Fighting Cock On The Rocks, in Seventeen Minutes on a Sunday Night

  
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The glass of the window showed her the same exact picture every time she closed in on it. Colours of the sky, the faraway miniature skyline of tiny blurry lights molded into the waters, through the doorway of boats, the foghorn, escaping her again into black before she could figure out the meaning of the puzzle that it captivated, and controlled her by. Some walls hold us in position to await emancipation, and others close us up in the cloak of our own limitations, our silly fucking brains running round us in a right-left-right-left (or right-left-left-right depending on which way you're facing) infinity pattern, distracting us in our own sentence structures and punctuation choices, while it threads itself into our bodies, into our histories and possibilities, and before you know it, you just sit still, because you cannot move of your own volition, cause it turns out all along you had been paying bribes to that fleet of weavers to keep you, fast held and tight, while your thoughts ran races around them and caged them in, and so on and so forth...you can get out of the madhouse, says the warden, stinking of joints and cheap beer, you just need 50 or so keys...

Eventually you grow tired of their whereabouts, and the treasure map laid forth on cobblestone streets loses its mystified allure...why wander the streets when you can swim to the shallow, rounded bottom of the amber coloured glass in the bottle that they sell you after hours at the off licence, when you think no one is looking. But, someone always is. They told me that when I was little. Never grab your dress if its caught in the cheeks of your ass, or make an unholy face, cause that's when someone is always looking. I say, let them look. Next time they do, I'll lift my skirts and really give them something to see. I run up and down the halls, dazzling in my own humanity and the chemical combinations that bubble up in me, never to be held down by nobody, seen or otherwise. Blowing kisses as I go, pressing my tits up against the church glass, cause it feels good, and, you know, that's good enough reason for me.  To stand, ass showing, or mouth rambling, eyes look their last, or first, no matter how the divining cards fall around us, with the knowledge that the magic of everything will and must never be denied, brings me good tides as the same tides swallow me up, assassinating the part of my brain that expects, doubts and disbelieves.

I still believe, without the word lie caught in it safe snare, in the beckoning colours and lacy shadows that the sky promises me every night, that I live without crisis, dysfunction, threat or malnutrition of my being, with the laughter, easy as my thighs, that prevents me from taking my mind at its word, because those words change daily, but I am still right here, in the trust that shall overpower the suicidal downward movers, those barnacles on the most grand of ships in my fleet, tear them bloody off of the supple limbs and breasts of my masthead, my girl that wants it all, that aches and breathes, and drinks in everything she can in this moment and the next coming in towards her, one challenge of a wave at a time (swallowing some water never kept her down too long; besides your throat only hurts for a few moments and then, a few more swallows, and the salty rims are gone past your gullet), and in the belief- silly, misshapen, redeeming, denied or otherwise, in the ship itself. For its captain, high up in the fog looking ahead, is the only one who knows where he's going, and where we're going, so we drink and swallow to the new nights and days, and rains and lies, and she smiles (again) in the knowledge of her self, for the captain's clouds keep him safe above, and he ain't talking just yet, so drink up.

3 / Thirteen

Time spins, the clock marches forward, the chimes still me on the fateful road.  The thin, supple golden second hand digs itself into the dirt, inching along each beat of the equation as it adds to itself, additional millions as I step down the street- the sky not pitch black anymore, me not speeding as I have done, simply to realize that I wanted only to get home faster so that I would see you again sooner.  Nothing has changed; only I have. But time has not.

Time outside the place runs just fine.  Drops of rain play inside a well in the murder ballads always finding tune in my often dreadful imagination.  The rituals of morning, evening, sharing with others and sharing alone hold themselves to me, and we walk like that, together in the light.  I love it when the sun shines so brightly, smacking me in the face with its heat so much that, though I cannot see them, I can feel the rays boring through my pupils, my chestnut vision alight with sunshine, yellow seeing right through me.  As I see right through them.  This open plain of sight leading me into its folds.

I live much of my daily life in a golden field.  Streetcorners, hobnobs, kissing a big bunch of fools, and wanting something more...all leave me in this field.  There may be a church nearby -- old, Roman, Byzantine, one of those ancient things that brands me, laughs at me trying to make my way among these moderns, with their minimalist problems, tireless complaints and disconnect from their lives.  I am connected with every noise performing tricks on me, the last one taking me back on the childhood highway near the woods, where the bodies usually are dumped.  I am connected with the slight scent of a man, who doesn’t know I can with scent know everything that he is, moving in and out of frame, with an overly made up woman in a wig, standing nearby him, she who sees me looking right at her as I do.  I am connected when the neighbor’s cat has a seizure, and my heart stops and hands shake until he is recovered, further connecting me to the my mother’s fifteen minutes like that, waiting for the ambulance to arrive when my father was called from the scene on the first day of Spring, nearly five years ago.  Time spins for sure.

