A bone yard can seem like an apocalyptic setting. This one, just outside the enormous theme park held parallel two popular pedestrian roads. The acreage could be seen above composed as a massive Zen garden holding enormous neon signs half covered in false ivy and topiary, a dead dragon exposing its skeleton of wire guts where maché skin had been eaten away by rodents, and a façade of a charred saloon. Indescribable and misunderstood humps of lost-useful things too big to be trapped indoors all nestled on the bleached antiseptic sand. The wabi-sabi of calm and individual. From the ground it looked like a giant’s playpen who had thrown toys around to amuse himself, or perhaps to strategize warfare with use objects. Looked at a third time; a mental map, a large hippocampus’ treasure.  However, that may be going a bit too far.

Jenny was a slight young woman intent on beginning over and over, with blunt feet and the posture of a stargazer. Wallace was studied in drawing an analogy between the macrocosmos of nature and the microcosmos of man, without much interest in between. He seemed never to begin nor end conversations, comfortable instead with a continuous inner speak that jumped out now and again.  Like miniature articulating dolls they appear from the direction of the ten-foot cyclone barrier. They have used this cut through many times and were not so unimpressed as familiar with the sites.

They walked through the distressed junkyard tossing out famous last lines.

“This is not as dangerous as it looks.”

“Ha, if weren’t safe they wouldn’t let us do it.”

“We’ll be safe under here….”

“This rope will hold.”

Laughing came easily with easy company.

“Oh yea” he said picking up a thread of an earlier conversation,

“I got it; every religious conviction then, by nature, is half speculative.”

When her confirmation was not forthcoming he added, “Qui tacet consentire videtur?”

“Right, grasshopper,” Jenny offered with a quirky smile erupting.

With her forearm she wiped back her long boyish sweaty bangs exposing an impressive birthmark over her center eye. It was a vestige of a former life.

He egged her onto a story he had heard numerous times. Thinking herself as being measured, she straightened her small frame, gaining composer and height as she walked on passing two-story ball and jacks, and a nest of archaeopteryx. Wallace smiled for what was coming and also for the advantage of now having space for his own thoughts. A bit of harmless trickery.

She told what she remembered, though words could not capture the richness and mystery of the tapestries that bore her image.

“We were not treated as well as you would expect. By nature we were holy things. The few of us evoked a since of preciousness to man but we were warriors and had to defend. Our safety vanished when we became known. When you are rare and beautiful you do not need to rely on magic … only malice. Our lives where fierce winds. The hunters were studied in false magic. But, we were not touched by charms or caged by low fences. The men were cloaked in charity, holding nets of magic, uttering profanity under their breath at every defeat. They blamed us for attempting escape. They blamed us when their trickery did not land us and they only became more determined to incarcerate our spirit.”

Her face grew darker in the shadow of a ridiculous massive sea monster.

“When the secret weapon appeared — a glowing white symbolizing the comfort we sought — we eventually fell. We could not sway the Virgin for long. We were not so strong against Her allure. Who of the forest dwellers had the inner power to deny Her? We were caught and bred into delusion and ineptitude. Hailed as profane and spat with irreverence. Her bloodied white gown our embarrassing mantle. Mythosed into plastic pastel colored ponies.”

Letting out a slow breath, Jenny brightened tossing her head back.

“Your turn,” she queued loud enough to jolt him from his obvious private reverie. 

“I was once and future primordial spec of which all things came to be and then the end.”

Wallace was whistling the preamble to the Superman Theme as they found the chink in the fence, maneuvered through, and were gone to the other side.

-30-

Prelude to the muse:

Under the Water's Surface, Heartbreak; The War That Follows

On second inspection the boy saw that the weapons were made of plastic and enamel. He noticed to his delight that the kit also contained a small female figure whose face seemed to be saying, “I’m in trouble here." Clancy understood with his limited ability to read faces, he could be dead wrong and he wondered if he was in trouble, or her. A hundred fiery winged horses came as an adjacent set along with other more domesticated animals. He had to have it, but he knew it would take a spell and a hammer to get his father to purchase it for him. So he did what any smart kid would do; he approached his mom. He knew from experience his mother could not resist a crocodile tear of want in her son’s brown eyes. Where his father would be a losing fight of wits, from his maternal half he could eke out an emotional win.

