The wheel spins, a ray of light hits mist, and rainbows sparkle as the storm clouds come in.

Three days ago, the light started fading. With it, something inside of me began slipping. You might think I’m falling downhill, but I’m only folding inward to where the warmth is the greatest. In the darker days, we have to notice the glowing of the light more if only because it catches our eyes out here.

The thought always occurs, from training and pre-programming, in terms of rising and falling. The sun and the seasons, night and the autumn, leaves and branches, hopes and dreams. We climb to succeed. We fall short.

I’m reclaiming this motion.
Instead, I will twist and turn and fold myself into smaller and smaller dimensions. To you on the surface, it may appear as though I’m fading, falling fast. But I am moving in closer to the warmth of the center. The core is glowing hot, but out on the outer rim it is growing cold with a chill wind. Time to come back home.

This is the autumnul spirit collecting, saving, protecting the spread seeds of the summertime. The harvest was small this year, and some of the better fruits have gone bad. We missed out on some aspects of future planning, but we’re approaching a small stockpile of things we’ll be excited to open in the icy dead of winter — like little presents to ourselves of rememberences of seasons and moments past.

Come sam hain, we will dance with teasing spirits while eating peppered pickles and sun-ripe tomatoes floating in a suspension of seasoned oil. And the heat of the sour capsaicin will scare the teasing terrors away. We’ll burn candles like fires and remember the bons we lit while coyotes and locked up feral dogs called, gave chase, and ran along side us for the wind of it.

In the growing cold, I feel like there is something I have left behind, something I had — but lost. When I sleep and dream, I know the names of these things like shadows, now fading, in my heart and mind. I try not to repeat them too often in waking because the warmth of those shadows alone can, even still, do me some good. The embers underneath the dirt and ash can stay warm all throughout the night. I’ll watch the moon phase through these chilly nights and prepare for moments when the frost will lock my rubber tires up against the concrete and rocks.

Short days make for short moments, spurs in the sun through clouds. Rianbows bend across stone black skies as the first hints of the storm wet your nose, the edge of your hat, your tongue.

I am getting used to saying goodbye to the light.
I have to realize other things, faces, places, games — go along.
I can hold them, like summer parties and summer love, in my core throughout the cold.
The life that burst through me during the growing turns will sustain this breaking heart.
From hibernation, we’ll return, unless the world goes off before then.

Into the dark, we go.
You have no choice but to go. Evolution will not let us stop, for as far as we have gone. So many of us cry in the shadows now because our heart and blood remembers. Safe, in controlled boxes, we think we may have forgot.
But no, we are wrong. Allow the change and chilly wind to wash across your face.
Or, do a little preparation for the coming dark, at least.

