smears on a caveman wall

I imagine a ‘cave’; like the camouflaged hunter’s hide.

the elephants running.the mammoths, the dinosaurs.and watch as they run across the visage, through the gape of the cave, hidden within a grassy bluff. it is something like being stunned.how long have I been running in all that.and think of the hides on the hunter’s property I’d come to see so often i no longer noticed.hide in a green box to shoot at unsuspecting sweet deer. all the snakes live in those; just revenge I like to think to unsuspecting little feds.yes—where are they all running to and how far away is mars because it seems I’m there instead of here.it is a monk’s cell, really and ….from here it seems more possible to think….for so long it has been a marathon of running. only now I can see who I am 

but where do I fit ….out there? the elephants ….the zebras ….

the smears on a caveman wall? 

the drive in the rain

For awhile they just drove in silence through the city street as the rain came down across the glass of the car’s windshield. She didn’t mind the silence. With him. And now as this thought struck her, she realized that she never minded in the past ….she remembered now. How sometimes when they met at the swings they would just be together in silence. 

Even with all his rage, all his wild tirades of violent outbursts —as she’d seen one during one of his fights all those years ago. 

She glanced at him now. Looked up at him furtively as he drove to ….see if it was still there…. still there in his face ….it was a sort of sulky expression he would get when he was in one of his moods.

“So how’s America?” Greg suddenly interrupted her thoughts, “everything you wanted and dreamed?”

She felt as if cold water hit her in the face, how he said it. 

She had to recover. She just watched the buildings he drove past as the rain glistened and washed at the gray, dreary night lit by lamp posts and street lights that reflected off the wet roads. 

He turned and looked at her, 

“….Miss Pim….”

Her face was on fire. The way he said it. He said it exactly how …. and the burning of her cheeks felt like a forest fire through to her extremities. She stared straight ahead at the road not to reveal how this affected her, then turned slightly away to look out the window.

“Do you want a coffee? I know a place near here,” he suddenly changed his tone.

“Only if you promise to behave or you may have detention,” but she said this so softly that he almost hadn’t caught what she said 

It took a minute. Then he laughed. 

“Miss Pim…. so what is your name—I think by now I should call you that —although I like Miss Pim.”

“Diandra.”

she just blurted it out.

He glanced at her as he turned down a street and raised a brow to consider 

“But —Miss Pim still works—“ but as she said that he caught hold of her hand and lay his over hers and pressed hers flat into the seat just the same way as he had once done. 

He parked the car that way and then with the rain coming down he said,

“it’s not the cleanest nor the safest place at this hour, but they have good coffee, Miss Diandra Pim but I’m afraid I still can’t promise you good behavior, but I’ll do my best.”

the slap

She takes walks down to the university park each day and stands by the river to watch how it flows. Each day she goes there with the brim of her hat that hides her face and her slim and narrow silhouette often framed in a trench coat and her eyes lowered before her. 

He watches her. 

And finally it is this one day he decides to approach her.

“Hello, I’m Madds—I am a professor over here at the university here…. I’ve noticed you often come here.”

His accent….was Norwegian 

But she was not glad of his interruption. It upset her tranquility and the peace she believed she could depend on here. 

She stood up from where where had been kneeling—looking closely into the water …. so closely 

She stared up at him but she was impaired by the sun as it hung over him. Only this gave Madds the advantage to see her without her ability to see him. He was momentary stuck by something in her face that stopped his brain from functioning for a moment. Then the light shifted. She moved her head. She turned away from his view. She diminished before him with all force of intention, like some practiced charm she had perfected. 

Only, he reached for her 

as he said,

“no!”

An impulsive move.

 And one that might done a great deal of harm 

     had it not been for the sudden shocking appearance of an enormous terrier thst would have—at thst very moment—knocked her right into the river

and you may wonder

was that her original intention to be there? ….just so….and the peaceful interruption 

          Tug!— at just the right moment —as though a reflex by the gods! he caught her ….when all it was had been the impertinent move to touch this perfect stranger….and will her from the place of oblivion; blurry; invisible ….behind the intentional visual din of attire….

the hat flew off!!!