Clancy snowed his mother and they both traversed downtown toward the children's boutique. They neared a black haired street child spinning in circles allowing his shirt to flutter. The boy child didn’t seem to mind the homelessness as much as the boredom of this particular street corner. With a try at joie de vive, he played at Arthurian legends. When he eyed the boy pushing his mother along on an acquisition mission he saw an opportunity. 

He stepped in the way of the eager Clancy, bowing low,

“Caleb; may I be of some assistance?”

The mere elder complied, with more hurriedness than want. They both ran toward the door held open by his mom, the youngest meeting her woman’s purse at full speed knocking her aside.

Clancy excused him with, “He is my assistant for everything.”

 

A sarcastic, too many children to save, was written all over his mother’s face, but the words "too cute" came out of her mouth. Her son’s panache of befriending odd boys would confirm her of his particular persuasion, if he were not so young himself. The black haired boy loosed the red silk scarf from his neck revealing it as a woman’s slip, grabbing the spaghetti straps he pulled it over his head creating a cape. The breeze accommodated and his pose-of-ages finished the devastating effect. Having composed himself, Caleb and the others made an entrance.

Clancy had an eye for the dramatic, as his head was so full of emotion that got in the way of wisdom. He discovered the faux metal armor hanging beside the weapons he came to admire. Caleb picked up a shapeless piece of chain maille as though he had left it by mistake. He took it and belted it into a vest around him. Clancy squealed and pointed to the dragon wings painted onto the backside of the short tunic. Their excitement met and a quest developed between them. They did not know that a dangerous journey waited, one that they didn’t need to plan. Clancy’s mother, Claudia, stood aside wondering what mountain they were planning on scaling. She thought to prepare them for the foes they would meet, real or no, but decided everyone needs to make their own mistakes. Besides, it was time to head on.

After the set-deluxe had beed purchased and strapped to his back, Clancy along with Caleb meandered downtown though the city, imagining it to be a dangerous rock forest. Everyone they saw became a character in the theater of life, every something a prop, every corner a challenge. The bike racks where their loyal horses. They saluted every elderly person, and got a wink in return as though the elder understood the language of these warriors. They would watch the boys pass, lingering on memories unrealized. 

The boys easily swapped roles becoming the injun or the chief.

“Let’s get out of the way of this story for awhile and see what happens by itself,” Caleb suggested. He motioned for Clancy to sit down on the curb next to him and he pulled out a piece of chalk, drew a time-line boundary, then held it up in the air,

“Well, if sometimes I can’t draw fast enough, I can always eat it.”

“With wine? Or plain grape juice.”

They became impatient with the waiting.

“Double yuck! Let’s move off this street, it’s getting too hot.”

“Hey, I think I hear a strange voices and my mom whistling for me.”

“If there is a battle going on in there, we best investigate.”

Claudia had a radio talk show argument turned way too loud, and when they entered it seemed as though a courtroom brawl was going on. She looked at the two boys, fresh from a voyage with a hint of homesick for dinner.

They took the time to set up a miniature theater with major conflict and peril on the travertine den floor, discovering the players as they set them into action. Before long, Clancy and Calebs’ stomachs growled and they eagerly sat for victuals and regaled Claudia of their day, which grew bigger as the plates grew empty. Clancy knew the hour’s fortune was coming to an end soon. 

Claudia invited the little rustic to stay,

“That is, if no one will be worrying about you.”

The boys settled down, dreaming of alternative days of traveling troubadours singing and living the rock-n-roll lifestyle. And, they never once mentioned the inappropriateness of it all to Claudia. Only the wind whispered back to each of them finishing the story they could not imagine.

This was a peaceful bliss, for tomorrow would be an altogether different kind of day…

(unedited - unfinished)

 Sometimes art isn’t the sort you can see from a cross the room.

