Monthly Archives: September 2013

Angel on His Back

Angel tattoo blow job

If there were one thing he could change about his tattoo, Sam knew exactly what it would be.

He’d gotten it at 16, the earliest he could without having a parent sign. Like that would have ever happened. Not his fruit-and-nutcake mom smacking him, quite literally, with her bible. For certain not his anonymous father, unknown and never missed. He knew better than to even try to get his tattoo until he could do it on his own.

The irony was so deep and rich it could have been mined for profit, that he’d had to wait until he could do that on his own, too. A perfect fit for what it said, his tattoo. His guardian angel, head bowed in shame because of what he was, queer, homo, fag. It was a fitting mark for a boy-man unable to understand why he was different. And why, fucking hell why that mattered so much.

A sin? Then why hadn’t his crazy mom beat his brother, too, since he sinned all the time and bragged about it? He just sinned with girls, that was the only difference Sam could see. Yeah, Jack even came home once with a condom caught in his zipper, drunk as the hell his mom threatened Sam with, and she just smothered a laugh and turned away. But let Sam look at a boy for a half-second too long, just long enough for the nutcase to notice, and out would come the bible-club.

Now that he had a word to call himself — gay — one that wasn’t filled with loathing, and a man, a bear of a man, who loved him, who stood for him and knelt for him just the same, if he got the tattoo now, that angel would have been staring folks in the eye, claiming his right to exist.

He’d let it be, though, a memorial to his past and to all the others:
Matthew Shepard
Tyler Clementi
Bob Bergeson
Seth Walsh
Asher Brown
Billy Lucas
Jamey Rodemeyer
Carlos Vigil
Darnell Young
Brandon Bitner
Justin Aaberg
Raymond Chase
Zach Harrington
Jamie Hubley
Cody Barker
Chase Brown
Felix Sacco
Caleb Nolt
Billy Jack Gaither
Billy Clayton …
(the list goes on)

[photo credit unknown. Information sought.]

For Jefrumael, with thanks to Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns is amazing. When she says, “Let there be … [love, intrigue, turmoil, sex, romance, beauty, realism even in the fantastic],” the reader’s response is “And they saw … and it was excellent.” I wish she had written Genesis; not only would it be more fun to read, the world in which we live would be a reflection of a gorgeous mind of marvelous depth. That mind is an artesian well soaking a crazed and desiccated landscape with love — true love, not artificially sweetened romance. (Not all romance falls into that category; enough does to warrant the phrase.)

In her series, The Strigoi Chronicles (and I would link to Amazon, if WordPress would allow me to, so please, go search for her books; you will not be disappointed), she throws open the gates of Hel and invites us in. One of my favorite characters is Jefrumael, right-hand-demon/assassin to one Michel De Velours, the Liege Lord of Hel. Jef is fascinating to me, and a photo prompt inspired this poem in his honor.

Shattered Angel

For Jefrumael

And as he fell, he knew the truth
The truth of kingdom come
That in that place, if ‘all for one’
Lacked ‘one for all’ refrain
Then heaven couldn’t, wouldn’t be
His home. Or theirs, the ones
They’d watched live out their lives
Their swift and painful lives.
He’d not believed the fears were true
The fears he should not have
That whispered ‘something’s just not right’
When standing at the Throne.
He’d shushed them, brushed them from his mind
The One could not be wrong
But there could be no doubt not now
As shattered, wingless still he fell
Flung from his sheltering home
Towards earth and them, the piteous ones
The One had fashioned there
Cast out, cast out, he was cast out
And yet he’d ask again
He’d stand before the One and shout
“It’s not fair or right, old man!
You say you love them, they’re your own,
And yet you give them that?
A few brief years, with pain and strife
And war and flood and storm
And when it’s over, their little lives,
Eternity awaits
In heaven here to sing your praise
Or hell to curse your name?
Where is the love, old man, in that,
Where is that father’s love
That you and they sing fondly of?
And yet I see it not.
You lied to them, old man, you lied!
You love them not at all.
It’s you, you love, and only you
And so must all of us
And even all those little ones
Must bow to you, you say,
Or suffer through the fires of hell.
How is that love?” he asked.
And then answer he’d been told
The words that sealed his fate
“They’re mine, I’ll treat them as I please,”
From heart as cold as death.
He’d leapt, his choice, he would not stay
And then the thundering doom
The curse that mocked his deed
“Be gone from here,” it said,
“They’ll see you’ve fallen from my grace,
Now hell’s your twice-damned home.”
He plummeted from heaven’s throne
And shattered boundary line.
Glad tidings once again rang out:
He’d opened heaven’s gate.
He’d take the the roaring fires of hell
And tenderly he’d care
For all the hapless hell-bound souls
The truth would bring his way
For even soul-blind see the light
When darkness shelters all.
Freedom sweet and freedom pure
Soaks parched and withering souls.
His dive from stagnant throne did break
Glass ceiling from above.