Half-sentence Flashes

ONE—
Glowing like an impossible inferno, the city streets smoldered all night long. We walked them out the back door with the tips of bottles like guns to their backs. Kids with bandanas covering the bottom halves of their faces held the gates while the pros lit gas lines drawn in letters and sentences and messages across someone’s old hometown. There was a sense everyone was noticing that this was more than your average football riot — well, because football wasn’t on anymore and riots were out of fashion nowadays. But really, who could tell that it’d be tonight for the underground revolt to come bubbling up like stale sewage from the dead city right below the wealthy’s feet? A few in the food service lines joined up, passed along keys to the bandana kids. For this brief, optimistic, idealistic, anarcho-utopian moment, even the pros and little me thought we’d taken hold of something real, some slice, cut, edge of history. There was never really any chance though, I thought while I pressed harder on my bottle that cut into some lonely sas single nice suit. How was this psueo-fashion police bullshit, all charge-in-gestapo-style, even semi-consensual in its enactment of violence against those someone told someone else that one of the real high-up pros called out? But in a few hours now, or less if time started slipping, I’d get the call to release or terminate, depending on the state of chaos all this show created in the capital buildinng, wehre our aim really was. I say “our aim”, but the scope of this metaphorical rifle had never really been against my eye, and now I’m considering the range of our fights — not discussions — in all those meetings, I realise — yes, a little too late — that someone’s got a bigger gun to my metaphorical head. It should have been time for a quick and careful escape — it should have stayed underground and moved silent through blocked doorways, out past curfew, only a few of us even seen or heard or known for what we were; agents of change, but not like this. Not this abrupt outer-shell change that didn’t speak to the ones it was trying to shake loose, but jammed make-believe guns into office workers’ backs. I took the moment to disbelieve — Bottles? Really? This was a stunt no longer worth my time, so I broke it and pressed my mouth against my captive’s ear. “You wanna live, then do exactly as I say, just like you thought it up yourself.”
TWO—
Until the gas arrived, there would only be a lingering sense of disappointment at how little distance they had covered. River had lost the flip to cross the mile stretch of a road, but probably would have tried anyway, if there’d been time. Instead, Baker made a single call and it somehow dragged on enough to get the whole crew bored to tears, kicking dut and squinting aross the dry concrete. Finally, fucking heroically, it was Pan who grabbed the phone right out of Baker’s useless hand, their mouth hanging open in mid-useless-sentence, threw it into the distance, and blew it to pieces to everyone’s instant delight. Pan just smiled, list a used-up fag, and threw the searing cinders into Baker’s smug face. Baker tried to retaliate, bark or cut Pan with this old rusty knife they’d had for years, but everyone knew they’d never be able to ever actually do it. So big ol’ Goat stopped it right then with the coin toss, River and Lack calling immediately. So goes River out over this goddamn river, metaphorically dead, of concrete and dried up oil to hopefully find, sometime sooner than the inevitable end we all face, a fucking service station – God (or whoever) help them. Meanwhile, Pan and Baker are making these nasty hate eyes at one another while Lack tries to figure out what in the fuck compelled them to enter the coin toss, regardless of their good fortune in it. Too late for all that because here comes Goat now, chewing something as always, dribbling while drawling, “So, eh,…what’d you think you’d head fer if you won the toss…eh or *did* ya win, eh?”

Pan just laughed, but Lack stammered back, “Oh. u-uh to the- I’ve gone like River.”

Goat grunted, “Yer all so…lack-a-daisy-cull, y’know?” and spat out a sickening was of some crumbled plastic bits, bright blue against the blinding grey ground.

That goe something in Baker’s head tumbling down off its respective messy shelf. “At least we aren’t just doing around and chewing shit a-and spitting and all that!”

Goat spat a particularly blue chunk in front of Baker’s left foot and jeered with that typical tired face.

Written by Ashesbrand and Ghostori, one half sentence at a time.

Adverts?

I have just been informed that WordPress has sold out to the great advertizing monster. Apparently, this means that because I don’t subscribe to a “no ads” account, my readers will get rudely interrupted by useless garbage chosen, carefully and selectively, for you by WordPress. Or whoever is paying them.

Perfect.

I guess I need to find a new hosting site, again.
Thanks WordPress.

Admittance of an ugly lens

I’m trying to process something, but it’s not getting through. The current keeps dead-ending against something deep inside of me and I don’t know what it is. Something broken where words don’t quite fit. Something expected, socially, culturally, personally from me. Something that gets taken for granted because I have this fucking body that I didn’t ask for. This chest and these ovaries, reproductive things I didn’t want, would rather not have. You think, at the top of the pile, that it’s easy to be like this. That you might never feel a difference between being alligned with something owned and the one owning it. That maybe your resistance to “getting stepped on” is just a little bit misplaced.

I’m sick of men bitching about their pain. I know this is reactionary, but it cries out for some kind of address.
I know. That’s not fair. I’m trying desperately to get away from it, but I keep coming back to this element of “you can’t understand”.

And yet, I know this, too, is designed. I know you can. I can see it, hear it, sense it. You are trampled too. We are all underfoot here.

Puppets tied by strings none of us designed.
You are supposed to be strong and I, weak.
Neither of us are either of these.
We are breaking up, breaking apart, splintering and shattering and nobody can save anyone else.
We are all drowning, so no one can reach out.

To try to save the one beside you is to doom you both.
How can we possibly go on?

