purple jelly monsters

I’m in clearing in the middle of a rolling thick forest. It’s dark. A fairly large community of people started living here ever since a Black Magician put a spell over the land. We live in trailers and eat whatever we can scavenge. There is a political science club that holds classes on political theory — I am in this club — and we are currently studying for a national test that will award a monetary scholarship to those who score in the top 5 percent. I couldn’t care less, but I’m still kept up at night trying to solve annoying practice test questions. The teachers of this preparatory class are my former high school professors — I know they don’t like me very much.
Life in the forest has a very cinematic quality to it. Everything feels predetermined, as if at any moment someone much larger will hit an otherworldly fast-forward or rewind button. Tension is running high through the community. Word is out that the Black Magician will be up to something particularly sinister this evening (and this is the night before the big test on political theory!).
The ground begins to tremble and the surrounding trees are swaying frantically, though the sky is nursing no wind. Over the treetops an enormous glowing purple mountain begins to amass . . .  no, not a mountain . . . .   It has eyes! And a dreadfully large mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth! A giant beast is approaching! It’s body is a bit translucent through a hazy purple hue, with stout arms and legs protruding from its robust round figure.
As it enters the clearing I can see that it is at least thirty trees tall. Almost immediately it explodes into hundreds of large jelly balls . . . and then those balls explode into thousands of smaller one. This multiplication of itself happens about four more times until the earth is covered in millions of balls the size of a human hand. Deep dimples form in the balls, two of which fill in with mean glaring eyes, and one which hollows out into a sharp hungry hole. I have a gun that shoots lightening. I take aim and fire, but my weapon is useless against the ravished jelly beasts. My childhood friend (Joe) drive up in a cardboard bus. He is going to save the day (or at least that is the sentiment that his arrival elicits). About thirty people dressed in white assemble against side of the bus — they form a wall, three people high, standing on top of each others’ shoulders. Suddenly a massive saw blade begins slicing through the bus, and it passes smoothly through the bodies of the people whose white clothes are now red with blood. They collapse into a withering pile of limbs and heads. The monsters are hypnotized by the spectacle, and quickly begin to gorge themselves on the human offering. After being hypnotized, myself, for a few moments over the feasting monsters, I make my way to a quite trailer at the edge of the village. I have to inquire about a particularly difficult question that I’m nervous is going to be on the test in the morning.
Freakin’ test! Do I really need to take it? I hate these kinds of tests!

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a backup soul

They were tearing the backs off of toads. It starts with a tiny cut under the neck. And then a pry of the blade against a thumb.
It comes off fairly smooth, a tiny slab of forest green lumps and bumps — an exquisite splash of raw red flesh glistening against a silver moody sky.

Why are they doing this?  To what avail?
I look into the creature’s eyes, searching for something . . . anything.  I find nothing.
A cursed stone face — unable to convey its agony. It mocks us, and renders us soulless.

Perhaps nothing I find, because nothing is what I seek?
“Give me that knife.”
It’s time I look beyond my own reflection in a set of glossy golden eyes. There’s got to be a ghost in here somewhere.
And I’m going to find it. I need to find it.  ♨

we are young supernovas

I’m in an abandoned shopping mall with two others. We’re not entirely sure what’s going on. The world seems to have stopped turning, and most people have disappeared. We’ve heard that a few, whom we don’t care for very much, are still lurking about. We have this strong inkling that it would be a terrible idea to leave the mall. It’s dangerous outside — maybe zombies, maybe thieves, maybe our arch nemeses.  But than again, it’s dangerous in the mall too. We are in it, and we’re growing more desperate every hour. The only food is a buffet table with baskets full of black putrefying bananas. The two others are good people. I know they are, but this situation is getting to us, and we are growing distant and locked into our own minds. One is male, he has short blond hair and he’s physically fit — he reminds me of my childhood friend, Justin. The other is female, named Tali, she is also fit with blond hair — I know her.