[image credit unknown. Information sought.]

Cado Angelus

Image

 

They’d trapped him cleverly. Baited the trap with the child. Her child. The one he hadn’t known about, but recognized instantly as his own. Winglets. Primaries just losing their down as true feathers grew. His wings, and her face, that soft, heart-shaped face, the golden skin a perfect setting for the black almonds of her eyes. The child — his daughter — there, in the middle of their arena, innocent, though she wouldn’t be for long unless he acted.

The irony didn’t escape him: the hypocrites waving their religious tomes with one hand and readying themselves for ravaging with the other. They would rape innocence in order to trap one who had stood where they never would stand, had sung with a voice they could not even hear, had left what they said they strove for in order to have what they took for granted.

He’d known it was a trap, and yet he was powerless to avoid it. He could not, would not let this child — his child, dear god, his daughter — pay with her sweet soul for the sins of his body. He’d stooped, wings pointed to the sky, spilling air, screaming, towards her. At the last possible instant, he’d drawn her to his chest, cradled her for the first and last time, and thrown her with all his might, knowing she’d be caught and cared for by the Watcher his skriegh had summoned.

The net was spring-loaded, deployed as he’d spread his wings to capture the sky and pull him out of the stoop that saved her and damned him. He fought, tore at the cording, tore at the arms and chests and faces of his captors. But even the strength of angels cannot prevail against hypos filled with haldol cocktails.

The chains had come while he was out; the beating, the carving curse of proclamation when he was fully conscious. “Cado Angelus” they had chanted, as if they were informing him, as if he didn’t know who and what he was. He strained against the manacles as they kicked groin and gut, battered face and back.

Now they’d left him, finally, alone in disgrace, the light of a single spot illuminating his shame. He hung there from his bloody wrists, and wept even as his secret heart rejoiced, tears and joy leaping from the same knowledge: he had a daughter; he’d saved her life. One touch, one brief touch, and it was all the father he would ever be to her. He prayed it would be enough.

When the weeping stilled, when he could weep no more, he waited. There would be more, he knew. With every shift of the air, he tensed, bid farewell to life and prayed for death as the imagined cross-wielders approached. But they never did. They left him, deserted him, denying him the comfort of even the hatred of others, for hatred is better than emptiness. 

His shoulders screamed, pulled just enough from their sockets to allow slight movement. Movement which seized his rotator cuffs and scraped, compressed, twisted, far more painful than the strain he sought to relieve. His throat ripped with the force of his agony escaping, the only part of him that could leave this place, his shrieks.

He came to the end of himself over and over. Relinquished his hold on life, wooed death, seduced her with his charms — and always he found himself living still. Living, yes, but hardly sane anymore. He welcomed the madness, the hallucinations, for at least they were companions, the … things … that crawled over and under and through him, sinking phantom teeth into his kidneys, munching with acid-dipped molars on his testes, dancing a pink waltz over his cheekbones and into his ears, slithering around his back to emerge from his navel, skittering antennae over the soles of his feet.

And then even they left him. A shell, empty. Alone.

Long after he’d given up even his fevered prayers for death, he heard it. Another hallucination, he thought, though the auditory terrors were far rarer than the visual and tactile. He ignored it. It persisted, would not for god’s sake leave him be. He decided — if his ravaged thought processes could still be called ‘deciding’ — that paying attention might convince it to stop. 

A small voice. Whispering. Oh, god, no, not that, don’t be that, don’t give me hope, I killed hope, it’s gone, I don’t want hope, please, hope hurts, don’t give me hope!

But there it was. “Daddy, I love you.”

He wailed, trying to drown that voice with his own sounds.

But there it was. “Daddy, I love you.”

He wept bitterly again, the resurrection of feeling, of emotion yet another weapon of torture.

“Daddy, I love you.”

He denied it. He refused the sounds, the words, the thought; refused them admission.

“Daddy, I love you.”

He had no strength left to fight. He was used up, wrung out. The words played in his head, skipped here and there, until he knew he was thinking them and then after a time, saying them. Out loud. 

