DRAGON + CIRCLES

He held the winged doll in his arms cradling it as he swayed back and forth imagining the life it represented.

Squinting into the sun he imagined the disadvantage of sword fighting against the light with the opponent silhouetted. He moved toward the surf and knelt down dragging the figure onto the sand. The silk brocade fabric wicked up the salt water splaying it in a meander following the jacquard pattern. The darkening of the form interested him and he studied it with intent, not hearing the small girl child come up and plop beside him with familiarity, the obvious question on her face.

He silently cursed his inability to defend and responded begrudgingly,

“Playing at magic.”

Her look remained unimpressed so he continued,

“This is a do-it-to-it doll. Somewhere it’s happening to another real live dragon. And I’M doing it.”  He made a jab to his chest with a thumb extended from a fist.

He realized having said so the idea relied on a leap of faith. Glancing at her sideways and seeing her charmed, he eased and had a try at being humble.

“And that makes me St. George. The magic dragon slayer. "

…….

A soft mist encircled the early morning moon as it rose from between the sugar trees. The reflective spotlight quickly embraced all that lay in its wake as if tardy and making up for the mistake.

“Merry we meet.”

She stepped into the circle, and lit a white candle on the stone altar.

It was then she felt a dragging motion as if water deadened her limbs and crawled to her neck, holding her firm as if the strangling would be slow over a period of days. At once she became aware of the necklace she had worn since her fifteen birthday. It had become a tight reminder of old songs and past chapters; all hard won to be neatly forgotten. 

……….

 This convincing had the young girl emptying her pockets of the tools and findings of the day. With the look of someone picking out retribution, and with great ceremony he moved his hand over the collection as if sensing energy. With disenchanted enthusiasm his hand hovered over the spilling of broken Coquina, an entire twirl of tangerine peel, a bit of string, a tangle of monofilament, a barbed fishhook and broken stick. He scooped up the fish line and held it out to her.

“Let out the knots and I’ll show you.”

She struggled with that task as he easily fashioned two spears from the twig and shell with the string. He pierced his finger in testing the weapon's worth and raised an eyebrow in expectation of her compliment. She gave up the de-knotting, noting it a ruse to keep her occupied.  She traced his glance to his bloody finger then back to his eyes.

 

“Yuck.”

She immediately regretted it. Having gained tribal trust, his smirk now seemed to show dissapointment in grossing her. He doubted this, priding himself on not discriminating upon a person’s gender, as that was to act in ignorance of a deeper truth. He ignored the retort and pushed ahead.

“This is how you kill a frog without really killing it.”

……….

She broke the necklace and tossed it toward the candle, hitting just so, making it sputter then reignite bolder. This became a sign, a chance to reunite the universe. She wanted to burn clean and begin again from the supernatural that is naturally potential.

Walking the perimeter of the circle, she made a safe countenance against the spears of invading authoritarian hierarchy.

……….

The young girl modestly withdrew her body, as she craned her neck toward the experiment for a better look.

Not wanting her help, he positioned the dragon between his feet and held fast as he readied the implements of despair. Ignoring rules of the blood-circle, he challenged the air between himself and the fire breathing foe of medieval legend. A spear in each hand, and with a burst of adrenalin he forced the makeshift arrows into the head of the doll meeting up through the center scale.

……….

She gazed up toward the moon and saw an apparition winging toward her. An ecstatic ride held her in a trance and whispered vaguely in a language she had yet to understand. Two eagles crashed inside her head, exploding in a light unbearably brilliant and the electrical resonance left sparks scattering throughout her being. She tore at her hair until the divine ecstasy eased. Centering herself as the ancient omphalos, she moved out and beyond not looking back.

……….

With a bend and a twist he released the victim from the spears.

The dragon lay disfigured, an interpretation of death.

-30-

Her imagination was trumped by anyone walking  into the room.
She took to wearing a hooded sweatshirt backward to avoid commotion.

That went as well as could be expected.

jahh / Some of My Best Friends

61/62

He mentally became a bird, flying overhead, envisioning where he would land on the street map.

