The Saturday Within My Grasp

Where shall I travel this fine day, with its thick, grey vista rolling in cloud after cloud after aching thunderstorms assaulted my windows early in the morning hours. The cats well hidden from the noise, in closets, in boxes, huddled in corners from the lightening and booms not 20 feet away. . my knees stuck with pins were scrambling last night as i lay dreaming of soft sand and a late afternoon sun.

I ask you, you  marvelous gods of fever and furnace, which way is hope? Shall I wait for a sign? Or listen for an owl? I am shown a pyramid of green metal, small shallow steps toward a gold apex atop where no one sits and nothing calls to me. I stand back to understand the sight, but I have no inclination to climb. I realize this is just a symbol of someone else’s artistic idea. Not mine to interpret or experience. An artform that means nothing without a legend to point to its genius. Someone, looking like a vague imprint of the Beat Poet of Christ, puts a finger to his mouth to hush the conversation. Above me empty candy wrappers float in space. The clear cellophane kind that crunch unmistakeably when opened by the fingers of desire. They symbolize the transparent layers of containment, opening for airing out and emptying when the sugary taste has passed.

 The wind gasps and murmurs oooooh. It is just that kind of day, when hands-on physicalities grope for steadiness and purpose.  I am sure that all my good fortune will equal to a basket of neatly folded laundry.  One work day in the can. And then the enrichment of the evening. I will bathe my brushes in paint…. ah the watery brews of acrylics, red, russet and sienna. Not indigenous to the subject, but an undercoating for the harbor where the misty boats and ships are moored safely on the cusp of the seas. I hear the ringing of the chains and links clinking mildly as they rock the wooden hulls to the moorings, knocking back the glisten of an unperturbed ocean. Then I will paint it blue and purple and pink over the shallow ocher silt. If you can get to the waters edge today, bring a compass and a quart of tea. We can sit on the dock, watch the little movements of life shimmer seductively, rocking themselves into the ecstasy of their own reflection.

Back at the office of reality, I will fulfill my obligations of payment to my debtors,  the small pieces of paper will be conquered and checked, enveloped,  stuck fancifully with a new, modern 44 cent stamp… each.  And a sweet note of forgiveness to Bear who drove to Corpus Christi without me.

Writing excerpt by Jeff Poniewaz, who is alive and living in Milwaukee, WI. (many of our seaworthy adventures are chronicled by landlocked sailors)

  One way the work could survive in joy is if the whole world worshipped whales.

If ancient Egyptians worshipped cats, how much more we should worship whales.

I really believe we should worship the whales & regard them as superior

(if not actually supreme) intelligentsias for they can nowise hurt us.

Unlike most the of Gods currently worshipped, their whole being is exultation & play.

I believe we should apprentice ourselves to whales & dolphins

more eagerly than any other humon guru. The whales sing & play all day.

When they’re hungry all they do is open their big mouths

(how can they help it if millions of krill happen to seep in?)

Yes, the whales sing & play all day & don’t have to mail their songs

to any publisher whales in order to be free from the factories,

just blow geysers of ecstasy all day long.

 

  But someone has to pay the bills, answer the phone, caretake the cats, dust and tend to domestic destructions.

But please, I pray,  make it quick and effortless, so that I can sail before sunset.

 

Best Wishes, Whisel*