Most probably the sorest thought back then in those days, when I was living and breathing through memory alone from the bed of an emotional invalid whose tongue made me happy, along with the vacant want in his brown eyes, which I took for love and a few other things, was that time would never allow me to have my father back.  There seemed logically like there had to be a time at which point <this> would be done with, and he could continue things, perhaps not as they were, but in a new form.  But that time still hasn’t come.  And though I have accepted that tenfold, and try to resurrect myself to him with every dreaming night, with every good intention I keep to myself, with every romantic notion that isn’t clouded by bitterness or regret, with the stubborn belief that I am doing right if I am living true, I still occasionally think for a forgetful moment that he will be here someday, in some form, to see the beautiful place which I have created, the good way I have taken care of things for her (so far), the people I call my family who he would surely enjoy long talks over wine with, the streets and foghorns calling me home every night and how they might remind him of his home.  The soreness of all that just lives deeper from the surface -- not hidden, not pushed under the rug, but just lovingly folded in with the tenuous layers of my life since.  I cannot imagine that fifteen minutes of his shell drifting from her right there as she watched and could do nothing.

I hope she knows that I will never take that from her, or ask her about it.  The stopwatch clicks its heels shut at me every morning at nine and starts back up again every evening about 5:30.  Time does not exist in these hours, and I do not exist much off of the page either.  I want no harm done to anyone; I want no explanations, or growth, or revenge.  I simply want to get back that mass of lost time, when the ticking is silenced, my breathing ceased, my seizure underway.  I am tired of foaming at the mouth every time I feel something inside those walls, that I want to feel outside . . .in that gentle sun burning a hole through my eyes’ experience of it, in that field I walk through in my dreams at dusk, living out the sensations of existences being lived, extinguished and rebirthed - implanting itself together in a kind of supernova of ultimate being.  Where one life does not sting and bleed through another’s action without the inaction of an often unspoken of, third party.  Someone is always pulling the strings, and inaction left to its own devices only leads to circumstance becoming its god.

In the first few seconds of my life when the jumper cables awake it again in the evening time, I vow not to go that way.  Whatever a vow may mean these days- when everything has the option of renewal in its palms.  This has been a hard way to live . . . I know Da wouldn’t have liked it.  He wanted to help me reach that other life; the one of my choosing, of my creating, of worth because I was worthy of it.  I think he knows there are quite a few ways out, and the bases are covered, as they say.  A crack to the timepiece, smothering the foxhole of moments gone and come and here now, always Here Now, shatters and sinks hard into the fencework around my heart, only to realize that blood letting is sometimes the only way to heal up and feed the fire in our belly.

The fire has a great danger of going out, and freedom when not used is the exact same way.  We must be on guard.  We must be vigilant, if only to allow ourselves to keep that liberty, the sort I see spinning like a top in her eyes with such ease of access, as she turnes upward and glances fixted on a curving swoopful of birds descending / ascending.  Truth is, every moment of my life outside of the place I don’t think of the place- of its inhabitants, of its details, of its supposed rules or what it takes, what it is.  It likes to think it is bigger than all of its contents, but as to it and as to them and the whole of its bland and complacent DNA, the only thing I find there which I ever think about when not there, is you.  I wish you could see me when the clock starts up again- every dusk in the field, every night’s dreaming, every morning and day away, as myself. Smiling, supple, soft in the ways of the world flanked by armies of angels at my side.  Crowing their dissatisfaction, the birds in the hourglass toss themselves to and fro, and I’ve a night of life and a morning to fully comprehend, before I shut it all off again and sigh, rumbling and grinding to a halt, as the elevator doors open and I feel it passing from my body, left just visible in the inner recessed of my eyes, where it stays sleeping for the day unless you look in the right place, and I give one more day to the remaining sacrifice I must have some reason to fulfill. 

M. Lucia

The Plague, at Sunset

The overused and over sized mug that made her think of having breakfast in France (more of a small bowl really – to be drunk with thick, misshapen bread, sweet jam and a good read.  Breakfast which was a morning full of quiet semblance, of savoring each and every bite and thought of the day) had dark blue patterns on it, the detail of which she studied deeply.  Anything to take her out of her mind -  her teacher referred to it as a monkey mind, when we let ourselves go off the deep end of recurring, obsessive thoughts, encircling our wares, removing us from our instincts and numbing the feelings of ourselves in our bodies.  She, one time, apologized in that sultry way she had to a lover about being “insatiable”.  He didn’t seem to have any problem at all with it, deciding which way to mount her next as she said it, saying he knew the moment he met her that she was, in fact, as dirty as all this.  As he stroked her neck and back, she turned over slightly, replying in an almost level tone that it was partially the best way to get herself out of her own head, which seemed to resonate with this man, at that time. 