He enjoyed using his eyes as a camera. He remembered the first time discovering he could art direct a film in his mind. He was a young boy sitting w/ friends in a one car garage in Santa Cruz. Six tidy folding chairs were arranged toward the Victorian theater. The modest host made final preparations to work the colorful paper stage, characters + props. He patiently waited for the lights to dim. Idly looking over to the shelves, he zeroed in on a heavy volume, cocked his head to silently read the title. A tome cataloguing Picasso’s work. His gaze widened to see another Pablo book just on either side. + another + another... Slowly, indulgently his mental camera pulled back to reveal that the entire wall beheld a multitude of books on the artist Pablo Picasso.

-jahh / Parallel Chances Tend to Neglect

The Medici sure knew a fine piece of land when they
saw it.

We had trekked all afternoon w/ the cypress twisting along the paths. Centenarian statues had few pieces left, so guessing the character became harder + harder to figure. Most were propped + suspended by awkward metal rebar + metal tubes, leaving empty space equivalent to what was missing. A few of them looked as though a game had not ended, as players took turns, rather slowly, fitting in a stone puzzle piece of the body each had been dealt.

We had visited Neptune in his abbreviated habitat. He stood rock on rock, threatening his trident at a menacing water thing, while sea deities hid beneath in the hollows crouched out of the way of him doing his business.

We had chalked the mosaics + taken the obligatory photo ops. Looking around there were literally masses of opportunities begging to be violated.

With all of the other amusements in the Baboli Gardens we were still disappointed that a high sharp wire wall had sealed off the Grotto of Buontalenti. The structure seemed to be in repair, but it didn’t look as though the maintenance man would show anytime soon. Yes, 423 years can be a very long time for fake molten rock to look rather slimy + rotten. i think they may have just got sick + tired of foreigners putting their hands all over it. The day had been planned around visiting Buonarroti’s Prisoners. Actually, the fakes, as the real works were in the Galleria dell'Academia. There, the trumpet in your head goes off for David, not the six prisoners lining the nave. Mickey thought himself a tool of god, + by reckoning god created free-hand, he did the same. W/ the fevered spirit upon him, + chisel in hand he hacked in a cloud of dust to expose the figure locked inside the stone. They call it religious frenzy. What the reality is + always will be — out of time + over budget. These restless men are claustrophobic, possessed, struggling to free themselves from the stone. The figures were abandoned just as they surfaced from a pool of water. Perhaps he was satisfied w/ the bellies emerged shiny + finished like a target.  There are no apologies in the grooves from the chisel. Emotionally charged work has always intrigued me far more than the perfection of David, who in his temple tomb is treated to reverent gazes + hushed voices.

Of course, on the flip side, Mickey may have simply been delighting in a practice of 3/D stone sketching by pulling out muscular, tanned, + sweating bodies of the workers from the Carrara marble quarries.

Oh, how we wanted to climb that dangerous looking barbed wire + walk into that chamber. It was the only way in, unless of course you crawled onto the dangerous looking apogee + dropped in through the ceiling cupola.

We never took these things personally.

After we had gained entrance, we reckoned we were obliged to stay until dark.

The bathing Venus was no longer alone. The painted mural to the back opened the view to the outside world, so you were 'looking out' from the shelter of the grotto. This was a pastoral setting of wild beasts that absently glazed over the landscape w/out threat. The play of faux, relief + dimensional made the grotto look expansive. There was a nice little kitten that had followed us in who apparently took an easier route. She was a bubbly little thing the color of whipped butter making herself at home by loitering w/ stone sheep, + curling up in a Shepard’s goblet.

Michelangelo’s men were impressive in this venue. Two of the prisoners were graced there but not imprisoned by the hardened merd that had been slug everywhere around. The well endowed bearded man + the see-no-evil figure were embedded, but stood out in white form from the other Mannerist sculpture that also inhabited the cave. The two were slumped over + forward, leaning into from opposite corners.

We camped in the back near Rossi’s Helen and Paris. Talking about the surreality of situations, thinking of past moments, + wondering if we would ever think of this one hence.

On our way out in the wee hours the cypress had grown eerie sparkle lights, glowing from the damp ground to the tiptops high above us. They lit up in time, in turn, in tune w/ each other. How thoughtful the lightening bugs had been to enchant the garden. i half expected to see Puck fall out from behind a bush, quote a snatch of Shakespeare + disappear again into the briar.