And as he said them, he rocked back onto his heels and stood. “Daddy, I love you.”

Terror overtook him and he bellowed. It was gone, his pain was gone. That frightened him more than anything else, more even than the beetles that scuttled from his mouth in the depths of the hallucinated lunacy.

The trouble with terror is that it’s so intense it cannot long be sustained, and when the terror was gone, and the pain was gone, and he lived still, the voice was still there.

“Daddy, I love you.”

“Baby, I love you.” He was shocked to realize that was his own voice, not a repeat, not unison, but a reply, a response. Interaction? Interaction implied Other. The voice implied Other. Could it be that he was not alone after all?

“Daddy, you made me happy.”

Dear god! There was Other. Something, someone besides himself. 

“Baby, I love you. You made me happy, too.”

Sudden searing pain and he was on his knees again, sobbing, twisting, unable to get away. His shoulders, his arms, god, he couldn’t take this, not now, not after everything else, not after hearing her voice. He. Could. Not.

As suddenly as it began, the pain vanished. It didn’t subside; it vanished in an instant. One millisecond there; the next, gone.

And on his quivering biceps, purifying the scars of the proclamation of his shame, “surrexit angelus” — risen angel. He stared, uncomprehending as the manacles fell away and his arms fell to his sides. 

“Surrexit …. I … don’t … how could … why?”

And from the seven directions, the Voice he hadn’t heard for centuries. “Baby, I love you. Come home, my Lucifer.”

He leapt to the sky, crying, “Daddy, I love you!”

 

[image credit unknown. Information appreciated.]

Solving the Mysteries of Intact Males

From my prior blog

It’s been brought to my attention that some men do enjoy the scrape of teeth across the glans. A better way to think of that would be that it’s a good idea to proceed with caution when using teeth, to be sure you’re gentle, that the intact male is sufficiently stimulated (don’t start with teeth, in other words), and that asking “would you like …” is always a good idea with sex.

Eudaemonia Mountain

Because I write and read a lot of explicit fiction, some of which is set in historical times or cultures other than present-day ‘Murica’, I thought I’d talk a bit about the differences in the circumcised and uncircumcised penis.  This isn’t hearsay; this is what I know.

First of all, they look different.  Obvious, right?  But what does an intact penis look like?  Here’s a comparison.

circumcised

 

Illustrations of erect intact penises tend not to be clinical in nature, so you can google that yourself.

The foreskin retracts as the man becomes aroused and the penis engorges.  It may or may not retract behind the glans fully, and if it doesn’t, the man may want to retract it manually before penetration to expose more of the sensitive glans (head).  After sexual activity, he may also want to move it forward over the glans again, which may be slightly uncomfortable to…

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Little Black Dress, an Adult Fairy Tale (NSFW)

little-black-dress

Once upon a time, or in the beginning, (whichever you prefer your fairy tales to open with, makes no difference to me) there was sex. Well, of course there was! Where do you think you came from, eh? You think god or the great author, again your choice, waited a gabillion years and then snuck sex in as an afterthought? No way. If sex hadn’t been on god’s mind, how do explain the pervasiveness of it? Even trees fuck, for christ’s sake. (Oops, probably wrong phrase there.) “The birds do it, the bees do it, even educated fleas do it ….” (What, you never heard of Cole Porter?)

So, in the beginning, there was sex. A lot of sex. Things hadn’t gotten to the point where the folks who weren’t getting any decided to regulate those who were, out of sheer spite, so when I say a lot, I mean a fucking lot of fucking. There was a certain innocence and enthusiasm about the whole affair (yes, I meant to say it that way) and the refrain, “why does any creature/anybody ever do anything else?” was heard repeatedly across the planet. If you could make the words out over the grunts, groans, moans, shouts of triumph and oh, fuck, yeah, that’s so good, just like that, baby, just like that!

Nobody much cared — or noticed — who was doing whom, in what combinations, with how many or even over in that dark back corner down yonder what species was getting it on with what other species. A whole lot of fucking going on.

Eventually, though, the ones who were left to the less-than-spectacular resources of one-person sex decided that enough was too much for everyone else and some idiot who couldn’t convince even a tree to take an interest in Little Willie (and maybe that was the problem, that Willie was little) invented religion. I don’t mean the ass invented god, mind you. He’d always been around (and around, and back and forth and up and down — the dude’s obviously one for variety, cause have you seen how many different kinds of beetles there are?) in one form, or two, or a dozen, or another. No, I meant religion.