She was as faraway from her body at this moment as she could be, however- sick, at home, her throat swollen up and raw as if she had swallowed a giant cock for over a week’s time (the kind of the size that just wasn’t fun anymore), and not in the usual fashion – just parked there, in the back of her throat, seemingly never to leave.  She couldn’t even say “ahhhhhh”.  Due to this illness, the giant coffee mug was filled not with coffee, but Sweet with tea, the dark Irish sort she was addicted to, along with some sweet honey and cloves.  Her belly, full up with thoughts of swimming trunks and summer lights strewn across green, moist, leafy trees……barefoot, and feeling every tiny knot of the dirt and its ground creeping up around her steps, wasn’t strong enough to even take her usual infusion of bourbon into the tea she drank, though she thought something as manly as that might please the cock in her throat to take a walk, just for a little while, or find someplace more pleasing to go.  She sat there, in the late afternoon blister of orange light that would simply come upon her in an instant, casting its paint across her equally burnt orange walls, forming shadows and shapes that sulked across her home, i.e. sanitarium as sluggish as the actions of oncoming Winter. 

This late day sun actually warmed her face, her brain caught even more so inside the thick skin of her hair and head, in that manner which mainly takes place under the duress of illness.  Glassy eyes, bloodshot, a slow step and absolutely no want or feeling about anything.  Just that the sick left her.  The silent stillness of the moment sat completely right with her, however.  The year was winding down, and her body had simply turned itself on its head, forcing her into this.  She had to be forced into most things, but once she lifted off, there was no stopping her.  Zero to a million.  This was especially true of the lasciviousness of her nature.  More then often to the shock of the co-participants.  You didn’t see her coming; well, that wasn’t true exactly.  You heard her, which she was also known to blithely apologize for later on.  Again, other than being sure she took note of herself and her actions, and let you know that she did, she was light as a feather, above and beyond the realms of shame and regret.  It was quite beautiful to see, reflected back, or so she was also told, usually when her short, but dexterous fingernails did their work, up and down nape of neck, hairline and back. 

She now gently ran her fingernails backward over a small, red scratch on her forearm, forcing it ever so slightly to bleed in one minuscule, round corner.  She loved to pick scabs since she was a little girl, climbing in trees, planting and picking flower formations and fashioning secret symbols out of the chalk from stones on the pavement just around her mother’s clothesline.  She fell down a lot, and was always a quick bruiser.  She never minded, though; as long as it didn’t hurt it was just fine.  The consuming of alcohol, especially wine, had only added to her so called “klutz” factor.  Whenever her hip or knee would catch something, she enjoyed using the line “I don’t know where I end and the <insert klutz inducing object> begins”.   It was Always the object’s fault, as well (Always).  Whatever anger, Mediterranean passion and old-world rage she held fast to, rarely had to do with other people, but most often objects and their not cooperating as she needed them to.  Terrible phrases would emit from her mouth having to do with whores, rape and motherfuckers.  If they only knew what they had in store for them had they been able to talk back, well, then maybe her misplaced rage would have a proper outlet.  Nothing emitted from her now mute mouth, throat cocked closed as she wet the tip of her finger and repeatedly smoothed over the droplet of blood which was just enough to need tending; her minor self mutilation (and the limit of it – she never understood those types.  Hurting themselves so they feel alive…much better ways to experience that, she felt) having reached its peak in her sullen boredom.   She licked the blood off, the rusty sweet taste on her tongue was a pleasant change to the bland, senseless lack of anything.  The orange light dying and shining shyly on her little wound made her blissful as she tried to swallow in vain, again and again.  She sat back on her easy chair (more of a loveseat, or somewhere in between) without formality, with one leg stretched over the arm of the chair, and one tucked beneath her thigh.  It gave her some kind of gentile, flirtatious equilibrium. 