I’m walking past the buffet table, it’s on my right. I keep walking and the outside wall is gone. Crystal blue waters are lapping against the pink tile floor. The ocean has come for us. The water is shallow by the end of the mall, but there is a large sand pool just a few meters away, and a tiger stares at me hungrily from that pool. We cannot leave by sea. I quickly retreat back into the mall and see a large silo. It has no doors, but it has a ladder. I race up it to see how fast I can get off the ground — I know that tiger will come for me eventually, and it’s a safe place. I get to the top and the hatch opens, but it is small, and the roof comes to a triangular point anyway. The walls are wide, and the ladder is made of thin round metal — it’s very uncomfortable, I couldn’t last up here for more then a few minutes.
I climb down and go back deeper into the mall. I see Justin, he says “He’s coming!”, and bolts past me. I follow and when I round the corner, he’s in one of the elevators, but the door quickly closes before I get in. I don’t know where Tali is, but I hope she is well hidden in one of the hotel rooms upstairs — “He” is coming to find her really, not us.  I hide in a darkened corner for a bit, and then make my way towards the silo. As I’m walking past the buffet table “He” is there. The bananas are all yellow and plump, and he has a smirk on his face. He’s a round man of medium height, I’ve never seen him before, but just through his smile and smell I know I never want to again. He’s running his fingers over the bananas, they are a present for Tali — there’s hundreds of them. We make are way to the crystal blue waters — our eyes locked into each others’ feverish gaze. He is confident and unafraid. He standing with his back to the ocean. It is dark now and three moons hang above the water, each within its own phase. Justin is there. He begins punching the fat man on the face, the man make no motion. Justin steps to few paces left. They are both staring at me, entranced, muttering, muttering in some foreign language. The man breaks his rapture and grabs a sword out of a tall bejeweled umbrella vase and slices Justin’s right arm. He drops the sword in front of himself pleased and fearless of retaliation. He raises his shirt to reveal his round belly as a meaty grin stretches across his face. Justin grabs the sword and slices him longways just above his bellybutton. At first nothing . . . and then a thin red line appears, and then it opens wider and wider, redder and wider — then streams of blood and gobs of guts gush out of him. He collapses to the floor unnaturally, like a Jacob’s Ladder. Eyeballs and living rats slither out of his ghastly wound. His face is white, mouth agape; his skin wrinkly and thin, hanging off his bones, too big for his deflated body.
We race back to the elevators and call for Tali. We decide it’s time to brave the greater world.

We’re in a truck driving through a small town. People are about. Nothing seems wrong.
Is nothing wrong? Were we wrong??
I see my friend Rachel, and tell her to climb into the truck, she does and we start driving out of town. With her she brings a peace that we’ve forgotten. The road vanishes and we are speeding through a field of large flowers, every peddle a different color; and although it is night, their glimmer is spectacular. They seem pixelated, as if we are in a digital film or video game. I look behind us and the flowers are fine, our tires do not crush them. We are light and laughing and quickly approaching the ocean and its moons — with no intention of slowing down when we meet them. ♨

Elbe unfinished

Dreams are barely linear. How can I describe how we talked of Elbe, its desolate carved mountainous contours with only a train station running through. Even then I was walking in a plot of weedy land, seeing it for its potential, thinking of composting inside the abandoned race car seat hulk.  Big skunk cabbage leaves everywhere. I wandered in this solitude; sheered off by entering the house to hear her crying for me. She crawled and hung by her fingers from the red tool-chest with stickers.  Then she was the size of a fist and cradled in a small hammock. The baby in fever beside me; in the dream I turned off the hot spray of air and a cold shower dripped onto her wet face. I lay there in a naked embrace with the trio of our generation, for her father had joined us.   The lights came on as the bikers returned. Carl, Lars, and a third black-clothed carabiner-wearing crew member were in the room. Lars was finally ready to talk.

He took me somewhere and said.

“Someone suggested I write this down, so I did.”

He had a black and white composition notebook from which he read, “When I got there he was covered in blood and was flushing the face down the toilet.”

I stopped him there. “Was there a body?”

Lars sort of froze, expecting the words to speak for themselves, without question.

I wonder now, did I get off the train in Elbe once, and walk the brown soil, brown facade of a town, emptied of its old mining families; like a dusty set of “Bride comes to Yellow Sky.”  All I can picture is a combination of images accrued from reading about burnt firestorm scenery North of Berkley, and from the hills of Seattle seen from a plane.  And why would Lars hide something so awful?  I did not sit and listen to what he had written unfortunately, and since I was dreaming, I will never know the content of that book, nor what face was flushed away.

&~~

weasel’s watermelon accordion

~note: I performed the Varuna  Mudra for an hour before bed. (Releasing…)

The gift was a video. I was handed this after being subjected to a strange box. It was a recording of the experience, an absurd moment recorded in a terror box that I had been strapped into, examples of Jackson’s fourth grade homework, and a third unknown segment. My ex who now seemed to be shorter than me, handed me a card that said “Happy seventh” and kissed my cheek with a hug. I think I mumbled something. I saw that his version of this “gift” had been pictures of himself in semi-erotic moments. The terror box for him had forced him to watch pornography and had taken snapshots of it.  When they took me up to take my picture in the box, it was rushed.  The facilities were like an airport or a hospital room.  I insisted I needed to take my contacts out so I quickly did and put them in my mouth after one of the employees said they would be blasted out of my eyes in no time flat.  “Hold on” they said and I was plunged backwards into a blackness upside down not knowing what to expect.

The second sequence was humiliating. It was some pillowy space which was part of the recording experiment.

When I came out I was given the video whether I wanted it or not; I was given the hug and gift.

I walked on in a dress. I had a small child following me. We were looking for a way back into the building. We were stopped by Latino men. The little girl hid. I was worried about her.  Wherever we were going, it seemed like the way was stuck. There were ramps of concrete and a low ceiling.  I began to speak in Spanish.  But my Spanish was incorrect.