(kb'd do just about anything just to hear me laugh.)

Watershed.

Exhausting the possibilities is fun.

Every once in a while i put out a bit of the dictionary from the ongoing work Lonnie + I are building. Here i go again.

 

• ready-fire-aim; The ability to start before you are altogether ready in order to initiate a beginning.

• perfection; Something that needn’t be determined in a concrete way. Something met w/ that is distracting.

• orphan / widow;

A word left alone, set at the top of the page on a line by itself. Lonely, confused + about to jump off.  A typography term.

• dance; Code word for big argument about to happen over here. -e.g. I’m cutting in on this one. I will take this dance.

• mock-up; A quickly built idea in 3D to see if it is a feasible design.

• mustard & shrimp; A color story.

• working designer, a working artist – + in order to keep the working part of the title in the equation an artist must work. A lot. That means there is little time for the stars to align + the majestic creative muse to descend w/ gifts of glorious expressions of great art. No, it is more like hurling yourself into the creative flux at a moment’s notice. It is necessary to turn on creativity at almost anytime + produce work.

• sticks; A gimmick learned for the Hong Kong episode. This skit had been organized + rehearsed numerous times, but whenever we were called upon to perform the ditty it seemed always to be changed into something none of us had ever heard of. -e.g. An inner circle joke became to compose a bewildering look in a confusing situation and ask, Sticks?

• scope creep; What happens when a project grows in scope silently + uncontrollably.

• left field; A proverbial place that you end up preceded by either putting your foot in your mouth, failing to impress a peer, or not paying attention to what is going on at the board meeting. -e.g. It’s a hit! The idea ball is floating over into left field + everyone at the table is scrambling after, trying to figure it out.

-Lonnie falling during the 1535 days.

Who then is the father of time? The detritus mess from which we came from. He is the one who keeps everything from happening at once, twice. The problem of which there’s too little. He is past the age that he feels he is obliged to like something + for this reason carries a scythe.

Gone, gone beyond, gone beyond

The sister of mercy is obligation.  When she kicks in she will forever after have worry as a distraction. However, distraction is sometimes an inoculation against depression. 

Gone, gone beyond, gone beyond

The brother of love’s favorite tools are mental telepathy and leverage. A verbal taser gun is often useful, but not mandatory. He is the cartoon character looking both ways before crossing the street, seeing it safe, puts a foot out + immediately gets flattened by oncoming traffic.

Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond

The second cousin of scatology is creative disruptiveness. Involuntary, consistent, + memorable. Faithfully + continuously changing the scrip to a new genre between dark + iffy. Branded a grapheme because as a child he complained of fuchsia headaches + mentioned the letter A wanted to be red. He had been unaware his experiences were unusual until another pointed out others did not have them.

Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond

- heart sutra

The mother of reinvention states that what mother said at one time is destined to be said again. The biological function she offers speaks + has listeners, but not of the understanding sort. Like being served before you order; being forced to eat before you are hungry.

The voices spoke inside her head more clearly than she had heard when they were alive. The now disembodied words circle inside the mental haunted house. They wager + scold w/ a verbal finger-wag.

Light up the smudge stick and hand it over.

The human condition is such this.

Saying what we are trying to mean + answering what we don't want anyone to hear.

All the while hoping we won’t carry any regrets + others will read between the lines.

She has lived long enough to be moved into top place.

Now misunderstood gets its first-hand chance.

Food for thought only.

Walking in an art gallery today i crossed a mandala of sorts, a loosely painted target on a perforated board. There were holes left where arrows had flown in + shot through.

i froze for a moment too long, petrified, and was tossed back into the inexpressible. Akin to the overwhelming grief of not seeing someone ever again. The tug of dread unexplainable. The idea of always + consistently missing the mark. However, so perfectly deliberate in missing, that it seems by mere calculation one should recognize the pattern + surely catch on + achieve the point.

A ring tone blares behind me, from inside my pack, jolting me to reality. That’s what damn cell phones are good for. After the brief call, i look again at the artwork. The painting was simply a piece of cheap pegboard the painter had cleaned brushes off onto. 

i'll rest on that.

