Razor Face
08-14-2004, 03:04 AM
Imagine a house that had no objects. All things being animate and subjective and connected to you to whatever degree you desired. Imagine the builder of such a house; he would be as a god. Worshiped, loved, known as benevolent, and gone. Clocks that struck chaos at a it’s own desired hour, to be watched and avoided at such times, but not to be taken too seriously, as the chaos was as much your own as you wished and a quick dodge of the pendulum was enough to avoid the ensuing destruction which was actually a pleasure to watch. The new forms that arose with their sharp and splintered edges soon settled back to a rounded complicity with their surroundings. But the colors and meanings were different. They had a new purpose, something to explore later. And water. The house and the surrounding area is filled with streams and rivers that invite a real sharing of texture with only your will to keep you from merging completely and forever.
I found myself there, ankle deep in the water, stripped down to shorts and covered completely with the warm mud so only my eyes separated me from the flowing mass. I had several people watching me, the son of the woman that ran the house, his mother, and a gardener who met me before I left the edge and dropped down to the bank of the river. He didn’t speak my language so we didn’t visit, both surprised to see each other he graced me with a guffaw and chuckle and stepped aside to let me by. I walked to a small waterfall that seemed designed for just that purpose, and stripped and began to wash. They saw experience being shed, rinsed off in clear shimmering pieces and pushed along to join the deep water. They saw me clean for the first time in eternity, saw me turn, and watching my thoughts, saw me dive arms outstretched toward the river’s bottom, saw me land and burrow down into the mud, saw the river slow, become more shallow and myself emerge part of their world. Even the air became warmer. The matron was staring intently with a look of grave concern that seemed to give her energy, and she hurried away, obviously with a new purpose. But her son was curious and began to interact while the gardener watched with delight. A half submerged bare tree stuck out of the water near me and one of the larger branches near it’s top began to change form. Several directions began and subsided, with a high pitched screech emitting from one particular spiny lump, until finally the thin dry bark began to pattern into wings and a large hawk solidified. It looked at the boy and then slowly turned to me and a quiet recognition took place. No friendship, but an understanding that we were responsible for each other’s existence and that brought a respect, and a kinship of sorts. And then he flew and left us. Not the house or its confines but left ‘us.’ If chance brought us together to interact, then we would, as we could choose to interact with any part of our extensions. But until then, we’d work our own way exploring as we decided. The boy gave me a look of satisfaction and a nod and went his way. The gardener with a half smirk that grew to a smile pushed off too. To do some work no doubt.
Standing, I moved again to the water’s edge and a new audience emerged at the wooden bridge where the boy and woman had been, also above the tall rock ledge near the bank. These were sisters and friends. All women, all staring with suspicion and curiosity. A large young black woman, with a disapproving smile, several dark skinned, brown haired, Native American women, and a blonde light skinned sprite that kept looking from me toward her companion and then back again. I stood taller and gazed back almost in defiance not knowing why I was here or to what purpose I was to pursue. And then in the water there was swimming a woman who was closer to my own age. She looked about thirty and flowed out of the water to stand inches from me. Her look was deep and knowing and with out a demand or a single word let it be known that there was no other for me while I was here. There would be no insistence, no design, but no other possibility would present itself whether I willed or not. She was as tall as I, and had mid-length curly brown hair. Wearing only a purple sheer cloth that barely covered her skin and completely exposed her breasts and slender neck. She had dark salmon colored skin and while not large, her athletic build was not toned to exercise. She wore no jewelry, but the cloth was embroidered with spun gold that patterned around the edges and gave the appearance of just the right amount of indulgence. She waited quietly for my response and with a smile turned when she saw only my stern acceptance of what was, at that particular moment. She left expectant, the others turning and moving off also.
How could such a place be? As I climbed and headed toward the house I could feel the ground accept my presence. If we chose I could have walked on the air, or so I was thinking when I entered the house. This ‘living’ space was a mansion of rough-hewn wood beams and polished hardwood floors. Not a carpet, chair, knickknack or wall covering had a sense of no importance. Each was a product of art, each part of its own making, each wanting touch and thought, each alive and glad to be so. The artists were living and making themselves and each other from the teachings of the builder, the new adding meaning and interest to the old. I was searching for the matron as I explored the large rooms found her sitting near the kitchen. Seeing me caked in dry mud and part of things was an odd turn but not unwelcome. “I don’t think you belong,” she said quietly.
