Below a high window harsh daylight tumbles down shaft-like mixing w/ dust rising. She pauses to enter the slipstream before diving into the daimonion. Her silhouette sets off a harsh, abrupt shadow as she secures a promise by commencing to dance.

In this transparent essence, she madly spins w/ the intensity + reverence of a Dervish. Her head is thrown back to belie ecstasy + invite delusion. W/ one hand to the small of the back, the other to her chin she sends the brief chiffon flailing, seven veils flying into a luminous smokey blur sending dark oblique fluid shapes rocking on the rammed floor following her every course. She glances in + out of the late sun's spotlight unknowing if her shadow follows or leads her. Perhaps it does both. The jealous shadow seems to pull her repeatedly into the focusing light as if needing to be seen.

     

The dance becomes her. Her feet scrape the dirt + then seem to hover. She hides her face + then bares teeth. Bucking + writhing w/ the allure of a feral cat.

    

She’ll continue till forgetting what she wants, or when she is ready to receive what she has asked for.

As natural light dims + gloom begins to take over, the tender flames that have burned continuously now draw attention as they grow in proxy, their intensity becoming the brightest glow in the room.

    

The moon peeks into the clerestory window, nods its head w/ apology, + sinks again below the grease smeared marble ledge.

    

She divides the room. Her facing aspect lit up by a nervous flickering wall of candles. Her dark side lost in the cast of skipping, shrill, wild apparitions skimming the stone wall. The chamber is enhanced w/ the illusion that she is many, + lends a potency of the impending bizarre.

   

Shape shifting, yet ever constant.

On + on lost in the dance as dawn awakens.

Her shadow fades, pulling at her like the tug of sleep. Her expression satiated, the apostrophe of the night wanes.

   

She no longer knows or cares if it's she who’s in trouble, or those around her.

Attendees notice the conversation piece. A hand wrought pewter serving platter w/ a chiseled pattern of chaos w/in its symmetrical border. As mesmerizing as a mandala, + awaiting the gruesome prize.

i saw Ginny's car today. She almost hit me. i’m left trying to figure out what the heads up was about. Do you believe in that strange displaced channeling, when someone passing by says something off hand to you + it goes in deep? Or, vice versa, you just have to say something to a stranger as if someone else inside your head is forcing you? Bypass brave or cordial, you message what this person needs to know, needs to hear.
Well, i do.

“What type of animal is that?”
Ginny was a triple scorpio. The only one i’ve met so far. Known her + knew it, anyway. A breed that would be hard to miss. As it happened our determination took us to see prints from the John Lennon archive that were being sold at a posh gallery downtown. We headed out to take a long lunch break in the name of art. Simply beautiful drawings + lithos had been collected. Eventually, we came to a closed portfolio on a wood rack w/ a sign warning of the erotic material w/in. Always interested in the hidden, Ginny raised an eyebrow cocked her head, looked around + said, “This, we have to see.”

As soon as she cracked open the large folio six people zapped over like magnets to peer over our shoulders. i guess they were waiting for a Ginny to oblige their fear + interest. She flipped through w/ a running commentary.
“Okay ... not offended ... yet ... got it ... i could have done better ... what type of animal is that?”

Returning to Blake now + again, is re-entering the slipstream. i’m remembering part of the Four Zoas written by Willi Blake, but i need to find it … i am good at drawing, also at drawing blanks. 

William Blake 

 The Four Zoas 

-excerpt

"What is the price of Experience? 

Do men buy it for a song?

Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price

Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children.

Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy,

And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain. It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun

And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn.

It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted,

To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer,

To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season

When the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs.

It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements,

To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;

To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast;

To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;

To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, and the sickness that cuts off his children

While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door, and our children bring fruits and flowers.

Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten, and the slave grinding at the mill,

And the captive in chains, and the poor in the prison, and the soldier in the field

When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead.

It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:

Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me."

Read this as a confession + an apology. 

It is poetry, it is telescoped, this is only a teensy of the work.

Just a reminder.

Random thoughts. Ephemeral words.

The word ‘thwarted’ is only used in novels.

Vampires ARE real! I saw a vampire interviewed on the National Geographic channel, and they don’t lie, do they mom?

Water tanks + the wayside shrines.

End of a limerick never written
...for she can balance quite well w'out it.

Got to admire Aubrey Beardlsey, a man who in this ninth hour destroys some of his life’s work on the grounds that it is obscene + reckons he wont make it through the inspection gate of heaven w/ it in his satchel.

+, J. Adams, who in a huff would jump up on the board table throw his furry wig at his peers.

Lying down is like standing on your side.

We have hit upon the Baroque of cartoons. i believe Flapjack is a good example.

Today's rainy day to-do list;
Build a fishing rod for Chloe-
Make NY pretzels with kids help-
Disperse dye a red cape-
Repair a chenille fabric coverlet-
Make dog shade cover for the deck w/ scrap flag nylon-
Go to graveyard in the rain-
Remember to take pic of mossy crumbly green-

Oh, for writing out loud!

second wind...
Nothing awakens the heart or stops it cold more than dirtying pages. To me, writing is much like gardening. Carrying my tools out, i turn to a place looking as though it needs a bit of tending to. i have a sit. Before long, using a word dragnet, i’ve raked in + set up a few pages, + weeded through verbosity.

i heard KR will be writing an autobiography. Good thing. I hope it’s full of lies. He’s one of my heroes.

116 Having just spied Keith Richards on the cover of the Rolling Stone, i ran back to the studio to ask who would go get it for me. Someone joked, It’s just like porn, after the first time you buy, it’s no big deal.

A kind soul left + came back with the tabloid. i ran into the oval office showing off the cover image. A universal grimace, Jayne, I just had lunch!

...the river is flowing, rolling and flowing. the river is flowing, down to the sea...

It’s neat, it’s logical and I can’t argue with it.  - Mickey Moran

i really thought i was going to miss out getting to appreciate this part. 

i thought ‘Drew had skipped what i had always recognized as a privileged + important development of a male youngster. Those of you who have sons know what i am talking about. Those of you grown men will remember when the Copycat Gene kicked in. Time was when you could mimic. My son does now; the sounds of a race starting, a battle commencing, blowing up buildings, pistols, riffles, + machine guns. The more advanced sounds i’ve been recognizing include outboard motor boats, wenches wenching, + toilets flushing, + seagulls on a beach. But, i reckon a repertoire would not be complete w/out perfecting the Darth Vader breathy breathy thing.

176
‘Drew’s eyes were closed + he was about to fall asleep, but he had one last idea,
What if our life is on the movie screen, and the cartoons are watching us?

All kids have to go through their ‘song writing’ phase, you know that.  - Mrs. Moran.