village tea room

Golden, red.
Bleached and red.
Tattooed pale arms.
Teeth and squinting.
Dark rimmed eyes
paint scrapped windows
through inside walls
and up stairs
eyes each time tromping up and down
eyes stuck up stairs and red dresses and black tights
then wide smiles
and clicking assurances
.     giant teeth!
jumping from behind corners
with caffeine and sweets:
sugar plum.

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Stone

3. Carrying

Buckling, burning, failing, so quickly, three, maybe a fourth step and he lurches forward and the stone stops in the exact place it lands.  He arches back amazed by the relief and in so much pain, everything screaming.

A few minutes to breath and build the will back up.  Then right the stone, to its point, rest, breath like a horse, rest, keep the toppling at bay, wrap hands, point toes, press chest and cheek, look to the sky, lift, walk forward, lurch, toss, and scream in agony.

This is not manageable.  A half-mile would take a day!  If he could even repeat this for hours.  Maybe right the thing onto a ledge, step below it and carry it on his back?  Risky, yes, but he might walk a dozen yards or more that way.  There.  There is a short wall.  With some struggle he can slide the stone onto the top slab.  It is not becoming easier.  Grit, grimace, spit, strain, under the edge, push again, back, thighs, calves, toes, and will, the stone reluctantly slides on top of the wall.  “Christ!”  And he paces back and forth breathing out like a horse again, even shaking his head back and forth and screaming out a little to keep from feeling sick.  Right it onto its edge.  The same.  Breath and curse.  Needn’t bring it to its point, thank God, fit it to his back instead, cupping hands under the edge, belt below the edge as well, head tilted forward for the bulges in the stone.  Let it topple slowly.  Slowly!  Cry and carry!  Carry!  Carry!  Stumbling steps.  Carry!  Carry!  Shuffling, jerking feet.  Carry!  Throw the thing off, oh God!  God!  Hell!

That was further.  That was not a good plan.  Boy is sitting by a tree staring at the stone.  This stone is heavy.  This stone is so much to bear.  He feels sick.  He feels terrible.  This is the right stone.

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Stone

2. Lifting

Second or third largest?  It is the largest that he could budge, and budging is something completely different from lifting and carrying.  As pretty as the stone is it is awkward: taller than the boys torso and head, blinding him or forcing him to walk sideways; wider than would allow him to wrap his arms around the front, to squeeze with elbows, chest and hands; thick enough that his hands can’t pinch the edge.   The “point” of the stone – the corner that can be imagined as the point to the arrowhead – should face downward, leaving boy with the most manageable width and a sloping edge that would let him cradle near the base without having to work his fingers between the stone and earth – no pinching or crushing – though the angles would quicken his clock against gravity – slipping, not just the anticipated weakening grip.  And the task of setting the stone onto this point is its own challenge: brutal of course, but delicate too.  Precise.

Right the thing.  Turn the stone to its edge.  You might expect that he would try once and barely lift an edge, and the second time he would lift with grimaces and spitting exhalations and muttered cries from his navel, driving up with more steam as he can get a full arm and shoulder under the beast, then using his thighs, calves, and toes push the stone to the edge, too forcefully past the edge on the uneven ground, trying to catch the sudden falling away with outstretched arms and an already overexerted back…

Yes, once.  The second time (third) after recovering exhalations, panting, pacing away and back again with hands on hips and head tilted back, he fashions a surface for the edge to sit, and a line of rocks to aid in the catching.  And with an effort no less dramatic he rights the stone – to its side…

Now to the point.  Learning from these previous efforts he kicks smaller rocks into place and others out of the way.  He even unearths a perfect divot for the point to sit in.  And again with anguished faces and grunts and spit, sliding feet, dropping knees, and strength unimaginable from this waif of a boy the thing finds herself balanced on her narrow point, always threatening to topple mercilessly.

Boy hugs her, wide legged and desperate to catch any breath that might regain his balance let alone the wide stone’s.  Exhaling through closed loose lips, he understands the horse working hard, and laughs that he’s made the same sounds.  Even after he is done laughing about it, he breathes like a horse, and closes his eyes, holding the stone, feeling his sweat and the breeze.  And with his hands wrapped around the thickness, toes pointed east and west, his chest and cheek pressed firmly against the granite slab, and eyes to the budding canopy, he lifts the rock.

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Stone

1. Choosing

There is a heap of stones.  At first the seemingly twiggish boy chooses the largest of the bunch.  But giving all his back – “all” save tearing lean muscles from thin bone – he can’t shift the thing; not one grain.  He tries his hand a few times beyond reason but not so much to waste the day, then goes about choosing a better stone.  This one, the second or third largest, is a better shape: a gigantic arrowhead.  Lifting this rock will prove a brutal task, but when it slid a foot across the pile with his second push, he was certain.