Her father had fallen asleep in this easy chair, and started his dying there, in a somber instant.  After a day of working around the house, projects started but not quite finished, his decades of hard work and fire movement encircling his heart like a band of slaves, needing to put the master down, so they could finally be free.  She knew her father had completely expected it; and yet didn’t at all, or so his face told her mother when he awoke for a moment, grabbed his head and fell back again, into the gaudy mauve fabric of the chair (her mother’s choice), strongly rooted on the floorboards of the last house that he would build up from nothing, from blueprints and the never-ending construction of his imagination.  She often sat here, in these moments and brought herself back again to the place of leaving, when he woke up from his manufactured hospital sleep to say goodbye to her, the last of his fire warming his hands in hers, his smile apparent, his brown eyes tearing, holding her with a force so much greater than that of a dying, old man.  When she found herself back there, she would cry for the briefest of moments, or simply sigh in the belly of the feeling, and let it go, remembering all the love he afforded her, and the most treasured prize: the natural and passionate ability to be herself in all of her darkness, godliness and golden glory.  Like being dropped in the center of the maze, and you have to imagine yourself a way out.  There is no such thing as cheating – you can draw a map, lift yourself far above the aisles and see the pathways, or take the hand of a guide.  Once you could imagine your way out, it didn’t seem quite so fear inducing.  Once the fear of her father leaving her in this life, had, with a kiss and a squeeze of his hand in earnest goodbye and thanks, dropped her there in that maze, it was as if nothing could ever scare her again.  Of this she was most settled, and thankful.  There were parts of her, which he couldn’t even account for, but she was meeting them head on with open eyes and a heart worth hitting the trails with.  She did feel, though, that she held less love in her same roadside heart than before.  That she felt was unchangeable.  But at this rate, she couldn’t imagine being healthy, energetic and not cock throated again, so maybe the fast moving sunset had more in store for her than she could ever imagine.  She was willing to live with that loss of control, and her feelings simply warmed to it, as she enjoyed the paternal comfort of the ugly mauve easy chair with the floral pillows.   Her father had earned his rest in this chair; and she had earned hers here today.  She thought about re-upholstering it, so she wouldn’t have to see it in the very same and direct way, the mauve colour scheme of her mother’s last couch set with him, and she didn’t have to, as she did now, cover it with brown throws tucked neatly and tightly into the folds, the orange top throw too small to not get messed up by the chair’s recipient ass, no matter its size, shape or ability.  No matter how hard she tried to cover it up neatly thus, the mauve bottoms or corners peeked out, and let themselves be known when she’s least expected it.  She didn’t have the money to re-upholster the chair really, but she didn’t want to let it go.  It was a good chair, and seemed to belong in the center of her home.   

After trying to lazily re-tuck the throw just under her ass to hide its messy folds, she licked her little cut once more, and picked up the slim, coloured shot glass of her family moonshine, which she often poured on approaching winter nights such as these (or mornings, or afternoons) alongside whatever other beverage she was working on at the moment.  She sipped her moonshine, letting its lively texture cascade in sumptuous, romantic skips down her tender throat.  If anything would burn away the deep, sharp caverns of her poor, overly seduced throat, the moonshine would.  It had always worked for her Daddy. 

Murky

So I was falling asleep amisdt blue night stars glistening, sitting with intention at the river, with my leafy viney friend, the physical pain, who was wrapped around the little girl, the one who still hurts a lot.  I let them know it was ok, and there was a ritual afoot.

But --- mainly, within the dream it all came down to the one moment I expelled a phlegm of some sort from my mouth and nose.  I noticed it was dark, murky rich Green.  And I remembered my chinese medicine, the liver, the gall bladder, wood and anger, jealousy and hard qualities, darkness....and also remembered that the darker it is, the better it is, because it means it's coming OUT.  Disgusting a visual as this is, it made me very happy.

Three Point Turn

And so the rise and the fall, again.  I thought I had escaped the dark pod, and I did, but I forgot to shut the door.  "The truth will set you free, but not until it is finished with you".  I wish your mind was still sitting patiently in the sun, in the stands watching the tennis, DFW.  You were right.

It's a pretty obvious plot.  I am driving, but have left the main roads, and am lost in a village of which I do not know.  Soon, the car chugs along up a hill, and the tall grasses, weed like and exotic, are all stacked up in the floor of the car, as I move deeper into the seeming abyss.  But it is not an abyss at all, just a patch of deep greenery in an unknown place.  I fear for a moment, that there are strange creatures living in the vines, and now in the car with me.  But I let that go, and I make a very sharp, but slow and calculated three point turn, as I see locals and their lands watching me do so.  Calm, and assured, the car is turned around, and back down the hill I go to wherever is next, and meant to be.

Shutterlight in, out

There is ADD in the dreams of late - many, many of them, and just no time to tell them all.