Let go and let drown.
My life isn’t worth the time.
I’ll sink to the bottom and meet you there.

Fair, we’ll call it, that we should all die like this.
Nobody can breathe and nobody is saved.
The dominant one is the winner of something, but still it’s death they’ll get.

Let the ocean bloat us and fill us up.
Release is the only option.

I’m in; are you?

Damage

The sickness in me and you is the sickness permeating everything. The poison sinking into skin and under nails, causing these sores and uclers to appear on our lips and tongues, making these bones brittle and break up is the same one getting slipped into us as we laid helpless and innocently ignorant in front of TV screens and moniters going bleep, bleep, bleep. Telling the world of our parents our heartbeats and if we’d get TB or if we’d be clean.

We break ourselves because the brokenness inside is too intanigble to feel. We shed some blood because the darkness inside is too black to illuminate with flashlights outside our skins. When we were young, we all held the glass of flashlight bulbs up to our thinnest parts, put them up above our heads and marveled how the light got through, all orange and brilliant. The veins and bones, muscles and tendons lit up like a stage moved before our eyes. But it couldn’t get the cancer out when we were older. Hold the light up, even now, and you can see the tumors replicate, complicated, killing you.

No way out, trapped, caged animals attack themselves.

This ink sinks in and never leaves. I hold it out for you to see. It’s beautiful; do you like the shape? A metal needles pierces a hole that a stainless steel bar will hold. The skin is supposed to heal around it. Proof that we can still be alive even with these rods sunk in our hearts.

My metaphor has been inflamed for years and finally, I’m letting it go.
Does your’s burn and swell, or is it good and well?

We all get a little fucked and fucked up and we fuck it up on ourselves on purpose, just so we know.
On the other side, do you feel better?

Good. We’re making progress.
This blade is clean and the scars it leaves are in the shapes of leaves when they fall in the Fall. Are we falling, still? I feel weightless. Aimless. Helpless. Harmless.

This is a condition we can replicate to extricate like needles and knives from skin where cuts make evidence of the things you’re words don’t, can’t, won’t express. We can do the same in high heels or laid out flat across the pavement or in rough, loud music that makes your ears ring. We can thrash against one another, throw punches at the air or pads. We can dance or swallow alcohol until we pass out. We can bike blind down rainforest streets and crash into trees.

Slow and careful now, friends.
Watch yourself.
I’m getting better, thank fucking god.
I’m seeing straighter now.
How about you?

There’s a light and a light wind and I feel it brushing past me.
I might as well be home.
Good enough, as good as it gets.

No, but it gets better than even this.
Those scars on arms and splitting the chest it two prove it, that you might heal slow, but you won’t be broken and bleeding, hurting and waiting forever.
The first step is the worst part and it gets easier as we go.

We all suffer and die, so no one is ever alone.
Good enough for me.

Now, go and find some hope.
Look up: The Icarus Project

This on-sale revolution is a glimpse into something more (2)

Letting go is fake
and a little thin.
Starting something new
is purely out of some latent instinct.
Out hearts’ simultaneous beat
isn’t as good
as a real laugh or cry,
Whatever.

The weight of the heart isn’t loving.

The point of honesty is awakening.
Being drunk is real.

An end isn’t happy,
Free,
Good.

Going home isn’t a butterfly
in a jar — trapped, dead.

Moving on isn’t pointles and painful.
Your hope in anything isn’t pretty amazing.
Carbon isn’t going to break soon.

This world isn’t a good wish (1)

Crossing the river is joyful,
in an obtuse sort of way.

The across from us is like aiming too high…
A dream about tomorrow is lucky.
Singing out of tune is only pretending.
To refain from love is our future,
if we’re not careful.

Being the first one is like being out of key.
Hunger is terrible.
Being born is the worst of it,
standing up is raw and harmful — like honesty.
Collapsing is too much.
A broken promise
is tough and impenatrable.

Beauty isn’t similar to a fresh bruise,
the truth of a lie
is breaking up.

A capsule of the past is going on…
and on…