 Sometimes you need to get closeup to understand.

This was a different type of day.

Prophecies will pass; as for waging tongues, they will cease; as for notorious knowledge, it will fade.

There were garments everywhere. Where did all this come from? i’ve not entered the Cave of Lost Children; these clothes all too large. All i can make out are the elongated Botticelli figures looking as though crumpled at the bottom of a canvas. Sandro was certainly a frustrated fashion illustrator. Who owns that arm? Whose leg is sticking out over there? Which has that unnaturally long neck? i divert more than stare, wanting to know just enough to ponder the questions. Shall i ask for a line-up? Would everyone begrudgingly amuse me? Not likely. Elbows + knees pointing like Burma-shave signs, mimicking the way out. There are enough faded ghost signs here reminding them of the middle world above. Damn, i forgot the popcorn. Journeys are always a better film w/ concessions, but not a stand in sight.

i’ve come searching for someone in particular. For some one specific. In the stream of consciousness the ‘I’ is the thing relevant. i really hate that. i; again.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will be pissed away.

Proactivity is not working so to have a sit. Dropping into the fetal/futile position, i form the ‘O’ in hope, or in pOssibility. The hole for them to jump through + escape into. Hoping the sought soul will recognize a hero + leap at the chance to be saved. Hoping goes nowhere. Empty handed doesn’t pay. Returning empty handed is half a defeat. However + alas, this quest will remain unfinished. Mute souls scatter by to ask questions for unidentified reasons. Not enough to pay a visit, just borrowing? 

Don't they recognize me? A glimpse of news from the war overhead. A torn piece that fluttered down the small shaft. Perhaps they are unaware i am a broken off bit of the thundering, catastrophic, never decisive conflict. From down here the Megiddo battle playing out above ground is a soft roar that rocks + comforts + lulls, like hearing a far off tide slushing + bruising the sand.

When I was a child, I spoke like a child; I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.

Strap onto my back + you can be recovered. Which soul dares?

Soul retrieval isn’t what it used to be. So many in the lost-to-be-found, so little time.

Go find yourselves. Ha! i should have worn that T-Shirt. i give you reasons when you ask for a yes-no.

i’m cold + dampish in this work. My garments wait along w/ my power animal, back at the entrance. Unless he has retreated. Perhaps humility is good for something.

Okay, someone steps up to the plate. ID is affirmed.

We see though a glass, darkly; the mirror dimly, but then face-to-face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully un/known.

Hey Willi, what ya got there? (Power animals can be annoying. If omniscient, why ask?)

What i came for. Have a look-see, no don’t look. i got it. Just lead the way.

Everyone’s thin neck has its own kilter.

Meaning?

Everyone has a unique point of view.

Soul retrieval has become soul searching. i guess it always has been.

 So now? Faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the great test of these is love.

 - Corinthians

(Note to myself; as i sit here editing these from pages nearly12 years on, i'm reminded that art really + honestly records the moment — because i read back on this page, this thing i wrote down + i say, where was i? what the fuc was i trying to say?)

 I like a view but I like to sit with my back turned to it. -Gertrude Stein

There is no absolute point of view from which 

real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled. 

-T. S. Eliot

As a means of contrast with the sublime, the grotesque is, in our view, the richest source that nature can offer. -Victor Hugo

Albeit not an easy task … the universe has succeeded in temporarily overwhelming me. 

So, my retort is to face the corner, pencil in hand, + learn to draw.

 These images were taped together + stuck in an old sketchbook. i love the idea of triptych. Thinking what this one was about, or rather, what i was trying to say other than putting things together + seeing how they relate. i do remember this was the day that i was costumed as a gypsy + kb tied me to a Metropolitan column. Screaming during the photo shoot until a crowd had gathered. We did, however,  disappear before the police showed up.

Reckless.