“Oh!” she hid her face behind her hands as she watched him retrieve it. He wore a gray suit. He was neatly groomed. He wore clothes like a model but dark haired with interesting hazel eyes 

“I was wondering if I could ask you to join me for coffee? Or a drink? You see—I have a proposition.”

It was not a choice that her hand swept up and hit his face. It did it on its own accord. And afterward—her hand smarted badly. But she wasn’t sorry.

She stood there staring at him. Too stunned to move away. 

They both looked at each other.

Then suddenly— he laughed 

this connects somehow/missing link notes

How should I portray him on the artist’s stage?

as, artist to sketchbook; as artist to clipboard; as artist’s allegorical journal ….how Charlotte would see ….this(not Emily)….through the dream-mind of Austen but with the haunting desperation of Anaïs

or Anna Freud ….

   no through Grecian imagery and archetypes perhaps would best make sense, all things considered 

but through this artist’s prism of our times to— ‘continue the conversation ….’ left on caveman wall; swept through the doors of the underground subway those lose pages from ….what was it? those words; those dripping elusive words written on the humid fog of a train window 

beyond tethers & chains past the bunny slopes ropes

as an artist and a writer, how is it that I avoid looking at some harsh truths …. I do really wonder. I believe this is the missing link in my brain.i know this sounds ridiculous; like satire, but i know I avoid harsh truths but I know most people do. But —me….? I should know better. The real problem is, to look at the truths would disarm me to the point of a kind of self extinction. I could not mentally handle the truths. I know this. I’m not an idiot. I am consciously aware this is the crux of the reason behind why I do this. why should, for instance, why—should I avoid the sleeping monster in my closet that only awoke by some unexpected Heathcliff that for the longest time knew what it was but that was not the cause of whatever drew me.so, unexpected but how to look at the restless need to reach inside the closet because the monster is not really such a monster but maybe a bit of a beast.the weird contradictions of me and experiences that left some nasty scars has me wondering what it is I am so most afraid in there to have to keep on avoiding—is it hypocrisy?or is it only that silly thing no one should ever believe in—Stockholm syndrome trust?what a most erotic and dangerous monster

prayer to the master

tonight I find myself within the chambers of SansinGaulf —remember him, my readers? 

Those silences you fall into —you know them? he hears all those things I silently say.within my inner chambers.to go past but are caught in the snare of the boring same old threats that kept the progress of the journey former road blocked time and again 

no.i just sit in his chamber with its lush celestial, cobalt blue velvets. I don’t talk. I don’t even look at him. but I feel his gaze upon me. his ever patient gaze that never looks away.and indulges me from afar, as I well know but —I’ve run out of the energy to ….believe—?or the faith of it….possibly; I’m not sure at all….but in Sansingaulf’s chamber ….we are away from the world for awhile.So I don’t want words about the very things I want to escape from.the fierce snd terrible pain of life that is really more Hell than what thereafter may afford I’ve awaken to understand ….anymore….

“What am I do—“

I start to say 

“No—be silent and say not those thoughts aloud that will only foul your thoughts down directions we’ve come too far to be destroyed by,” Sansingaulf rises from his marble throne and walks over to me, 

but I look away…. my thoughts ….

“my daughter,” he says unexpectedly 

   perhaps unfair …. he saved her from the trap when her wing was caught ….

“don’t give up,” he says 

my thoughts 

    my silent reply—he cannot censure my thoughts 

    “it matters because there is a reason you were saved ….I have a soft spot for you, call it ….you can still have everything ….my daughter ….”

just remember those immortal words spoken by Tom Hanks:

“There’s no crying in baseball!”

sweetie; darling~still hyperventilating incessantly