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THE LIGHT SOCIETY

by Brent Paul Pearson

 

CHAPTER 11: The Artist as Work of Art

 

There began a flowering upon the horizon and the woman in blue watched its unique charm with the physics of color, worshiping its genius. "We are definitely sinking," she said slowly dipping her face beneath the surface once more to watch the under water rhythm respond to the blossoming dawn.

The group swam individually for some time with each eventually moving toward the beach as a moderate orange to yellow glow flickered to life at the far reaches of the deep and timeless night.

"Could it be we spent an entire night swimming?" asked Green delightfully.

"Yes, here she comes making way for the new radiant blue morning," said the woman in white. "There will be a picnic in the tall grass for the queen by the record machine."

"We will drink the fruit of tree branches," said Blue reaching the beach first and lifting her blue robe from the sand.

"We have voyaged far into the black sea, the unhewn marble, the great glass eye," said Green coming up the beach. "We have witnessed the self as subject in the underworld. We have spoken one language to servants and another to nobility, and we have tasted the joys in the miniature theaters of light."

We have seen the echo, hopelessly in the wake, the slipstream. Without helmets to block the loudness of dawn, the great vertical leaping melodies of morning, the echoing past will soon be forgotten," said Red.

"Yes. Without all that noise in your head you might have enjoyed yourself with the stick pen in Mexico sand," said White. "You've been looking through milk to find music, writing in triangles without a sound helmet, vividly warbling in the fine trails of flickering light."

"The dawn comes with embossed bellies and bursting flumes, so cunning and fascinating, churning and burning out for the dreamers of the night, the bundles of searchers, offering its cure with its poison of prophecy." said Blue.

"We are the light and the strange pageant of sons and daughters stroking the tomb of night. We are awakening to the east, where the climate is sultry," said Orange.

After taking their trip to the moon, holding poisonous grapes and riding the white quarrelsome ghost of night, stroking its tomb, the group decided to take tea in the tall grass and watch the sunrise.

"Wisdom flies toothless over the magic lantern of creation, and sparks its flame, and beholds its glory," said White.

"Folk tales, fairy tales, it closes in the dark, with a handful of arrows and sparrows spending breath to suck oily pollen. In the background a wine bottle rhythm, if you can put up with that, an argument about being drunk," said Blue. "A blue dress has upon me landed ending for a while the pleasures of dark men. Their violin strings, that once were taught, have been loosened to the floor and will sing no more. The evil genius has detained me, kissing me infinitely with the morning's breath."

"Never mind the mindless drudge sharpening differences among the straight jacket club," said Indigo. "The stream continues, beyond the light barrier, his spirit is a white dragon with snowy breasts, the softest saga, the ice cream carriage, where the nightgown moved over your body and up the hill toward the discarded shell of some sky."

At the dusk, in the journey's end the group, swimming in alligator green, to finally have tea in the grass, watched as the sunrise painted the skin of the day.

"Lets go deep sea fishing after the ice cream float, the driftwood salad, not like silk but honey sweet milk. Everything last night upon the black sea is a memory, illuminated by the errant thief transporting her splendid phantoms, its shadows, with the last bits of pale fire stolen from the sun," said Red.

"A decent level of those weren't fantasies. Now, we settle for tea in the grass, feeding on the fish who color the skies waiting for a glimpse of the irregular," said Orange.

The woman in white, sipping her black milk from a glass with purple lips and bruised hips, stood up from her seat at the head of table. "Shine up for the festival of dawn. For those who let the light into their bones, will know their way around grave stones," she said at the very brink of morning, where enlightenment meets fantasy, where the savage history and its several hundred carved heads have their existence fractured by sunbeams.

The woman in blue transformed her robe into a dress then stood up and said, "Beware of your next nightmare. You may not recognize the world under all those pillows."

"It is time again to enter the world of pleasure, the way of the flesh. Under the orange ceiling there is only the incestuous wish," said Orange turning her silk robe into a dress to catch some sun on her shoulders, her eyes heavy with forgetting.

"If we are in the infinite," said Violet, sticking her fork through the belly of the white fish on her plate, "than why's the rainbow always breaking down the order of things?"

"Rulers don't want to know new genius. They prefer late patterns to crowds of people and rarely move day to day, more often triangular. They are becoming obsolete in the new speed. The fastest past holds on tightly by its little tentacles but stays only for lunch," said White. "Farewell old dreams, born in the death of truth and fiction, light and dark," she said raising her glass. "Let this rapture be your gift."

 

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SEEING SOUND

by Emily Jean Snyder

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"Seeing Sound" painting by Emily Jean Snyder

 

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