It had something to do with that wall installations for an italian nightclub. We made illustrations painting white dancing macabre figures on black plastic trash bags. Behind on deadline, + very impatient, we doubled the number of images in half the time by wet coping them on more trash bags, Rorschach test style. Ugh, that reminds me of painting backdrops in an abandon house, winching as we heard the rats chasing across the sagging sketchy roof.

You know, creepy.

Of course there were, + are, also the true quiet profound moments. Those just don’t seem as loud, or come forward as often.

Strange.

Hello up there stop

Supply + demand has flubbed gone awry as there is not any chocolate in the house to be found stop General time is standing still + specific time goes out of the window w/out being sent stop On my desk sits a dark oxblood leather attaché wallet stop It is soiled in the bottom edges w/ splattered bird droppings + the lock smashed + half missing stop So it seems i have in my possession the curious case stop But the brown shoes have now gone missing stop The moonlight over through you stop Alert all who may not care

Yours

L. Dangling

End of an Arrow

The sky is alight + forms distress signals i am unfamiliar w/. The stars are not wholly still, but alive w/ vibration as though the earth’s mounting energy obscures the clear deep space. Branches camouflage as com/radicals dart away into the greenery, trailing fire w/ the ironic confidence of Hansel + Gretel.

i am drawn to this warming flame, it leads me. When the way out is baffling, the way in is too clear. W/out border crossing, w/out fence caging. No walls to graffiti messages for others to misinterpret. Free to play w/ dancing flame, + the appropriate longing to inter/fear w/ emoting. Eyes of fire are blind. All’s fair. There is no need to qualify the hankering for this inner war of passion, nor the outer suffering. In this confusion nothing is forgotten, only left behind.

i’m hit. Assumption fills the being i am. Dropping my chin i see an arrow protruding from my breast. Blood leaks down, rushing toward the earth in an anxious soaking to become one w/ the subtle energy that we all belong to in the end.

Falling to my knees i look up, + sway to an ancient internal rhythm. Vultures form as ink spots above me, then twist + depart as if they were a mere thought flushed from the sky. Everywhere an echo of the outskirts of civilization.

i now long to take a partner by the hand, to follow the parade i’m slipstreaming into. But my mind turns + sees only one. Anteros is wiping tears as he laughs at my shocked numbness. Not asking, nor waiting, as reply he turns + haphazardly lets another arrow fly. It is shot into the sky power/full straight. As its zenith levels, overcome by the earth’s pull of gravity, the weighty point leads a graceful arc down from heaven. Somewhere another is hit in the back. This victim wonders why, even as the answer is known.

The moon fades to blackness + i am alone w/out senses. i hear no longer the breeze through the lacy sifting green. i see no longer the details of this plane. Three mutinous moons shine simply. Three romantic grizzled crones each mocking me w/ a wagging finger. i feel no longer the heat of a burning heart. Only a low resonating hum that becomes deeper, stronger + overwhelms me. A nonexistent kingdom is so very close. The stark whole/iness is the roof of my mouth as it expands, extending beyond.

Not seeing the possibilities can sometimes be a half hallelujah.

-30- 

Compassion w/out emotion is the privilege of very few vocations in life.

They peered into the cryptic question + gazed on the round table of post cards trapped between glass + masonite. Someone belched. A wooden chair creaked.

The brave one gave it a meek try, "The answer can only be; Wonder."

 A complexion of 'eureka' + 'I wish I’d said that' scurried around the table till it hit the final player on his left side. He didn’t budge his poker face.

He remained stone for the rest to figure on whether he was seriously thinking, seriously numb, or just seriously miles away. They each gave up the read, breathed again, heads turning back toward private thought.

It was then he spoke out of turn, not knowing whose it was.

"It’s simply the Tenth Daughter. The stepchild that makes us think of something kind-of-like, sorta-to, or quite-near. Kind-of-like talking up sacred geometry. Speak that to a client and they'll eat that BS up real fast. Sorta-to like suffering through the present situation to have an enlightenment of it later.

And kind-of-like listening to a genius stutter."

The table commenced synchronized nodding and from up above it looked as though they were rehearsing for a Busby Berkeley - Esther Williams swimming moment.

-30-