The Letters - (#7) In The Clear

There was nothing. There is nothing. Then, there is the hand. There was nowhere. There is nowhere. Then, there is the door. The hand and door converge. The hand and the door are one. The hand and door are all. They watch me. They feed me. They teach me. I pray. They answer. I am alive with the hand and the door. It was all I knew. It was all I know. It is all I knew. It is all I know.

The Letters - (#6) Cinnamon Buns

To My Dear and Secret friend,

I want to write you a story, but I seem to be having great difficulty. I'm trying to think of something symbolic to eat in my story, something I can metaphorically devour. Maybe something with a figurative smile so that I can appear dark and pessimistic. I am eating a woman's face, but I'm a cinnamon bun.

Funny how my being a cinnamon bun instantly justifies eating a woman's face. I think everyone loves a cinnamon bun and the people who don't love them are lying.

I mean, those people aren't fine with merely "not liking" cinnamon buns, they have to hate them with all their envy infested selves. To them, there is no such thing as "middle ground" when it comes to liking cinnamon buns. Please, let me explain. Pretty please.

Aw, will you really let me? Really? You're so nice.

I think hate infers that love once existed and has now been replaced with other things like bitterness, resentment, and envy. In the case of the bun-haters, they are full it. They are the Lucifers to God's cinnamon buns.

They wish they could be rich in flavour and soft in complexion. They are amazed at the intricacy of texture and taste, and how the two intertwine to form such enviable richness, so eternally golden and juicy. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Om nom nom nom. Nom. Nom. Nom. Om nom.

I wish I could be so golden and juicy, and with freckled cinna-spice? Yes, please.

It's envy. These people are full of envy. Perhaps, they envy the power that cinnamon buns possess, or maybe they just want to be loved. We all want to be loved like cinnamon buns.

Pour some sugar on me.

The Letters - (#5) The Fjord

Dear friend,

Today, I am standing on a precipice and looking out over the fjords.

It is so majestic, being here, in the refreshing salt-water air. Everything is royal: the sky, the trees, and the cliffs. I cannot help but hope that some of it rubs off on me.

Awe, my friend, this is an age of awe, and with awe comes fear. Fear always lingers near awe with a foreboding look upon its face and wags its finger as if to say "No, you'll die." As I stand on this precipice, I begin to feel the fear closing in on me, whispering to me. My Mother always warned me about getting too close to the edge. She would say, "Don't get too close to the edge, it might break and you might tumble down with it." She had so much wisdom.

But I just cannot help myself. Everything is beautiful. Dark greens and deep colours of all kinds are everywhere. The precipice is covered with grass that grows all the way up to the edge. "Heck," I think "if the grass can do it, so can I." I make my decision, but still I move cautiously, because no matter how hard one tries, one simply cannot altogether dismiss the advice of one's Mother.

I am so dangerous now. Yes, I am. I live in an age of danger. I have dangerous music and dangerous clothing and dangerous hair. Oh baby, I am so dangerous.

I am on the edge now. I take off my shoes and throw them into the ocean below. The shoe laces dance and twirl and the shoes take a good 6 seconds to hit the water. My bare feet bite into the grass. "It is so lush and green," they tell me, "thank you for freeing us." "What funny feet I have" thinks me. Then, I spit off the edge and watch it fall. I guess I could not help doing that either. Who could?

I sit over the edge and let my feet dangle. Surrounding me lay forests untouched and thriving in the abundant climate. This is truly a majestic place. I am a blissful cake. Or sheep. How does the expression go?

I look down and I can see the water hitting the rocks. "The tide's a changin'" I think. Then I begin humming that famous Bob Dylan song. My mood changes. I think of lemmings, those sad, morbid creatures. I get up to leave. The wind changes. The clouds roll in. In the distance, I hear thunder. My feet quiver. "It's alright" I tell them. But words cannot comfort feet the way that shoes can. I wish I had my shoes.

Taking one last look around, I am again amazed at the grandeur of it all. But it's different now. It is darker. But for some reason it makes me smile. "More danger," I think. Then, I turn and jump.

I'm dancing, twirling.

Then, I hit.

I slice downwards through the water. I'm in deep. The water is colder that I thought it would be. My feet are numb in pain...I didn't know they could be both at the same time. My ears hurt. Suddenly, a powerful quiver spreads through my chest and up my spine where it lingers in the back of my head. This shiver is unique. It is intense and small. It is as if a thousand tiny voices are yelling at every single cell within my lungs "BREATHE!"

I can't breathe.

I think human beings have a sick addiction to oxygen.

Where did the air go? Where did the Sun go? The water knows. I know it knows. But it won't answer. It's too watery and bluish. "Answer me!" I scream. "Answer the poor man," the tiny yelling voices plead.

Then, it does and I am released back into the world of life, air, and Sun. My lungs celebrate by immediately gorging themselves on every oxygen molecule within their reach. I gasp while the Sun beams down at me. Everything is so majestic. Then I look and I see, floating, right next to me, are my shoes.

My feet do a dance.

They cannot help but not.

Organic Panic

I laughed at the pottery man in his field,
eating his orange and eating the peel.
"Hey!" I hollered, "why do you eat that?!"
"It's full of the good stuff, you just cannot beat that!"

