I read that as copulate. Obsessed, moi?

I read that as copulate. Obsessed, moi?

Zen through multiple orgasms works fine for me. Either way, must see what pokes its head out of the cave.

must see what pokes its head out of the cave.

Huh. Guess I've been doing it wrong all these years.

Darkness

Down, down, deeper and down....

This is where the monsters live.

Close your eyes, lost, panicky sweaty hands trying despeately to find the wall, but you can't. No hope in hell, and hell is where you are, maybe, needing light, finding none.

You always thought memory was a well. Turns out you were wrong: it's a hole, with things you made yourself waiting behind every invisible turn, teeth and claws and the pain of what you had and what you lost, and the sunlight you can never find again.

Down, down, deeper and down. This is where the monsters live.

Bible Stories

Moses, so the Bible tells us, retreated to a cave when he was overwhelmed by stress -- Israelites threatening his life and so forth. If a great prophet fled for shelter when it got tough, why should I be any stronger?

The Bible goes on to tell us that God showed up at the cave and put Moses' worries into perspective with a display of nature's raw power -- winds, earthquakes, fire. And then God asked Moses what he was doing there, hiding in a cave. The implication being, disasters will come, despite whispered wishes and fervent prayers; there's no stopping that. But after the fury dies down, then what, God asks, are you doing?

Hide during the distaster, by all means; keep yourself safe. But don't keep hiding when it's past.

So what, then, am I doing?

Caves

The time of year is coming when I go out at night to seek the caves of shadow. The turn of the old year drags me out.

I'll put on my darkest clothes and go find the dark sides of buildings, where the corners block the streetlights and hide me from the passers-by. I'll silently watch them, mulling absently on why I'm not like them, staying in the light.

If I'm lucky, the moon will keep me company, and my eyes will adjust to the lunar light, making man's light garish.

The seasons play with my mind, but I like this one, when I lurk in darkened nooks and watch the herds wander by.

Great drabbles so far this week.

Oh, yeah. Most amazing. I'm not feeling the love for writing one, though, for now. Drat.

Great drabbles so far this week.

I know. Really impressive. Deb's and Steph's hit me in different ways, but they're each very powerful. And connie's is very cool.

Luray Caverns, Luray, Virginia

Some genius called them fried eggs, and that's probably what they looked like, ten or fifty years ago. The yellow blob in the middle of each is almost a perfect heisphere. Well, not really yellow any more, so much as gray. Skin oils, you know. Affect the formation. But there are postcards in the gift store, reproductions of a photo taken during the Nixon adniminstration.

There are black chasms of the dramatic sort, stalagmites arranged in a square like a four-post bed, ribbons of drip-stone, seemingly delicate. That last behind ropes, so you can't touch. The fried eggs are right there next to the path, spared from the federal grant long ago that chipped stairs into that low rise, for the tourists to climb. A little sign, in linotype, glued to the wall: Please do not touch. A couple decades of human fingertips, blessing the gray yolks as they pass.