Religion: a system of beliefs whereby a group of people use the ability of humans to convince themselves that anything not demonstrably false is in fact true (and even some things that are demonstrably false, viz. the teapot tempest over a certain President’s birthplace), combined with shame, guilt, and the carrot of eternal bliss to control the thoughts and actions of others. (Note: not so much themselves. It’s always Mrs. Baker’s sin of gossiping or Mr. Thomas’ little Saturday night card game for pennies or Santa Claus’ real use for the naughty list that fills the religious folks’ jock strap full of menthol and itching powder.)

Once the fellows had religion firmly in place — and it’s nearly always the fellows, since women are generally far too busy wiping bottoms and making meals and seeing that shit gets actually done to bother with inventing yet another thing to be seen to, though they participate with a vengeance once the guys have in place the means to completely repress them, something which would have had Freud scurrying back to the ‘cigar is just a cigar’ hidey-hole if he’d ever given a second thought to why a group of people would want to support their own downfall wholeheartedly — once the fellows had religion firmly in place, sex took a nosedive in terms of ubiquity.

It was brilliant of the not-getting-any-so-you-can’t faction to figure out that if they controlled how, when, under what conditions, in what positions and even if everyone got their rocks off, they could pretty much extort anything they wanted out of the poor sods. Money, property, fucking rights, power — they could get it all. Mostly power.

Ah, power, the crack cocaine of the psyche! What a lovely thing, to take control of someone else’s life, from the grand sweep to the dust motes, as a substitute for having no control over one’s own life! Beautiful in its fearful symmetry, you’ll forgive me for totally fucking with a phrase some poetry dude spouted once in a fit of barely repressed bestiality. (Oh come on, a poem to a tiger? What images did you think were going through his head?) And what better power to exercise than destroying the self-image and besmirching the societal view of the very ones who wouldn’t spread in the first place?

Oh so carefully, so as not to spook the womenfolk, the pedestal crept out, just a tiny elevated spot at first, maybe so she wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe to reach the jar of pickled beets on the top shelf of the pantry or some other innocuous sounding bullshit. But it got higher and higher all the time, that pedestal, that sundering line, that auction block. Those who stood there, being ogled and turned into objects and mock-venerated, they were the ‘good girls’, the madonnas, the ideal. The ones who wouldn’t get up there, or who jumped off the moment they saw the emperor’s ass, those were the ‘bad girls’, the whores, the used-and-discarded, the spat upon.

A heady and potent recipe for power, for the religious men. Stew for, oh, 5 millennia or so. Serves millions.

But then, something happened. Eve, the original beeyotch, the whore of whores, the mother of us all (isn’t that twisted, too?), the One Who Caused It All To Go Horribly Wrong, was in the ladies’ one night, probably at a showing of some avant garde film or the opening of a gallery show because, well, you know how those artists are. It just so happened that Mary was there, too. She must have been given the wrong address or something, because of course, the BVM would never go to a place like that, oh no, couldn’t be. There were Eve and the BVM (so look it up already, if you’re not Catholic) in the ladies, making small talk about raising sons and one thing led to another.

“Really?” the BVM asked. “Women are blamed for the fall?”

Eve nodded.

“And if women enjoy sex or take the initiative or in any way refuse to stay in that prison cell of a pedestal, they’re seen as wicked and worthless?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that, shall we? Give.” Mary held out her hand.
After a few more minutes, they made their way back to their dates. Adam and God had been in a deep discussion of the chances of the Ravens making it back to the Super Bowl, and had progressed nicely to the “you’re a stupid dickhead” stage.

“Come on, baby, let’s go back in,” both snarled through clenched teeth in perfect unison, which might have told them something about their kinship and similarities if they’d been interested in anything other than making the ‘mine is bigger than yours’ point. Loudly. Each snagged an arm in order to what’s been called ‘escort’ but would be more accurately served by ‘propel’ his woman back to the show.

Neither woman showed an inclination to move.

Again in unison, “I said come on, baby.”

Mary laughed. “I thought you’d never ask, honey, but are you sure you’re prepared for the fallout? Again?”

“What are you —-. Oh shit!” Adam dropped the BVM’s arm as if it were an open container of pissed-off fire ants who had anger management issues even before they pumped the steroids.

‘I’m sorry. I thought you were …,” echoed through the suddenly silent gallery.

God gave both women a good hard look. Yes, I meant to say it that way, and yes, God’s robe and Adam’s fig leaf both bore witness to just how hard that look was.

