In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Embrace the Ick.”
“You know who I mean, those desk generals, those corrupt politicians, those oligarchs and their media lackeys – they who don’t hesitate to send young people to the grinder, to lie, to hire thugs to do their dirty work…”
“So, why do you think they have their use then?”
I know you would ask, and I think about it for a few seconds. The morning sunlight plays in your hair, its reflections bouncing on the edge of the cup you hold.
“I imagine having them all in front of me, and I am ready to fire, to execute the lot of them… In a way, it calms me down… But there is something else: they are visible, we know who they are, admittedly some of them are more public than others… But still, they are his public face, the face of Evil. Without them we would have to dig very deep to get hold of Satan. With them, we know what to do, it’s very clear for anyone with a conscience.”
You came in, as coffee was brewing, the soft sound and aroma of winter mornings.
Our eyes met, and I knew, and this certainty sealed the day: for where else would I be invited to drink off the chalice of time, humble mortal in front of the Goddess.
And so it was that I learned the Path of Life.
Inspired by the WP Daily Prompt, and a chance encounter in a museum…
Dedicated to the Hopi tribes, who knew agriculture, and the art of living, when Europe was starving, crawling in medieval darkness.
He stands on the red rocks, alone with ghosts, his sight on the painted horizon.
Slowly they appear in his vision: the millions, slaughtered by disease, hunger, the swords and bullets of the invaders.
He knows: a people in tune with nature, who understood the path of Mother Earth, as no-one since has understood Her.
And, now, he, the scientist, knows the end is near: his own tribe will have to leave the fourth world, and find solace in hell.
Then the braves will rise from their forgotten graves, as trees from the desert.
Prompted by “Getting Started“…
Une Femme Est une Femme
… to be continued…
In the dream the landscape has shrunk, and small humans are running along the shore… But is it a dream?
Or am I seeing the world, after life has changed, that is, after I have left?
And are those small creatures how we appear to anyone else, on the other side?
Unless we too have died.
We drove from Flagstaff, and took Route 89 North, under the volcano, our sights on the snow capped San Francisco range.
Soon, in the direction of the Wupatki ruins, home of the Water clan, we saw the Painted Desert in its splendour, stretching as a thin rainbow on the horizon.
We stopped at the Sunset Crater: there you said the ground was alive, with the spirit of your ancestors.
1064 was the year of the great eruption, and after a millennium, the trees are back, their roots deep in the dark grey lava.
Then I said I loved your home, and your smile took me to heaven.