thought crime for the day:
"I will not eat green eggs and ham."
* * * * * *
shortly after the death of theodore geisel,
dr. seuss, i lived this adventure and was
forced to channel these words by what?
it must have been the ghost of the doctor.
this is in honor of the author who
taught me how to read and write.
Ceremonial Wrap (Exorcising Sam I Am)
--by Jezebel
Eggs at equinox, we heard, will balance vertically.
Out of balance, as we were, we could not understand. We wobbled at the statement and we doubted skeptically.
As educated fools we stayed cynical at best.
We scoffed and dared to prove them wrong.
We put it to a test.
We acquired an egg and laid it, downside up, on the stump of an old undead oak tree.
Precisely at fall equinox, a galactic point of course, the stump gripped the egg and held it with some strange magnetic force.
Gravity gave the egg no choice.
It balanced magically.
The cosmic ritual of the stump fertilized our souls like eggs. Full force initiation cracked our stiffened, thickened shells.
It hurled us, faces first, into an odyssey of sights and rites and revelations, never faced before by us, or even dreamed in our most rare imaginations.
We instinctively enrolled ourselves in undomestication and randomly crept with fate toward our destination.
We beheld the life and death around us in its vast abyss. We tripped as toddlers down a path of undiscovered bliss.
We watched the world live and die in various expressions; it pulsed organically with biorhythmic circulations.
Its extensive synchronicity exploded in abundance and rotted with decay in vital macrocosms and continuous display.
As we continued on our journey, fall's intensity increased.
Autumn attacked our senses with a ghastly sadistic sight. It shocked us and impaled us with a horrific glimpse of fright.
We stumbled upon a swarm of ants performing a sacrifice.
They tortured a lone, forsaken, cicada with savagery and vice.
Amazon contractions seized her insect figure.
No male warrior, or even a martyr, could have been so brave.
Her torso quaked maternally.
She labored for a grave.
Spasms burst from deep within. But the birth of this volcano took place very long ago. These eruptions crawled up from a deeper darker hole.
Cicadas exist for their own ceremonies of life and death and rebirth.
Their harmless green bodies are bullet-shaped, streamlined to help them zoom.
For 17 years they hibernate, like bodies in a tomb.
Then they creep from the underworld to a life of light and mirth. They slowly shed a mummified and long-worn leathery shell, extend two freshly sprouted wings and sail away from Hell.
They search among the trees for steamy summer love. Their high-pitched siren shrills pierce the silences above.
This intense din acts for them like musical pheromones, attracting and inciting and inviting procreation.
They live majestic lives in light one evanescent season. Their gaiety ends variously for myriad forms of reason.
But first they entomb those crucial eggs inside a deep, dark grave. This burial ends one cycle of life and starts the next long wave.
We didn't even pause to think.
We assumed the role of Kali, the trampling goddess of death.
We scattered the marauding ants in fits of red, fiery breath.
We rescued the insect from further assault and whisked her away in haste.
We brought the cicada along with us to her final resting place.
We created a cooperative hospice there, and placed her dying carcass on the petals of a rose.
Nearby, a statue of the Buddha watched and mused; it contemplated karma with meditative pose.
We attended the bug to a calmer demise.
No more chaos was needed.
But the ants' untimely sacrifice eventually succeeded. The body of the bug would soon be nothing more than a painless pile of dust.
So we raised the shades with sounds of sprightly music and smells of lively lust.
We waxed funereal and created a ritual to express our human sins of pride. Our self-satisfying kindness toward this lesser insect species warmed us up somehow inside.
We grieved in abject harmony for this pitiful tiny soul.
We smudged the surroundings with scents of garlic and ashes of sandalwood tree.
We filled the air with pungent perfume and music of tragedy.
Outside, behind the scenes, a much-younger, much-wiser weeping willow joined our sordid rite.
This willow giggled under its roots.
It's older undead oak stump-cousin had long since relayed our plight.
The trees passed the joke through the dirt, and gossiped and twittered with probably thousands of neighboring trees. They scraped and scoffed at our child-like amazement with one egg's simple balancing tease.
And here we were, in awe again, smearing the world with scents and sounds, mourning the death of a bug.
No self-respecting willow would weep.
This one leered behind its leaves.
It saw us as the lesser species we certainly were, and waited with bated bark to listen and laugh some more at upcoming dramas we might create.
The willow knew we would suffer future trials in life and death and love. Then it would sway and swoon and wail for us like we did for that bug.
Trees die too, however.
The proof is in the rotting stump of that old undead oak.
But wait--undead? That means "not dead."
Is this some kind of joke?
Perhaps the stump is waiting just to later be transcended.
It's only in a passive state; its soul has never ended.
Maybe it's merely dormant like a bug inside a tomb, and the balancing egg at equinox relayed its animation when it shared the celestial power with the timber's deeper womb.
We realized then, all these things must somehow be connected.
The universe must oversee our lives and deaths and births.
Its power sparks our souls to life like standing eggs at first.
Then we live and reproduce just like the bugs and trees.
Many times we agonize and finally we cease.
After death, our bones are merely remnants like the stumps.
Our spirits, which live somewhere in another form of light, then must wait in limbo for that spark to reignite.
At last we understood.
Our cynicism faded.
We danced as resurrected souls.
Like shadows we were jaded.
Morning mourning waned with time and ritual display.
We gulped black coffee and opened wide, virgin eyes to pristine visions for the day.
The caffeine service raced our throbbing pulsing hearts and spirits higher with each toast.
It swept our fitful pitiful souls like so much dust and sent us swirling foolishly into the fall as ghosts.
* * * * * *
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