"O yeah?" I countered, now ready to battle,
"I eat the meat straight out of the cattle!"
"I drink the drink straight out of the ocean!"
"I suck the peaches from peachy-handlotion!"

The Potter's cheeks reddened, I knew I had won,
That's when he shook his head and said to me, "Son...
Your unhealthy eating will soon backfire,
switch to organic, you'll see I'm no liar."

Never before had it ever occurred,
Me, unhealthy?! Absolutely absurd!
But somehow the look in the Potter man's eye,
made me believe I was going to die.

Now, I eat raisins and eggplant and onions,
barley, and beans, and sheep by the dozens.
Thanks Potter man, your words keep me alive.
I just had my birthday, I'm one hundred and five.

The Letters: (#4) The Carpet

Dearest friend,

You love the way I lie.

From,

The Carpet

The Letters - #3 - My Fellow Drone

Dear, dear friend,

You are so dear to me. You do know that, right? I hope so. I mean, I don't know how you couldn't. After all, I'm sure to say it before every letter I write to you.

Well, today I was passively preoccupied with my usual labor when one of the gents who works in the field stopped by for a visit. This individual can be described as homely, and deceptively intelligent (in this case I use that to mean his apparent intelligence is a deception). He asked me a question, "How are you?"

First of all, that question has always caused me great annoyance. I find it difficult to answer. I don't know how I am. Plus, isn't it grammatically incorrect? Maybe it isn't, but I'd rather he came in and said something different, something interesting. Like, "Today, I just realized that I am an ignorant, small-minded man. I am usually unconcerned with most matters outside myself. My world is exceedingly small and I need to grow and learn and explore, instead of just eating, sleeping, and working my life away." I would have found that completely compelling and my opinion of him would have instantly changed.


However, it is nice of him to ask me how I am; whatever that means, I'm sure he meant the best by it. Usually, when he asks me that, I just say "yes." Then, he looks at me with some confused facial expression which I can only imagine to be his mindless brain thinking some mindless thought that only brainless minds think. I can't even imagine. Anyways, I ask it back. "How are you?"

He says "I'm alright. Today has been a long day. We've had a lot of orders." "Sounds great," I reply, "it's good to be busy." "Yes," he says, "more honey for the hive." I laugh. He laughs. I say "more ants for the antelope." He gives me the same confused look as earlier. "Well, I've got to get back to work," I say. "Yeah, so do I." He turns to leave. "Have a good day, fellow worker bee." He says. "You too, you blubbering idiot." I think. "You too. ...Buzz buzz!" I say. We both laugh.

Before going around the corner of the office to leave, he turns, smiles, and puts his hand into a fist except for his index finger which he points outward. Then, he moves this fist down to his rear. He's a full fledged bumblebee now, stinger and all. "You better get out of here." I jokingly yell. "I'm allergic to bumble bees."

He laughs, turns the corner, and leaves.

And that was the last I ever saw of him.

I mean, that was the last I ever saw of him today. Gosh, rereading that, I can see how that looks. It looks like I'm saying he died. Goodness, no! I'll probably see him again tomorrow.

And maybe tomorrow, he'll be an ant.

And, I suppose, I'll be one too.

The Letters - #2 - The Buzzard

Dearest Friend,

It's been too long since I last wrote to you.

Today, I am a buzzard atop a dead tree scanning the desert landscape below. In the distance, I see a person walking. Actually, it cannot be described as walking, but bumbling. They are tired. They are fat and sweaty. I wonder where they've come from. I wonder where they hope to go. The person is closer now. It is a man. I can tell he's on the verge of dying.

For a second, I almost have compassion, but then I remind myself, "I'm a buzzard, I peck and gnaw and project a dark, ominous glow where ever I go. Buzzards have no compassion. Buzzards eat compassion and once eaten, they digest it into mercilessness, and mercilessness, as we all know, keeps you alive in the desert."

The man, still about fifty thousand buzzard eggs away, stumbles and falls to the ground. I can feel my buzzard heart leap inside of me and I fly off towards the fat, sweating, dying man.

I am half way when I see him look up and stare at me. He smiles a dopey, heat-stroke smile while he is lying there. He looks peaceful, as if he has just seen an angel. I now add delusional to the adjectives of fat, sweating, and dying.

Before landing, I circle above him to know for certain what state he is in. He yells things up at me, but I have no idea what he is saying. I only speak Buzzard.

Finally, since I am such a cautious bird, I land out of his reach. The man is silent now and his eyes are shut. Is he asleep? I hop closer. His eyes open and he stares at me. The man is not smiling anymore. Instead, he is just looking at me blankly. Then, he slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out something shiny. It's a watch. He gestures me closer, but I stay where I am. What does he think I am, a brainless pigeon? "Die already!" I think, "Just die, so I can eat you."

Suddenly, he throws the watch at me and misses me terribly. I hop over to the watch. Up close, it is all the more shiny. I look closer. I can see something etched in the silver. No, it is nothing etched. It is a reflection. It is my reflection. "Wait, aren't Buzzards black and sinister?" I think, "something is wrong." Then, the reflection reveals the truth and I immediately realize what I am, rather who I am.

An angel, I am an angel. I fly over to the fat man and he gives me a big, fat, sweaty hug. I pick him up with my strong angel arms. Then with one enormous leap upwards, I fly off towards the gates of Heaven.

God understands. The desert can make you think strange things.