it is heavy

Nuzzled barely awake by the dog before dawn, my limbs, numb from poor posture while sleeping, fail to respond to the rusty commands of my brain. The cold nose against my side causes me to roll over and groan. The dog's response to this is to whine and begin to dig at my back as he would in the garden after I've planted a Japanese eggplant.

"Mornin' Sweetpea...you got one cold nose...and remind me to clip your nails...."

"BaaaarROOOOOH!" is the response accompanied by another nudge of the arctic nose, this time to the small of my back.

I hold him by his floppy ears and press my forehead against his furry cranium. "You're such a sweet doggy dog dog, Sweetpea! Now go down and make a pot of coffee while Daddy takes a whizz."

Stumbling down the stairs I think to myself, "I don't think he understands a word I say to him." Proof is in the fact that he is following behind me by one step proudly carrying a crusty sock in his mouth. No coffee has been brewed for me.

The sky is still dark and I feel as though the air outside is colder than it should be for May. Opening a window I confirm my suspicion.

Cooking the coffee and taking a slice of Amish friendship bread I stand at the window, cold and unawake, awkwardly filling my BVDs. The cold, wet nose again, this time on my bare leg, reminds me of my sole purpose in life. "Okay, Maxy...let Daddy finish a cup of coffee first and put on some clothes and we'll go do your thing." I must be careful not to actually say "go outside" or go for a walk." He knows those words and they invariably illicit a spasmodic response.

"I love you, Max," I think out loud.

Later, my shoes tied and my sweatshirt keeping me warm, I call to Max as I gaze from a distance out the window, the morning light beginning to rally. Still several paces from the pane I say in a hush, "You want to go for a walk, Maxy?" He begins his dance around me, his nails clicking against the hardwood floor.

Max sits before me as I fasten his collar and clip on the lead. We step out onto the porch where the pre-dawn breeze is stealing moisture from the blades of grass, the smell of morning tingles on my face and tosses my hair. The dog sniffs the steps, then my pant leg, then looks up at me in expectation. The last of the stars are fading from view.

At such a time of natural magic and wonder, I would think that there would be a sense of ease, of lightness, of rightness. Instead, it is heavy. Heavier than the clouds that mask the rising sun, heavier than the dew that drips from the deep green leaves, heavier than my heart when faced with the need to let go of this enchanted time. It is heavy. The entire sense of things is heavy. The smells are saturated, the colors muted but rich, the coolness slowing down the movement of particles, making them sink and press down, gently, gently, upon my shoulders and brow.

There is a tug and I look down to see Max straining at the leash for a telephone pole to water. I allow the slack and he glances back at me before he raises his leg. Was that in appreciation? And then I wonder if he feels this weight. I doubt it. But I am sure that he senses that I feel something and that it is heavy.

words spoken by others

"...but then the....okay...

okay...[pause] do you...now who is the one that I call when I need to insta....

uh huh...uh huh...okay...that's great. Yeah. Uh huh. It's really, I think, a lot easier than

Yeah! I think so....what?"

"...so, Georgia? It's a totally new product.....1.8 billion records."

"Is that just records or things they stamp?"

"Just the electronic sta-"

"I talked to Steph and she said that they weren't usinging it according to specs."

"Hey, if that's what they want to do, we're not under contract with them."

"...Oh, actually...it isn't any more than that."

"...oh, I'm sorry, what?....oh yeah....she's in here too. I need to get back to...."

"Yeah! That's right! Better you than me!"

"Cool. Yeah. Thanks. Bye."

"Dickhead."

"Guess I know who you'll be taking to the prom!"

"...eat shit and die, Bonnie."

Raza, raza; singlit nabkuusa.

Raza, raza, sid glaufan. Singlit nabkuusa din. Uubba uubba nastrolli zandgrit zumma flr lickyya. Mmmm...gummi gummi leder sheathen. Zandof zarathustra; Zarathustra gn ridding up n owaay frm rth n mee nhall d'peeples' cuszn dey d'nna unnerstan. Singlit nabkuusa din. N aiy dnna ker iffn yall unnerstan ernat. M'eye iz iznt hallzo kleer. Eyez kn zee throo mie aiyzlidz 'n zee wharz Eye fron. An' deye onedr owlon git'll taeyck fermi tu unnerstan duh meenin ov daleddrs ondap age. Izzit 'mee horizit dawrld arroun dmee?