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sparrowl

A sparrow flew by me and for an instant he was a white owl.

The sparrow owl landed on the ground and looked to me
with knowing eyes and as much of a smile as a sparrow owl can muster.

“That bird is a magic.”  I know.

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Recent Additions

I just added a page to this website:

“Academic”

It hosts my year long Senior Study that I completed for partial fulfillment of my undergraduate studies at Goddard College.

There are three main projects: 1. I’m Fine (Novella) 2. [t]he Guide’s Role (6 part podcast) 3. [t]he Guide’s Role (context paper for the two creative projects, including the transcriptions of the podcast).

Check it out!

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the Stream

You know it’s like I really really really want water, and I am sitting near a stream.  And if I drink the water I think it would be bad for some reason but I can’t remember why.  And when I look away I start to forget about needing to drink, but sometimes I get so thirsty and sometimes I accidentally turn around.  And there is the stream and it’s so beautiful, and I want to drink, but I can’t.  But I can’t remember why.  And I am so thirsty.  And I want to cry but I don’t have any tears. My lips are chapped.

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Beasty

There is a monster.
She is a terrific beast and I am so entirely at her mercy.

I cannot slay her,
she is a lamb – no, a treasure
that must be left to live and grow.
I could infect her kingdom too easily.
But she is no lamb,
in a moment she could strike me into a thousand pieces.
That is her power.
Still she has to remain safe from me,
because she is the unicorn or narwhal or some other beasty magic that has a horn or…
Also if I destroyed her I would be shattered a thousand times again.
So I am her victim
and also her nightmare.

I have decided to run from her,
but she is in every beautiful and hideous thing I see.
Every stone and flower.
Every pretty girl and terrible boy.
Every waking and sleeping moment.
Every moment of happy or sad.
Every memory I have of her is my home and prison
and I am banished and captive by both!

And so at this divide I am the serene madman.
At any moment ready to act beautifully, hideously, or to explode in tears,
but none ever come
so I remain feeling as if I’ll lose my mind
but as still as the calm before the world crushing storm.

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making

Sometimes it all swirls about, a maddening pot.

The too nervous, panicked, and overwhelmed, toss the boiling brew over, putting out the fire in a flash of drama, and then the thing is gone and the kitchen, bedroom, littered streets are dark; not even a remaining glow in the eyes.

But!  But if you stay with the beast, letting her simmer – simmer!?
Letting her turbulent roll and spit!
Let the thing dirvish and seize!
But you, yes you, keep calm.
Maybe only with a hinting smile that some might mistake as devilish,
though you are quite certain that it is “only” sincere tickling;
and the rolling, turning, bubbling, maddening, is a pot in your own belly,
it makes you all these things,
with your hinting, devilish smile, it slowly becomes
the fodder,
form,
manifesting,
by “old” man alchemy (which is always a work of the heart)
the magic you have said you want to believe.

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Nini Theilade

I’ve decided that for my greatest feat of impossible love –
Following the borderline personality haunted by ghosts,
The 3-year pen pal with an endless cast of hidden boyfriends,
The secret affair with “married” woman,
The married childhood sweetheart with child who lives in London,
The high school student who I will not speak of due to an undying dedication to her, as well as a reasonable success in respect and honor,
And finally the single mother for whom I am riddled with guilt –
that I should fall in love with Nini Theilade in 1935.  She was born in 1915 so it is almost a reasonable age for me to fall in love with her.  And the times were different then; a man of 33 would not be frowned upon for marrying a woman of 20.

Unlike the challenges of my past impossible loves I am not engaging minor boughts with time and space; this is a full on battle.  My plan of action will be varied.

 

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To begin practically I will: hone my piano accompaniment skills for ballet; complete the compositions I’ve been working on for years for two ballets; write an additional piece specific for her particular style of dance; do more pushups, pull ups, and sit ups to meet the physical expectations of a woman in the 1930’s; work on my prose; button up my hygiene and wardrobe and get a haircut.

Moving on to practices that might influence space: I have begun practicing basic sleight of hand tricks, the French-drop for example.  This might tune me up for more significant manipulations of space.  I will begin studying chemistry so as to transition into alchemy, and quantum physics to magnify my ability to impact the observed.  I am looking into being discovered by a Mystery School or other gathering of the Occult.

Lastly to impact time: I’ll begin by pacing myself as if I were living in the 1930’s.  This will demand a bit more research into the times.  More reading of books from that era, more watching of films from that era in their original format.  I have also returned to a practice of daily meditation, but instead of focusing on morality which is principle (though often over looked in the modern context) to Buddhism I will emphasize first on the projection of the Astral Body through time but then also the Ethereal and then Physical Body through that lens.

In the end I expect another disastrous relationship that I do not regret for one moment for the love and magic that it brings my bleeding and broken heart.

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