Fog #360DaysofSymbols

Day 23 of 360 Days of Symbols. Today’s symbol? Fog.

The grey is everything, like a storm cloud surrounding us. The fog is electric, our hair stands on end as we walk through it and try and find our way out of the yard, towards the cars, maybe away from here. We can’t seem to move forward, every day, stumble around in the shadows, seeing the shapes of pine trees rising up out of nothingness.

At night we can hear children playing inside the fog. It echoes. When we look out we see lantern lights flicker and bend in the vapor surrounding us. Maybe an eye here or there, or teeth, or maybe hair, or a smile. And then gone.

Dew #360DaysofSymbols

Day 22 of 360 Days of Symbols. Today’s symbol? Dew.

You used to watch her wake in the early hours, crawl down to the grass and nip and suck the dew, lick it off each leaf with nimble tongue. Her skin would glow and her hair changed color slightly, and you wondered if you should say something. Should you let her know about your watching?

No, no, somethings are best held inside, close to heart, locked tight and clamped shut.

Eventually she left. You wondered if she turned into a lizard. Or maybe even a group of lizards. Would that be it? Could that be it?

Rainbow #360DaysofSymbols

Day 21 of 360 Days of Symbols. Today’s symbol? Rainbow.

The first report of the rainbow sickness was heard on NPR of all places. A joke, mostly, some thought maybe it was an April Fool’s joke poking fun at Ebola. Bad taste they say. Save it for the Onion they say.

Then other places started to hum with those words. Rainbow. Sickness. Instagram was flooded with images, people bent over, vomiting prismatic light.  Vines of shaking bodies surrounded by corpses, eyes of rainbows, lips of rainbows, everything rainbows. A sick pool of illumination on the floor, probably from mouth, probably ejaculated through the stomach.

It burns when it comes out of your mouth. Like vomiting hot coals. It also ejects through your nostrils, out on the floor. The fire is like no other. It is like the fire of birth, the fire of life.

The laughter comes as well, so quick. Some say it’s the first sign, laughter at everything, smiling all of the time. Then you start speaking in baby talk, nonsense syllables, voice in a high pitched koochie koo. Then, the last stage. The expulsion of rainbow light from your lungs, out the mouth and nose, splash on the ground. Burning, burning.

The autopsy will show you had dust for insides. That something burned you up from the heart outward.

Lightning #360DaysofSymbols

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Day 20 of 360 Days of Symbols. Today’s symbol? Lightning.

Those wolves are made of lightning and not that kind either, not the kind you dig up from ground clouds no, this is the kind of lightning that curses you. It follows your blood, moving down your genes. It infects you, a parasite lightning, running wolves in your blood.

And each generation after has a bit f madness to it. The wolf comes out sparking like a battery, clouds for fur, eyes sunrise and they hunt and bring back the kill. The kill is what you most fear, and what you most desire. Lightning wolves know these things. They know they are the same thing. The thing that burns inside of you.

 

Something nihilistic and maybe a little sad

There is an alchemy used in the process of making coffee, something I never realized until I started using a French Press. It’s weird how, with other ways of brewing the process is mostly hidden. You put in grounds, put in water, push a button. The grounds are already ground. All of that.

Just push a button. There you go. K-Cups, percolators, coffee pots, etc. There is a remove from the transformation process, your hands are not involved, your mind, etc. You are just communicating with a machine.

I also took a look at the pour over method, which is almost a mad scientist lab in look and feel. Tubes and beakers oh my. I haven’t actually used one, too pricey for me right now. But the French Press, yes. There is some of it still. Grinding the beans (I want to get a hand mill, make it even moreso…but again, not cheap), putting in the right measurements. Boiling water. Pouring, swirling. Setting the grounds. Letting it sit and dream for awhile and get the dreams infused into the cup itself.

A process. No longer removed from the individual but instead a function of the individual. It becomes more than just simplicity, but extends beyond that. even cleaning the bones of the tools, setting them back in, creating new. Let it sleep at night, wake with boiling and light.

Transformation. Something born new each morning.


 

I’m also thinking about fall now and being someplace closed off now, just trees and some people but barely anything nearby. Dead leaves and spiders are everywhere. You can see the clouds and the clouds are big grey cement things suspended over sky, waiting to rain down. This is the occult season. When hidden things devour you while you sleep. Not monsters but memories of being a monster.

Some doors in houses are better left closed. Some doors lead to ghost homes. Is it a mirror beneath all of it? Focus now. Wait now. Don’t drown in the light.


 

Doing a nano thing. I want to keep the idea loose. Something where the structure does not dictate the choices of the work, but instead lets the work breathe. I need a structure that’s permeable, movable, something that flexes and contracts and expands when I need it. I want it to be fractured, roaming. One moment first person character you meet only for a second in a different situation, the next third person voyage, and another scattered pages blowing into your face.

This needs to be a form that dictates itself as it moves. A chimera. Another thing, the alchemy of writing. The occult of words. Signs are sigils are the languages we don’t speak.

I want to build the story on random blocks. I have the basics of plot, of theme, of setting. But each day to day I’ll use tarot to dictate actions. I’ll use the I Ching when I feel like, or runes, or whatever is at hand. Throwing coins in wishing wells. Whatever. I will also randomly pull stuff from Plotto and symbols each day from the Book of Symbols.

Yet each piece a puzzle piece of the whole picture. Each thing changing, burning, moving. When you look down at the individual you can see beauty & poetry on the microscopic. Self contained environment. But zoom out take as a whole and a new pattern emerges. Something nihilistic and maybe a little sad. The world is ending. The world is always ending. Yet at the same time maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s all an illusion of a paranoid  sociopath whose words are infectious, are poetry, and they catch from person to person, each who follows the call of the mad words.

The reality of it all is the reader’s perception.

I want this book to bleed into your life. To become your waking thoughts. Always wondering what is real anymore.