the constant jabber of a companion, he focused on the details that surrounded him. The sounds of the train on the tracks, the deep voice of the man selling mozzarella and tomato sandwiches out of a wheeled wooden cart halfway down the train car. <br />
Everything that day was so crystalline and bright. The miles went on and the train doors opened and closed at each station, offering him the brilliant beginning of a multitude of pathways to places he could not imagine. <br />
He knew he could choose any one of them- perhaps getting out at Taormina or any of the little villages along the way to Palermo. Each one was an option, he could simply pick up his 30lb pack and be on his way. No need for permission or second thoughts or even a look backwards. It was movement without obstruction, as he stepped outside, he could breathe new air and discover the tiny details that only needed a second of attention; there, a delicate gray and white feather drifting over centuries-old streets. <br />
By a series of curious incidents and split-second decisions, he arrived in San Francisco. Six years later, he called it home. His roaming feet had sunk in some roots- those roots had coiled around gray embedded stones in the salty soil. <br />
His heart still reached out- enjoying television shows that depicted the people of Romania and Africa, he enjoyed watching characters running from one part of town to another looking for clues to a puzzle, but he could not picture himself in another place anymore. The desire to hit the road with a single backpack and a one way ticket had just melted away so slowly that he didn’t realize it until it was gone, like some of the baby fat that had once held on firmly to his cheeks.<br />
In the past six years he had begun to paint and draw and make music, all things that he had wanted to do before but never could- or never knew how. <br />
Last Saturday he read a piece of text that he wanted to draw for and turn into a short book. Over the course of an afternoon he read the text repeatedly and each time he imagined a different style of art. He could reinforce the poetic imagery by echoing it with visual figurative images, or, he could do something far more abstract- possibly color fields, or, something neo-expressionistic and more aggressive with thick brush strokes and possibly dissonant images. <br />
There were so many possible directions and each one could take the same text and alter it completely. He imagined himself standing at the threshold of a doorway that led to not one path, but dozens, each one of them branching off into scores more. <br />
He sat at his desk, no plane ticket or packed bag by his feet. His pencils and paper rested in front of him, the light outside the window was changing. It was different than he had once imagined, what he had once thought of as possibilities and freedom- what had once seemed capable only through steps and constant travel and movement now unraveled, revealing itself to be many places. <br />
The possibilities were truly limitless, they were accessible without a step. His chest ached with that familiar stinging excitement as the doors opened towards endless pathways. <br />
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<br />Mad Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00718220361046782415noreply@blogger.com0