When I woke and dressed I began to feel the ‘wrongness’ of the place. Not being able to articulate what exactly was wrong I began to look for a cause.
I found myself there, ankle deep in the water, stripped down to shorts and covered completely with the warm mud so only my eyes separated me from the flowing mass. I had several people watching me, the son of the woman that ran the house, his mother, and a gardener who met me before I left the edge and dropped down to the bank of the river. He didn’t speak my language so we didn’t visit, both surprised to see each other he graced me with a guffaw and chuckle and stepped aside to let me by. I walked to a small waterfall that seemed designed for just that purpose, and stripped and began to wash. They saw experience being shed, rinsed off in clear shimmering pieces and pushed along to join the deep water. They saw me clean for the first time in eternity, saw me turn, and watching my thoughts, saw me dive arms outstretched toward the river’s bottom, saw me land and burrow down into the mud, saw the river slow, become more shallow and myself emerge part of their world. Even the air became warmer. The matron was staring intently with a look of grave concern that seemed to give her energy, and she hurried away, obviously with a new purpose. But her son was curious and began to interact while the gardener watched with delight. A half submerged bare tree stuck out of the water near me and one of the larger branches near it’s top began to change form. Several directions began and subsided, with a high pitched screech emitting from one particular spiny lump, until finally the thin dry bark began to pattern into wings and a large hawk solidified. It looked at the boy and then slowly turned to me and a quiet recognition took place. No friendship, but an understanding that we were responsible for each other’s existence and that brought a respect, and a kinship of sorts. And then he flew and left us. Not the house or its confines but left ‘us.’ If chance brought us together to interact, then we would, as we could choose to interact with any part of our extensions. But until then, we’d work our own way exploring as we decided. The boy gave me a look of satisfaction and a nod and went his way. The gardener with a half smirk that grew to a smile pushed off too. To do some work no doubt.
Standing, I moved again to the water’s edge and a new audience emerged at the wooden bridge where the boy and woman had been, also above the tall rock ledge near the bank. These were sisters and friends. All women, all staring with suspicion and curiosity. A large young black woman, with a disapproving smile, several dark skinned, brown haired, Native American women, and a blonde light skinned sprite that kept looking from me toward her companion and then back again. I stood taller and gazed back almost in defiance not knowing why I was here or to what purpose I was to pursue. And then in the water there was swimming a woman who was closer to my own age. She looked about thirty and flowed out of the water to stand inches from me. Her look was deep and knowing and with out a demand or a single word let it be known that there was no other for me while I was here. There would be no insistence, no design, but no other possibility would present itself whether I willed or not. She was as tall as I, and had mid-length curly brown hair. Wearing only a purple sheer cloth that barely covered her skin and completely exposed her breasts and slender neck. She had dark salmon colored skin and while not large, her athletic build was not toned to exercise. She wore no jewelry, but the cloth was embroidered with spun gold that patterned around the edges and gave the appearance of just the right amount of indulgence. She waited quietly for my response and with a smile turned when she saw only my stern acceptance of what was, at that particular moment. She left expectant, the others turning and moving off also.
How could such a place be? As I climbed and headed toward the house I could feel the ground accept my presence. If we chose I could have walked on the air, or so I was thinking when I entered the house. This ‘living’ space was a mansion of rough-hewn wood beams and polished hardwood floors. Not a carpet, chair, knickknack or wall covering had a sense of no importance. Each was a product of art, each part of its own making, each wanting touch and thought, each alive and glad to be so. The artists were living and making themselves and each other from the teachings of the builder, the new adding meaning and interest to the old. I was searching for the matron as I explored the large rooms found her sitting near the kitchen. Seeing me caked in dry mud and part of things was an odd turn but not unwelcome. “I don’t think you belong,” she said quietly.
When I woke and dressed I began to feel the ‘wrongness’ of the place. Not being able to articulate what exactly was wrong I began to look for a cause.