There is a house, in a tropical setting, yet familiar, on a hill.  Outside in the garden there is surprisingly,  a massive serpent.  He is heavy, golden and brown, and there is immediate fright, but also there is the feeling that he is there as a benevolent force.  Bloated, strong, and protective.  People come up to the house via the hill right past him, and they are amazed by his presence, but he does not move to hurt them.  I'm starting to realize he is my friend, and neither my good grace or my worst habits.  He watches without judgment and will be there as my strength and empathy - silent - until the end of the cycle.

I am asleep, but aware of it.  I'm on the table, and the healer is there working around the skin of my left arm, and, as my eye twitches, my heartbeat becomes strong in that left arm, and he kisses my arm and my neck and climbs onto me, on the table.  Benevolence, thankfulness, sex liberated and the ultimate weightless feeling of what healing can and will do, if you let him.

Driving erratically, out of control per usual, but still carting along my favourite family, yet roads are closed, and I cannot tell which direction to go, or which lane I should follow down.  Going up stairs at the wheel, he turns around and shows me the missing piece and says "I don't feel this comfortable with other people to show them this".  I accept it, of course, and keep driving.  Then, a big show and to do seems to be where we were going.  I need a new dress.

Thru Crossing

The wanderings of the (my) collective unconscious have hit a bit of a roadblock, but doing splendid up to recently.  Real life has suddenly got very interesting again.  Like a giant heavy weight is gone.  But, there are still paranoia dreams of lost jobs and impossible school schedules, and people very openly trying to knife me, with surgical knives now and again.  But, the difference is, I am very adeptly avoiding getting hurt or killed or maimed, taking the knives out of their hands, but also wondering is it them there to slice me open for my own good, and let even more of myself out.  Either way, I like that they are standing there, plain as day in the open air and not hiding from me anymore.  We are working together now, and exposed, naked, drunk or bleeding, I'm alive.  More than ever.

Until We Meet Again

Hey there.  So, I tend to blame you for lots of what's wrong with me, credit you as the one who made me as deviantly blessed and selflessly liberated as I am, and recognize that you were there in the place when I lost my whole world, and as I've said, to myself, before, I'll never forget that.  Still, it's been a Long time and I think I've closed the old door numerous times and months (possibly years) back.  Was just really...surprising and interesting to see you again like that in my dream.

You looked like you always did, and it came off as some kind of "just ran into you" meeting.  It wasn't a bad feeling, nor was there any embracing.  I seem to think we went to a bar and talked a bit over some drinks....the hows and whys, the past and other things I can't put into words which were communicated in that dreaming language that moves too fast for ours- too far in from the depths of, I suppose, me (they say everyone is a facet of you in the dream, don't they?).  Still, we didn't talk of our lives now, and there were no angry words or tears, old feelings or frustrations...it just was pretty clear that we needed to do this, and we said goodbye on this plane, catching up on the time continuum that I thought was running pretty smoothly over on this side of things.  And, that was it.  No image of either of us walking off, a casual and good natured feeling of completion was all that remained.

I wasn't expecting this, nor did it rattle my feathers any.  It was pleasant, familiar, and was delivered solely to my door (bed) after I looked the harvest moon straight in the eye sometime around the witching hour.  It must have seen that act as a direct summoning of something, and I was happy with what I got.  I woke up on this celestial birthday of my celestial father (80 in human years) easy, tired, and all around myself.  It was mad, grand, dirty, a hard lesson and fun to know you.  Take care, now.  Keep dreaming.

I'm Still Here!

This sums up my dreams of late better than the actual forked remembrances of where and how and cuts to the heart of the why, so why not.

Crow 9.9.11

Many, many dreamscapes one after the other, back and forth. Most notably, I was back in Croatia seeing my little cousin Sara and asking her about the ring from Ireland which we lost in Ivo's car. She had tried it on and said with her lovely voice "is beeeaaauuuuutiful", the celtic knot ring, one of two I had worn since Ireland. I was happy it was in the car and said when she finds it, its hers. She said in the dream that no they didn't find it yet. Then it was as if I was staying in Ireland instead. My room like a room in a damp old castle, secret doors etc...lots of activity going on otherwise, unseen. It was haunted and I was trying to get the woman there to believe me. I played (3rd person) a clarinet of sorts to summon the spirit, but it only worked when my black cat Aleister summoned them, on a kids version of the clarinet, rags tied to it blowing in the wind. There was a great sound, a presence in the light coming from the bathroom, and the prints of crow's feet. And there was a crow. A messenger, not of death but trying to give me, well, a message. Not enough time to get the meaning this time. Later on in the dreams, I am gliding through my waterfront and then on the highway and over the hill is a big new ferris wheel, and I wonder where I am or whether the ferris wheel is newly built or if always it has been there. Either way, it makes me happy.