Archive for April 7th, 2012

Top This

Once upon a time, I traveled deep into the winter Sierra, with the woman who would one day become the mother of the award-winning deviant. At a fair time before the award-winning deviant manifested herself in Consensus Reality.

Upon a turn, we encountered a wondrous natural display. In which falling water, passing over a tumbling rock face, had hardened into a freeze, forming marvelous, and marvelously extended, icicles. Feet—unto twelve or fourteen feet—these icicles extended.

We stopped the car, and wandered out of it, to view this wonderment up close. The wonderment beautiful. Awe-inspiring. Bold. Expressive. A reason to be.

Because even then I was preparing for Ala, preparing to be “my next boyfriend will have a box camera,” I brought then forth from the car a camera. To capture. The water in freeze.

This I did.

And after this photographic capturing was complete, my then-lover strode boldly forth, placed herself before the icicles, lifted up her shirt, exposed to the frozen water her naked breasts, and challenged: “Top this.”

Of course, at this moment, they, the icicles, utterly lost.

They were a natural wonderment, true; but so too, were this woman’s breasts. The icicles were transitory; so too, I suppose, this woman’s breasts—but not for many and many more a moon. They were hard and cold, these icicles; this woman’s breasts, soft and warm.

In every way, through her challenge, this woman had won. She was, as my brother used to say, “the wiener.”

Was it my imagination, that the icicles, upon receiving the challenge of this woman’s breasts, seemed visibly to sag, to begin to drip more profusely, even morosely?

As Arlo Guthrie used to say, “I told you that story, to tell you this one.”

For something like that is today going on here, on the grounds of the Manor. Of which ye shall learn, if ye but travel beyond the “furthur.”



Like Babies At Birth

I have no name
I am but two days old—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name—
Sweet joy befall thee!

—William Blake

Space is changing humans. And that is a good thing.

A while back I wrote about Ron Garen, spacehuman who takes marvelous photographs, and compiles wondrous videos, while up and out, in the great wide open.

Garen is responsible for, among other things, the video below, which always makes me happy, in the best, because the most vulnerable, of ways. It documents the final hours of Garen and two Russian cosmonauts aboard the International Space Station; then, their return to the planet.

I realize there still exist supremely silly larvals, like Captain Underpants, who, in presuming to speak for the transitory artificial construct known as the United States, recently bellowed that Russia is “our number one geopolitical foe.”

But all that is so over. Russians and Americans: they are the same human. Space helps people to understand that. For: as above; so below. Garen and his fellows, Alexander Samokutyaev and Andrey Borisenko, they get that. So should we. Space, it has shaped these humans’ sense and sensibility. Having gone up, they more clearly apprehend and appreciate what is down to the ground. So should we.

Now comes this spaced-human. Who has fallen in love, up there on the International Space Station. In love with space itself. And so, as all true lovers will, he has written his beloved a poem. Titled “Space Is My Mistress.”

This would never have happened, if he’d never gone out there.

But space has made him more, of who he really is.

we stroll outside together 
enveloped by naked cosmos 
filled with desire to be one 

Yes indeedy.

This sort of thing has been happening to humans ever since they began venturing into space. Most recently, in machines. As we not long ago passed the 50th anniversary of John Glenn’s first trip into the great wide open, let us recall, beyond the “furthur,” what happened to Mr. Glenn, in his up and out.


We Is Risen

When I Worked

April 2012
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