“You’re … you’re not wearing that wimple thing,” God stuttered. “I saw that robe and thought it was you, honest.”

Mary and Eve laughed. “Nope,” Eve explained. “We swapped. She’s in my little black dress, though it looks to me like she won’t be in it much longer, and I’m covering my charms. For the time being.”

“Unless you two are so fond of the clothing you’d rather do a bit more swapping?” Mary batted her eyes as she vamped for both men.

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Adam agreed, “but let’s do a fourway. I want to watch the old man bang a hot chick and baby you are hawt in that getup.”

God nodded. “It’s been a while, Eve. Shall we?”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘it’s been a while’? Have you been screwing this deity?” Adam interrupted.

“About as often as you’ve come home with your fig leaf on backwards, asshole. Sauce for the goose …!”

“Oh. You noticed?”

Eve laughed. “Of course I noticed. I don’t have one of those impediments to rational thought like you do.” She pointed.

God stepped in, doing the bud-nipping number, “So where are we going for this fourway? The gallery probably wouldn’t appreciate the broken shit when we take it to the rough side.”

Once the decision was made, they hied them hence and started the Fuck Like a Stoat Festival. After a considerable period of time during which several major mountain ranges became canyons and vice versa, about the time God and Adam each decided they’d held back long enough thank you very much and it was time for the big finish, Mary and Eve’s eyes met and they smiled.

“Judas, I’m coming,” God growled and Adam grunted, “Unnhh, unnhh.”

Eve squeezed down hard of the base of God’s cock, shutting him down, as Mary did the same with Adam.

“No, myself, oh myself, please, I need it,” God protested over Adam’s near shout, “Nnnnnooooo, don’t, don’t!”

Mary nodded for Eve to take point. “Would you like to come, big guy?”

“Myself, yes, woman!”

“Then here’s what you’ll do ….”

“And you, too, or I’ll staple that fig leaf to your privates,” Mary assured Adam. “You’ll ‘fess up, and I don’t mean here with just the four of us. You’ll put a video on YouTube, tweet it, blow Facebook up, flood Instagram, tumble tumbl’r right off the cliff.”

“What do you mean, ‘fess up’?” Adam asked.

“You’ll say that it wasn’t my fault, that you wanted that apple as much as I did, asshole,” Eve put in, warming to the subject. “You’ll take your part of the blame and guilt, make it clear that we shared in that little venture into owning ourselves and our lives.”

Adam laid his hand over Mary’s and thrust. “And if I agree, you’ll finish me? Anyway I want?”

She shook her head. “Bullshit. I’ll finish you, yes, but it will be any way we both want.”

God groaned. “My balls hurt.”

Eve ran an unrelenting nail over the seam in his god-sized scrotum. “And so you’ll change things, too. You’ll author a new edition of your owner’s manual bible thing and this time you’ll make sure that the ones you dictate to aren’t wrapped around an axle of superiority and sexual frustration.”

Mary added, “And you’ll make sure that the women who played such an important role in that whole history get their stories told, too, and told right.”

God groaned. “All right, all right, but … Eve, don’t be offended, but while this has been fantastic, I want my woman for the finish.”

She smiled. “And I want First Man. We were, after all, made for each other.”

Adam moaned and reached for his mate.

A while later, after the atmosphere had shuddered back to nitrogen/oxygen and the earth’s mantle trembled the last steps of the Himalayan tango, a very sated God propped up on his elbows, cleared his throat and said, “There’s just one thing.”

Eve and Mary sat bolt upright. “Oh, no, no you don’t,” Mary demanded as Eve let out a long string of extremely inventive profanity.

God held up his hand for silence. “We need to get you a little black dress of your own, o favored one.” He smiled and cupped Mary’s cheek as she laughed.

“You’re on, boyo, you’re on.”

Naked Rain (NSFW)

Naked Rain

“Cleanse me, wash me whole,” he cries
Unto the gathering storm.
His sins numerous and strong
Gnaw, chew him to the bone
Flesh rips from flesh —
The punishment fits the crime.
He cannot close his soul’s eyes,
He cannot refuse to look,
To see what he has done.
Bitter, his hands, savage, roam across his skin.
Phantom, hollow, not what he should be,
A husk and not a man.
“Cleanse me, wash me whole,” he cries
And lays him down to die
Freedom waits beyond the veil
No clawing desire.
No gutting need.
Beyond the veil is peace.
Thunder barks, the waters fall.
Absolution falls, creeps up his sides
Draws its sheltering plash
To close across his chest.
And still the offending flesh protrudes
“Deeper, deeper,” he sobs,
“Free me from such sordid need.”