Watching a children’s production from above as though looking into a playhouse.  A girl showed a weasel that moved things around.  There was only a square the size of a garage in which they performed their tiny acts, and the girl with long dark hair and dark eyes proudly stood in the corner.  Her weasel moved an apple. Her weasel seemed to be trained. Then the weasel produced another fruit and began to gracefully carve teeth in its watermelon flesh, dark green.  It had a smile now, the watermelon, or a grimace. It was a transformation where the weasel would symmetrically remove the pieces. It became an accordion made of fruit. It played a brief and unrecognizable tune. Jackson had a turn. He was in the back of the playhouse now and there were other kids.  Jackson’s face was grim. The child mention something about death and his father. A boy behind him mocked him saying he had death at his house. I took a can, or a box in place of the mean boy, and railed against it saying that it shouldn’t say such things.

Leaving the place there was this terrible sense that someone would make fun of me or ruin my car or hurt me.  The cars were parked in a field.  The two fat kids on the way out were friends.  As I got to my car, which was my old yellowish tan Volkswagon with the purple tinted windows.  I was relieved.  I zoomed down the grass hill and onto the road and then J was there beside me, and he mentioned something about how it would be like that with Jackson, zooming so carelessly, intimating a slight disapprobation at my driving.

&~~

milk bumps of endless vision

I woke up with patches of a milky oily film all over my body. There must be something in this water. There are tiny painless red bumps forming all over my body, some are larger than others. They seem to be gestating under the hazy film. I can’t get it off, the warm water just beads off—I think the milk is weeping out of my pores. This wasn’t here yesterday. Something must be wrong.
Doesn’t matter, I have to get to a funeral. It is for a musician I admire a great deal—his name is Nils Frykdahl. His body is in the trunk of a car and is clothed in a red ritual robe. Friends and fans are paying their respects to him by placing severed fingers on his chest over his heart. I don’t know where the fingers were obtained. Nils begins to shake violently and a wide closed-mouth grin stretches out on his face. Moments later I can see that his teeth are checkered pink and black. He hops out of the trunk and humbly bows before the crowd. People are thankful for the performance.
I see a monolithic-like cube building over the hill behind the funeral car that I have never seen before. In fact, I know it wasn’t there—this is a new building. I decide to explore it. Inside it is full of staircases that seem to go nowhere. Some of the steps are too high for regular-sized people to climb. The cube’s architecture is emotionless and cold. It is much narrower but also taller than it appears from the outside. Glossy black stone square blocks, the size of two people tall, make up the walls. There doesn’t seem to be an end to the height of the building, and as I start walking up one for the spiraling staircases I see that there isn’t a bottom either. There are no windows in the building, and no lights, but somehow I can see. The building is lit by my vision alone. As I climb the stairs my reflection is scattered all over the glossy black walls. I see myself walking in every direction—up, down, backwards, and sideways. I look out at my hand. I don’t have any fingers. I look to my reflections to see if they have any fingers. They don’t. I don’t care. I don’t need them anymore.
Something’s odd—I notice that there is a slight delay to some of my reflections’ movements. I begin spinning franticly around in circles in an attempt to make myself (and them) dizzy. It works. And in the spinning aftermath I am successful in seeing the back of my head, a sight I have never seen before. When the world stops turning I decide I want to leave. But the door is gone. There is no way out of here, at least from where I can see, which is everywhere—through spinning I have mixed up my mind and taken on the vision and perspective of my countless reflections. And through every eye billions more are formed. Overwhelmed, my mind becomes sealed in the glossy black slabs of stone—timeless and frozen in the infinite movements of my ever-expanding body. ♨

rainbow drugs

I am with a woman, she is dressed up fancy, in a short black skirt and black top. She is sitting to my left in a dimly lit, outdoor cafe. It is night. Before us is a giant glass cylinder that is partitioned once down the center. There are two tubes snaking out of it that have long syringes attached to their ends. A waiter approaches us and asks if we have decided on our dose. My head is foggy. I point to something on the decorative, hard-bound menu, as does the woman. Moments later he begins pouring a bright yellow fluid into my side of the vat, and then a cobalt blue one into my partner’s. He says that one liter each should be sufficient. I’m nervous, she isn’t. We are supposed to stick the syringes into the veins of our hands — I have never had an intravenous drug before. There’s a lot of fluid in that vat. A lot of fluid. But I rationalize that this venue specializes in this experience, so I settle my tension and ask the waiter to stick me with the needle. Another server approaches my partner, and our soft skin is penetrated simultaneously. Their is a slight twinge of pain and then the giant cylinder begins to purr and the fluids on either side begin to merge, forming a spinning rainbowed tornado. I look into the eye of the woman next to me. Her pupil is wide, black and bottomless, and is surrounded by a thin rim of constellated specs of colors, surrounded by a milky haze and endless white. It fills my vision and becomes like a pulsating mandala . . . “a perfect mirror of my own,” and I think my last thought. Slowly, we begin to melt into the rainbow together . . . free from all worry . . . free from death . . . free from life. ♨