A Simple Helm of Darkness 

i want one of these. + when you want something bad enough you can talk yourself into needing it.

To help me on my solitude + redemption way.

-Ben Cellini's go at Perseus. 

This contact sheet is a mess.

Anyone out there remember this one?

Must have been during one of my white outs. -jahh

This painting is for the Periaktoi Project — the ingenious scenery system invented by the Greeks and 

re-invented by us in the ls days of the chursh studio hey days. XOXO L

Thanks, Lonnie

No Title / Is It

This is an ASSSIE BREAKFAST; a muse game where your partner gives you one damn random word per sentence to move a story along. Thank you so very, very much, Helen + Jeff.

He sent his man's-man out to the store to buy the nights dinner only to return empty handed.

The evening’s entertainment was spent projecting movies on clean beige china.

.......................................

The morning began as the type of day when one does not know what time it is until the evening's dim sets in to darken the mandatory list that is randomly crossed off.

Last were the rifles. As objects of significance, they were to be cleaned justly, done directly + at point blank.

When they were shot worthy, the artillery came in handy as the dogs barked incessantly, so instead of throwing them hush puppies he shot them.

He breathed in the aroma of blood + smoke and from his mouth flew the purple ravens spoken of in mythos.

For a few seconds he was full w/ complete expansion if the air around him, leaving no room for other egos. The darkness was quiet, close + suffocating.

Brown?

Looking through the color of rot was not his favorite paradigm.

As his mind chased through, scratching + trying to rid itself of the tragic hue, he saw memories numbered out of order. Those memories organized + queued in line-up vying for his attention.

The one most interesting happened to be absent. Perhaps a drunken blackout memory that someone else owned + is not sharing.

.......................................

He adjusted his mask +
stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The sun shone his shadow, exposing him as a ridiculous and fictitious character. His ears were the likes of George Bailey widening his palms to show the length of a suitcase.

Wrongly, he remembered his list and went to collect water but he forgot what it was for.

The postage stamp screen on his taskmaster devise suggested no-such-thing.

He doubted the physical world.

Not using a hand signal is rude and dangerously idealistic.

As is putting glass plates in the juicer.

Life is a zero sum equation.

And it only gets darker.

.......................................

Well, okay, then.

Do i get to vote?

 

                                                                           

One of my favorite unrealized tee shirts:

We may be Slow, but we’re Expensive.

Honestly, i have those horrifying moments while driving, when i completely + absolutely do not know where i am. Intellectually, i know it will only last a moment, but emotionality that moment lasts an eternity.

i like savoring the feeling of being ahead of whatever game i’m playing. Being ahead is better than the view never changing...

Everything on my do-to list is to-done. i know it’s a scrim illusion, all an ongoing relentless process. But hey, throw me a bone here.

Moreover, while i’ve spent these few minutes hunting + pecking i’ve probably lost my edge, so it was all a moot point. 

i’ll mash print anyhow.

Someone turn on the radio, it is mostly way too noisy in here.

Equilibrium didn’t, so he sank to sitting w/ arms akimbo.

His mind’s eye witnessed the interior wind as a hue of insulting pink.

Mentally circling the area didn’t earn the satisfaction of curiosity.

Close in, his name was whispered w/ British ascent, via the clip of the tongue that makes Eric sound somewhere near attic. From the far side his mother called out her native-american name for him; Too-stubborn-to-put-on-a-coat. This nickname hit something unyielding + ricocheted back out. Mind clenched as his fists hardened. His mouth opened in silent combativeness, then thought twice, capturing the first syllable.

Looming encapsulated, he shuttered + accepted entrapment + exposure. Steps away from void, stepped in from another form of void. Hermetically sealed in a Fabergé egg. Cracked w/ windows called eyes. He sensed aura of life dodging about him + talking in vibration. Darting + fetching, stalling + proceeding.

Thoughts tumbled in rapid fire, one after another, but he refused to ignite each one. Every one smothered + drowned in turn before it had been identified. Looking deeper inside revealed an empty room filled w/ intangibles able to squirm through, + he began the chase to the other side out.

Yielding to clinched eyes that envisioned sparks flying. A queue of bubbles rose from his mouth heading to the surface. A last bit of breath released above the surface of the mere.