Eye mizz de kuhlness ovda autumnair. Eye mizz deastoun dings keyes ab ov. Eye mizz desown dov birdzin damorn. I mizz the tutch of mask ulines kin. I mizz the tutch ofs kin aginstkin. Eye mizz unnerstan ding wat utherz want frommee. Eye knead to bee kneaded. Eye knead to bee . . . thatzit . . . Iye knead to bethauh wone thatzees, tha tears, thatsays, "The words they speak mean things to them alone, and any effective communication between you and another is a total fluke. It's amazing that anything ever gets done."

malestrom

brrrrrrr....the breezy, drafty whispers coming from those dark and uncontrolable ideas that pop into the minds of innocent bystanders as they witness horrible deeds contemplated by celebrities and sinners...there is no hope of coming to terms with their evil ways. the illusion of power has constructed an even more fragile hallucination of corruption. if only they knew that it doesn't matter...that none of it matters...it's just an illusion.

problem is is that not only do people believe in the illusion of power and corruption, but they believe in the consequences, which are illusions as well. it is all fragile as I said. remove one leg that it stands on and it begins to teeter to one side and totter to the other and before you know it the entire construct becomes deconstructed and rains down on your head like a reign of illusion. it chases its own tail, over and over again. each time it picks up speed. a highly destructive constructed and deconstructed dream it has become and all because we are willing to believe in aphorisms, anecdotes and iambic pentameter. i find no such solace there, or here, or over there beyond the malestrom...only here...

in the off center

where the water turns white

before the water - drain cyclone sucks me down

,


more goose-pimpled sounds, insipid pin-pricks of mental illumination shoot like darts from the outer sphere toward the surface where we stand. The coldness behind my eyeballs foretells the frosty vision of the winter-minded Way. Slippery, fresh, biting, mucus freezing as it drains out your nostrils onto your naked upper lip...I can see that you are unprepared for the topography of the seasons as they are sifted through the comb-teeth of our perceptions.

The sky, blue, the sun, yellow-white and without warmth, the snow, golden where the great star illuminates and where shadows rule, blue. The winter sky is astounding as it domes over the crystal covered branches and glass encrusted flowers, sprung from the ground too soon.

Is the air actually cleaner, or does it simply smell less darkened when the coldness dampens ones sense of smell?

From out of the gallery comes the maroon and saffron robed monk, the chill is pleasant on his darkened skin. It clings to and is transformed by the friendly smile and grinning eyes.

Om A Hung Vajra Guru Peme Siddhi Hung.

Om Mani Peme Hung

Om A Hum Vajra Guru Padme Siddhi Hum.

Om Mani Padme Hum

The smell of dhoop rises into the city sky. The sound of chanting mingles with the roar of noise obsessed animals. Compassion, compassion.

I retreat into that place where I can count the insipid pin-pricks of mental illumination like sheep, trying to send myself to sleep.

the seed, the source, the sanctuary

all rites and rituals reserved

copyright 2002 by Stuart Dummit

hush...esthers of cinnamon and burnt apple are crawling on their bellies toward the shuddering door. The Wind, strong armed and transparent, rattles and rages beyond the panels of wood, carrying crystalized puffs of breath in swirling ribbons, seeking chinks in the walls and halls and tall, tall towers where the shadowy tingles and goose pimples live. And all the while, instead of casting darkness like shadows against the candle lit walls, the odors of autumn project their timely tastes upon the boards of ash that line the flickering yellow lit room.

Weighted eyelids begin to crust over. A warm and sweetish spring begins to trickle tickle across the fleshy cheek and cling as it runs, in defiance of gravity, across and down upon crochet-covered shoulder. Struggle against the sleep, my dear, and enjoy the guilty nap. The candles burn low, the drafts wind around the table legs and sneek beneath the shawl and between the prayer clasped hands. Night time arrives unnoticed and sweet.