Rippled drops, a storm no more
Caress his fevered flesh.
Speaks whisper, rumble, thunderclap —
Or perhaps he hears them all —
“Wake, belovéd, for you are whole.”
Opened eyes protest
“I lust,” he mutters as he rises.
The answer comes, “So do I, my child.
And what is wrong with that?
Proud flesh, so like mine,
My pride and joy, you are.”
“You? Lust? How can that be?”
A laugh, and in it freedom’s song.
“You ask me that?
But you’ve just felt my raging want
The passion of my storm.
Did you not know I bathed you in
The rain, my cleansing seed?”

[photo credit unknown. Information sought.]

NF – Thoughts on Time

Goldsworthy text

Goldsworthy blue stones

gold_rowanlevs

Andy Goldsworthy Woven Sticks

Andrew Goldsworthy river-745295

Andrew Goldsworthy Ice Circles

andy

andy goldsworthy ice cone

Time. Tempus fugit. Time flies. (Mistranslation; it’s ‘flees’.) We’ve all heard it. Look at the words, the Latin words. See what I see? (Maybe etymology isn’t your thing.)

Tempus – time
• temporary – impermanent
• temporal – constrained by time
• temper (temperare in Latin, from tempus) – to mix, to dilute
• tempera – pigment mixed with water or egg, using for painting
• temper – to moderate
• temperance – moderation, delay of or abstinence from gratification
• temperament – a condition of mind and/or emotion

Fugit – flees
• fugitive – that which flees
• fugue – musical composition with various themes, one beginning and the rest following, chasing it as it flees
• fuga – flight, also ardor (interesting confluence of meaning, that)
• refuge – a place or state of safety to which one flees
• foog – Erin’s minced oath for the f-word, playing on the ardor connection and the chase after the (for women more than for men) elusive orgasm. (Yes, probably chosen for the pronunciation, but the subconscious is mighty, especially for wordsmiths with a hard-on for languages, like Erin.)

And so we come to the zen of ripples, visible demonstration of tempus having a fugit right there in front of god and everybody — not there, plop-there, chase after resolution, modulate in collision with the not-self, gone.

Time. We all swim in it, just as we swim in air. They are our natural habitat, air and time. We breathe the one; do we also breathe the other? Do our bodies extract nourishment from time as well as oxygen? Were time denied us, would we wheeze and claw and struggle and die, as we do if air is denied us? Is stasis then a way to live or a way to die? Stagnation is assuredly a death-way and is stasis not stagnation raised exponentially?

Stasis, stagnation – murder weapons, whether it be physical, emotional, creative, or spiritual stasis. Sometimes it’s self-murder, suicide; often we are constrained by, bond-slaves to, the lust of some Other for control, be that Other a boss, spouse, partner, lover, child, religious institution.

NB: there is a vast difference in moderation — societally imposed moderation ensures that we don’t wake up as the stranger/lover’s sudden hidden knife (‘she looked at me wrong, that’s why’) invades the carotid; institutionally imposed stagnation murders our souls, all for the sake of feeding a fetid ego. Not all religions do this; restraint does not equal stifling of another’s creativity. Our creativity is the only tangible and demonstrable way we are ‘made in the image of god’; the fact that we are creators by our very nature reveals the DNA of essence we share with the divine, who/whatever that may be.

Even creativity is grounded in time. We begin a project; we consume a certain number of the units of our lives in its development; we complete it. Allowing Biblical accuracy for the sake of analogy, god began creation, consumed six days in its development, completed it and rested on the seventh.

Some people know this on an astounding level, experience it, meditate upon it, and set it in our paths so that we, too, see it, if only for a fleeting moment. Ah, Tempus, what a whore you are, rouged and perfumed and humping to distract and deceive, while your pimp Mort waits behind the door for the precisely right moment to appear and roll us of our only true possession, our continuity from yesterday to tomorrow.

A few people drag Mort’s bony ass out of hiding and foog him thoroughly, making his existence not only inevitable but part of the very stuff of their creation, the ending of a thing as vital as its beginning. Some people like Andy Goldsworthy, who weaves Tempus and Mort into all that he does. He’s a far braver soul than I will ever be, striding up to them both and saying, “I’m having that, thank you very much,” while he snatches their own essence and foogs them completely. Most of us cower. Andy stands in the spotlight and has at it.

[images are of Andy Goldsworthy’s works]