Of a paper cut

The difference between a shallot and a purple onion is concentrated emotion.

No bulk.

A hair cut.

And, the mustard seed suddenly makes a loud pop when wok

Hits fire.

Man carries his skeleton against his spine.

Woman carries the unborn child toward her belly.

Elysian mysteries.

To rick up nine c(h)ords of good spruce.

The way to couch the light from the dark.

The epi-phenomenal of a collective unconscious.

Æ’s blood stains the page to remind what can be.

Alive.

Vellum on skin helps the coagulation

of a paper cut.

Sweet Dundee

With eyes burning like the Morning Star, She listens.

There are two men: one speaks.

“Be gone unruly female; for happy thou shalt not be.”

She smiles in kindness for one of the two hims.

For the other him, She also smiles: with both sets of teeth exposed.

An exposed full galleon.

Teeth bared as a baboon warning an unwelcome guest.

Abandon all hope here.

Similar expressions yet differentiated by the upper deck showing versus the same but with both decks apparent.

Subtle shifts of Sigils.

Apropos of nothing

And, I’ve never found a satisfying answer to the question: what is the difference between picayune and jejune. If there is none, why do these redundancies exist?

Charmed at the thought of such irony. A redundancy of adjectives describing the simplistic, naive, and superficial.

Jejunus in Latin: fasting, barren; without food.

In 1800’s Lousiana, a picayune was a small coin with a low monetary value.

Amusingly, both words (as popularized) possess a French origin. Furthering their redundant nature of describing the meaningless.

Old Gal

(A)

Ghost feeling at home by use of a long dead limbic system. A house to house the quickening of Spirit into Ghost. Like the iridescent, white glow from the young fruit of her tomatoes’ vines, whose sublimation precedes its red perfection over time.

Introduction

And, the old gal in her late thirties looked like an ancient ballerina because she was one. In a previous life. By ballet standards, currently morbidly obese. By the urban standards of her previous Pac NW life, she was slightly overweight. In her new small-town New England home, shapely and well-fit.

The Mark moves in Its reckoning, as The Place relocates.

She supposed she’d always felt besmirched; though, she’s unsure why that particular word pops into mind.

She neuroadapted because she had seen heights. Once you’ve stood on The Mountain and suffered hypoxia, nothing compares.

Chapter One

Part I

“The far-off strange country belongs to me again, the alien has become home.”

Hermann Hesse, Wandering

The World rushes by the Old Gal. Going by in cars. Loud. Stinking. She walks while watching a fellow a few paces before her. Both pacing the Main Drag. Sidewalk parallel and abreast to lanes of traffic with their small-town trickle of a creek of very few cars. It is early and the population of The Mark of this time remains worms and not early birds.

It is a game of Red Light Stop & Green Light Go meets Peekaboo. He is passed by cars driving. The cars hit a stoplight. He hits the crosswalk button and changes the stoplight’s timing. He moves a block ahead of the motors. The light turns green. The cars move ahead of him; until, they are stopped by the next red light.

Progress happens a block at a time. Clicking towards the desired outcome. There is a tedious pleasure to precision.

And, the cars miss the smells. The aroma of lavender permeating from downtown.


She walks toward her place of employment and recalls that

“Parsifal shot the most dead swans from the sky; while strange elections went on underground. ”

What struck her was the force with which such strange thoughts shook her. From placidity to lucidity.

A Sky-Eyed. Her gift. A gift often confused as impediment. The Old Gal is a stop-gap. Better yet, she knows it. A normal gal whose cognition suddenly becomes a vessel for some-thing to use. She didn’t speak of it. It never turned malevolent. She just knew how to keep quiet, look unassuming, and listen. Like an antenna suddenly and silently cognizant. Listening, gathering information as it arrives. But, never transmitting its own message. Just amplifying others. In it she possesses Damocles’ sword. Despite never being an obsequious courtier in the court of Dionysus Two of Syracuse, she understood how a twitch of horse hair could end everything.

~

She had to live with it. Others, who didn’t, could fuck right off.

Pockets turned out

“It is certainly not an incurious question,” s/he replied.

“Then not we assuredly shan’t, shall we?” s/he asked.

“Well, we most certainly wilt not giggle as they purposely don’t roll their eyes, shan’t we?” s/he responded.

This exchange is followed by a blessed schism of silence;

and then, too quickly,

consumed by the loose jingle of someone dropping his/her last six pence.

Hofstadter’s Fugue

“Thermodynamics is explained by statistical mechanics,” just as my soul and body grow worn from being worn.

Stretching out and becoming more comfortable against my skin.

Soul soothing body, but only through use and over~time.

Denim jeans worn over and over, over time and spaces, until setting.

Conversely, “statistical mechanics can bypassed by talking at the level of thermodynamics.”

The same way I can ignore my tattered soul by wearing my favorite pair of jeans and suddenly feel whole without a whole lot of thinking.

Body soothing soul.

Into the resolution of contrapuntal composition.

Quotes taken from Douglas Hofstadter’s I Am A Strange Loop

ISBN 978-0-465-03079-8

sum times

Sometimes, he whispers his secrets to me.

I tell him back, “I don’t think you abused alcohol; I think alcohol abused you.”

The logical recognition of your own irrationality.

Conundrum.

Knowing something cannot change the contradictory feeling.

When subjective empiricism of the senses defies sterile, abstracted, objectivity.

Life occurs in the Void; but, Life does not happen in a vaccum.

And, she knew she is a hedge witch only well after she became one.

Marking the universes in which she found herself, by the subtlest changes in her body.

Her shape.

The curves of her cheeks.

The way the words came amid the colors in which she feels.

Mind your step

Looking up at the sky, he tripped and fell.

Plummeting down the dried up well.

Twelve feet down.

Dark, dank, stinking.

Now, twice a day he looks up

To see

The noonday sun

And the midnight moon.

And, when it’s lit down there it’s bright.

Otherwise, very dark.

Sacrifice.

Sanctimony.

Symphony.

Sanctuary.

Sacred.

Scared.

Sacrilegious.

Religious.

A strangely swapping of places of an I and E,

at the maddened haberdasher’s tea party.

Shadows moan

Those things that once impressed me, now seem trite and arbitrary.

A clever but unbelievable costume, a poor actor whose innocent eyes are meant to disguise an acting ability one would despise.

Watching a faux barkeep improperly wipe the wooden countertop.

Comedy needs grounding but here is none.

Blowjobs and startling gun shots.

Weak laughs and forced jump starts.

Someone is certainly going to burn while someone else most definitely will drown.

I see you

Strange what you hear when truly listening.

The young man who complains the most and says he does not care,

he works the hardest.

The gossipy ladies have perfected lazing.

His water was cut off today. A long complicated story explicating.

The people most deserving of a hug often would be the first to refuse one.

The kind of kid for whom you cook a tasty yet healthy home~cooked meal.

Even though you know he wilt likely throw it out without eating;

but, it is the thought and effort worth counting.