<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />5:10:23 am ft   o6.01.05  13 Light   tzol 260

   So it comes the new tzolkin round not with one or two, but with an impossible flock of tiny birds in the loquat tree at twilight – you had to look intently or they might have been just leaves in the evening zephyr, but once you saw them, they were undeniable & adorable.

   That, & re-noticing familiar things: What color is dawn light anyway? And, like a holoizic chess game, you can choose which piece to notice, because that’s how you win this new game – by noticing and nurturing stuff worth noticing.

  Iziz iz the Next Age go-go-goddess, raunchy, lambent – you dare not not fall heels over head in curiosity, in curious fey devotion with her. One heartbeat at a time, we will choose which energy thrives, gets polished. Each dawn is a fawn of possibility – it depends on what we tend and attend to – it’s all about the attention-point. To notice or not to notice – that is an answer, unquestionably.

    Then there’s the question of John Bolton’s moustache & how it relates to the existence of God. Do we hold God responsible for creating John Bolton’s self-indulgently gigantic moustache? Does God need fashion lessons? Like whether innumerable angels may tango or  only waltz on the head of a pin, perhaps we must have naughty questions to divert us from the fact that GBush, CEO of USofA Inc, absolute power addict, is obdurately in denial about the grisly acts our remaining taxes are paying for at Gitmo, Abu, & Bagram.

    We need to remember why we came, why we came to ride the Earth-go-round, the greatest carousel ride in this backwater side of an undistinguished galaxy – it wasn’t to mutilate children, collaterally or otherwise.

  It’s a heck of a rock-&-roller-coaster ride, amigo. When BushRoveCheneyRiceRumsfeld are too much with you, think of flamingos, preposterously pink, winged. If they weren’t real, you’d have to assert that they were clearly mythical. Flamingo time, an oasis.

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ff/for fuller   

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   mon gateau,

       I want to take the mango vow, to make, to search, to blossom the rest of my life to be as mango as is octessentially possible. I take the mango vow in addition to my vow of comedy: carpe comedy – seize comedy. I don’t do a lot of vows because they are so bloody hard to keep, but I am going to grok the hidden mango in everything. I’ll invite you to the Esfera Mango ceremony – the renaming of planet Earth to planet Mango: Esfera Mango. A nested planet with the old planet Earth, separated by one blink or by one mischief. (The measuring system is different on Mango; I’ll tell you more before the ceremony, but as you can imagine Alohaha and G.Ro Tesque are running me off my mango feet (I can still be a genius!!) getting ready for the mango mayhem to come. I sustain myself on mango mojitos. I only have time in this postcard to toss you a few tidbits, sweet heart. Ye owls, I miss you. I hate your trip to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Eastern Europe. This exile from our Kingdom of Strange Mirth is harder than I let on. From seeing you every day to never seeing you is cruel & gulag punishment. I deal with it with my usual noble wry grace, my damned legendary cursed leitmotif, but that’s because I’m a genius at emotional alchemy-fu, not because I’m not fockall flayed. 

   In addition to the measuring system being different, they have fruit lights here – the juicy gold light of twilight is called pineapple light. Dawn is sometimes apple light, pale, silver, sweet tart.

   To get to Mango is just a knight’s move in your mind – one step to the left, two forward. There is only a divide of a semipermeable membrane – most of old Earth simply prevails, sails through, but there is a toxin marker like the color that shows up on marked bills in a rigged ransom handover which prevents the spread of pernicious mental diseases like religio-patrio-zeal.

   Everyone cheerful is issued one mango buck which will buy most anything continuously in a miracle of the mango buck, anything except projectile, noisy, or silent weapons or any Holy Books.

   Anyone can visit Mango who is light enough of heart – they only weigh your heart at the magic border – legerdecoeur & presto, you’re in.

…………

o5.28.o5 11:o9:26/27 am 9 Owl tzol 256

for Fuller, a fablet

copyright flan 2005

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri

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Gwatwareg

    Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous. Like taking a shine to plutonium. Too hot and pitilessly radiant for the soul to survive. I knew that doom with a Damascus-keen clarity. A knowledge which slowed my plummet not one whit. The splat was going to be inevitable and gut-strewn; one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall.

    By the way, the legendary Damascus steel alloy contained glass and other now-mystery elements, and it is said that a true <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Damascus sword edge can cut a waft of silk cloth in half before it falls to the ground.

    In the worlds of dark matter, my lucifer, Gwatwareg has invented, displays, inhabits a force after-magnetism, an exotic, erotic field within which I was transfixed. If holomusic were a fountain upon which one magic-carpetily floated, it felt like that – symphonically buoyant.

   It’s like in the ocean, all waves are attached to the whole sea, the mighty wave at Mavericks and the ripple in a fjord near the Artic Circle. His humor was an ocean like that with many moods and many beaches all at once. Perhaps I didn’t submit so much as I was immersed? Does a fish submit to the sea?

   All the flame in a forest fire, if you were within it, not the pain but the vermilion motion: In a vast forest of maples in the Spring, before the white man poisonously came, the sweet rising of all that sap: Gwatwareg was irresistible. It was more like photosynthesis than like magnetism, his alchemy: there was an exchange of sunlight for apples or buttered corn. He was a devil, the devil, and I denied him nothing. My soul was the least of it; the origami of my soul was the least of it.

   When the most ancient amoeba in an unbroken chain through all those aeons of midnights became me, I gave him all that evolution; that resolution; that luck.

   Under the ocean, in the rivers too there are at least three million, seven hundred & forty-three thousand pearls gleaming snugly in the odd gluck of oysters and all that pearl light is what illuminated the first night we made love after all the centuries of implacable rutting. He wanted a kind of terrible truth from you before you caught a unicorn-glimpse of his actual strange honor.

   He seemed made of darkness, of night, but then he moved and you saw he was a panther. He was feline. The droit de seigneur. The languor, the outright imperial laziness. His humor never missed the perfect quick attack. Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous, but I never had a choice.

…………………..

copyright flan 2005

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri

………….

gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;

Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan:  

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

William Butler Yeats

James Fuller the Fortunate

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    Fuller. Yeah. Well. I met the fiend about eight years ago in a used bookstore by the Borges shelf. Even though it should have been obvious – because not every guy groks both Borges and cats, but as I am almost as direct a proportion a recluse in my private sphere as I am flamboyant in my public life, it was not heels over head at first sight.

   In retrospect, he did look the part of my future fiend. He’s a lanky 6’1” (& ½, he says); unruly straightish chocolate hair; brown eyes in which it’s hard for the uninitiated to read the feast of mischief; most annoyingly, he has thick black eyelashes. Stupid cow! How does he get those? He’s a jumble of Celtic bloods with one unexpected Guatemalan grandmother tossed in there. He’ll be 36 in mid-September. The relationship is impossible. Along the slow, increasingly obsidianly hilarious way, I became irrevocably smitten. Does it matter that he’s tall, dark, and handsome? Maybe. It matters that he’s the funniest man to ever touch down on the planet.

    Fuller seeped into my bloodstream stealthily. It took years of odd friendship for me to get that he was the hemoglobin, the essential alchemic stuff, in my blood. Luck likes him too because he is so diabolically amusing, and she always falls for wry.

     For drolls, he plays keyboard in a commercially-failed (tho, vrai, you couldn’t actually say it prevailed enough to fail …) but earnest band called The Tikals. His gargoyle humor ain’t for the squeamish. Most of my friends specialize in harsh & horrible humor, hallelujah, but Fuller is the royal flush, sans toot doot.