The Light Society - Ch 7
CHAPTER 7: Cheerful Skeptic
Inside the house wind torched and glittering the man in black found on the other side of silence a residue of ancient laughter. “I am a king even though there is no such thing,” he said in his bedroom to the stained glass. Carried away into the darkness, into one tremulous rumble, the black canopy of night hung about him. “There’s nothing left for you and me but to sip sweet wine.”
Outside in their naked aggression, flat and senseless, the seven met the wet and windy, the life giving serpent with telescopes for eyes and the woman in white, galloping beyond the hail said, “Its all the same, when the large beast gazes upon me lovingly, I must be ready to fulfill his will.”
Now wrapped in a transparent robe of flesh she lay down on the grass as if unable to endure the postponed pleasure and began the slow movement of the hand on the dial, just as in the mechanisms of a clock.
A faceless voice in a grey overcoat, nothing more whispered into the hot pink and orange of her ear through the breeze, “You will see the great brilliance of taking a life.”
Her arms began to grow rough with white hair, she was now a snow bear. What once was white was now its opposite. Only a few of her white plumes were still visible, a crow amidst the snow trees. She stood in view without her robe loving nothing but the triumph of a miracle. “We shall eat the crabs claws,” she said to the serpent in the sky between the twin bears of night and day.
The seven with their tongues upon the levers, their hands upon the dials of human history watched while from the fires became her black skin.
You and I are
You and I are
Is made of sunlight
“I don’t know what year it is,” said the man in green.
“How old are you,” the woman in yellow asked the now black and white woman.”
“I thought I made it clear that I am a time traveler,” she replied. “Take these daggers and come to me, give me what I desire. My legacy to you is my home,” she said reaching down to the ground unearthing an arsenal of spear points, umbrella pines and lightning fires.
“Good and evil spin apart and everything else vanishes, even time itself,” said Mr. Red, with his face in the glow buried deep in Violet’s soil as if letting the blood from a goat, under the waves of her red tiled roofs. His tongue oscillating across her landscape of flesh, her sugar spun fibers, linking repeatedly.
“An orgy for bingeing lions,” exhaled Blue.
“Gouged by six feet of corkscrewing horns,” said Orange.
“Buried with their mouths full of precious jewelry,” said Indigo.
Writhing on the immense green grass sea under the golden winged sun birds and the silvery cheeked horn bills they lusted, while in the trees above fervent monkeys sat eating mango skin with the black leopard, the black race of the African golden cat and the giant beavers as big as black bears and the collie sized elephants.
“I want us all to share our eyes,” said White.
“The past carries, like the sea, a great unyielding certainty,” said Yellow while sucking Orange’s blood, sipping her nectar.
“Do you hear how they walk when death is near, the medicine men in their mudstick huts?” said the woman in orange in her ecstasy, her seductive red glow, her lips in and out of the shade of the messenger birds over head.
“When we manage to go feral,” said Violet, “most mouths are like faucets, sucking blood or sipping nectar.”
“Where the tundra and the tropics disappeared in the fire storm in the silence of the birdless world there remained deep pools of hot turquoise water,” said White.
“Are we learning to move the light with our minds?” asked Red.
“Must we let go of our body like the Earth?” said Green. “Do we actually have to shoot the song birds to return to where the air smells of violets, to eat the bush meat?”
“Progress is inevitable because past the nature proof trash and ancient kings we find the unbearable dripping ivy, the green carpet, the purple painted cups. We must uncover the myth of the Siberian tiger somehow,” said White still rapped in her black bear skin. “To see the inside of their belly. How else will we explain the footprints fleeing the volcanic flowering madness, the beaks invariably adapted to cracking seeds or sucking the blood of other sea birds?”
“Or how I’ve gotten so high on the purple loose strife,” said Blue.
“The secret to life is in gardening,” said White. “Before potatoes or tomatoes, a deceptively lovely lavender stock. I want to show you the patterns of chaos, the six sided crystals that respond to stomach acid, the solid curtains of purple, impenetrable to wilderness, snaking hoses up stairways to pump to nearby sewers into the bowels of you seven men and women in the isles,” she said, her words entombing the seven children of light. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been eating?” she asked.
“Our ancestors the spider monkey?” responded Red with another question hoping to gain a keen understanding of structural weakness.
“Many times what you see is not there,” replied White. “We are unworthy of the gift of corn, the purple pomegranate, the dance of the sugar plum, the mad horse’s deadly muzzle.”
“I don’t want to insult the color green by placing my name next to it,” said the man in green.
“There are chimes in the trees, times tentacles, that recognize the difference between spinning and not spinning,” said White, under a low spear of sun ladling syrup over the trees. “Its also visible in the way a fat woman ties her shoes in a soft burgundy silk dress commanding her pink and white fish under the glow of the clouds in a three quarter moon. Or how her eyes budding up at the mention of sex sat in blue stockings as near to naked as possible at the dinner table and later nude on a blue cushion in a cube of yellow light the sadomasochistic minx dreaming of the hottest thing on the streets, the last orgiastic ritual free from the tyranny of time clasping in her plump little hands a bundle of violets.
“I cannot tell you how much I wish you weren’t a mirage,” said Indigo to the woman in white.
“Never distrust the unfolding,” she replied quickly, “the entropic perfection of the diamond company magnate measuring apple orchards to the sea with cycloptic metal pins slicing everywhere and every when as he sits sipping through a straw on the beach or laying down on your lawn uninvited in the sunlight filtering through your trees.
During the electro-dynamics of moving bodies the seven realized more pleasure in the re-experience and began to laugh upwards with mouths full of glowing light as if accessing the heavens with their fleshy sacrament.
The woman in orange began to stand. “Can we see the vacuum pump, the light shinning in darkness?” she asked, moving away from the group, sublimated, returning through the forest to catch a still breath in the shade.
They all began to stand up over the smashed fruit where they took off their cloaks before the snow festival, the civil war, the massacre, over the good death of all things.
The white woman sat in her uniform next to the man in red still laying down on the lawn in his blissful contempt for tradition and authority, of churches, still laying upon the the mystical body of the Earth. White kissed his strawberry lips under the thick beauty of the chandelier tree, kissed his lovely figure forgetting for a moment the color of the dark under the bird cage carcasses, the menagerie of organic pattern. “The taxi man with his top hat in the farthest afternoon is coming soon.”
“Must we leave the foul shag where we make love?” asked Red.
“Naturally, we must all ride the olive green carriage with our cables caught to apply any graces,” she said. “We are people who move when they talk, to escape the fear of violent death hypnosis. We cannot sit forever worshiping one location in space just to avoid newness.”
“There must be imagination experimentation,” said Red.
“We cannot ride motorized vehicles resting our new religion on miracles forever fleeing the great herders carrying the gift of sleep,” said Yellow. “We’ll miss the oracle and we cannot miss a show like this, dozing the few days the sun shines in the revelation of senses.”
“You can feel the brilliance of hypnotism which never despairs in getting proselytes in the stillness,” said Green
“The oracle is in every man’s breast supposing upon what’s perceived only moments ago now impossible to know,” said the woman in blue.
“In a memory trapped inside my mind, I dined and was merry at the delicious dinner party of light,” said Violet. “There can be no other reason beyond this shadowy isness.”
“How polite do you expect me to be while death approaches?” said Red to the collapsing sky still lying underneath the slipping miracle.
“You have heard that the light shined in darkness and the darkness comprehended it not,” said the woman in white, in perfect detachment of the night’s growing gravity, as dark hues began to dominate the field again.