750words Feb 2 2015 ~ The Chipmunk Dance

The chipmunk dance was first introduced at a ceremony celebrating the arrival of the new moon, that tiny crescent of light tilted in the night sky like a fragile scoop honed from honeyed sunshine and hung high on the wall of el noche.

Man noted the slim elegance of this moon’s presence above the horizon and coincidentally movements of a furred animal with thin stripes of white running parallel over its shoulders and along its spine. Man was happy under the moon and over the chipmunk because, indeed, he was over the chipmunk as his shadow–thrown from the light of leaping flames unfurling toward dark heaven–flooded and pooled about the equally happy creature. Thus, Man identified the shape of the shadow as the shape of himself and movements of the chipmunk as the movements within himself as if he, himself, were the shadow and the chipmunk was, indeed, within Man’s self.

And so it was that Man began to dance, incorporating the pawed chipmunk’s movements, twitching and switching directions within the shadow and within the man, both chipmunk and man looking skyward from time to time and finding the tiny crescent of moon tilted above them. Crickets, cicadas, whipporwills, owls, loons and mammoths provided the rhythm of night’s music while the chipmunk danced within Man’s shadow and Man gyrated within the slim moon’s light.

As the moon gradually crossed the starlit sky, Woman appeared. She was as natural to the landscape as the grass, yet Man had never before seen her (or any woman for that matter) and he lost a few beats of the rhythm, and stumbled forward into his shadow very nearly stepping on the chipmunk. To step on the chipmunk would’ve been like stepping on his own heart because, by then, chipmunk and Man were integrated into one, or at least they believed they were, and we all know how the beliefs of Man are sacrosanct (not certain what sacrosanct means exactly but it seems to the author to fit in this line and so she will leave it there for the moment).

When Man nearly stepped on the chipmunk, a small gasp escaped from Woman’s lips and Man noticed her mouth and how the slip of light from the fragile scoop of the moon seemed to make her lips glisten with dew and how her eyes seemed lit from within with tiny fires of broken blue, the blue broken by wheat-colored gold and new-hay green and the tiniest petals of lilac blooms–and he stumbled anew–and not just because of Woman’s eyes.

Something inexplicable was happening and he knew not how to control it–even if he had wanted to control it–which he didn’t. His shadow was growing. And within his shadow, the chipmunk (who, meanwhile, had continued with a frenzied chipmunk dance while dodging Man’s awkward footing and dangerous sways) was growing within Man’s shadow.

Woman made note of these alterations to Man, Man’s Shadow, the small furry creature who danced in Man’s shadow. She moistened her lips. She was a healer. She could help Man. And she did.

She embraced and nurtured him through the phases of the moon, from new and crescent to half and full and through all the waning to half and crescent and new—and vice versa—through many seasons. As she did so, the chipmunk chittered and danced and chittered some more. He wasn’t alone. Other chipmunks arrived. They drank acorn wine and imbibed in daisy-chain chipmunkallia. Saber-toothed squirrels arrived to see what all the noise was about. And unicorns. A whole herd of unicorns came—sources for some pointed arguments about which there seemed no resolutions. (Note: Contrary to myth and legend, unicorns are vicious hooved beasts who stick their sharpened two cents in everywhere without permission and with no sense of decorum. Their absence from the modern world is due primarily to these vile tendencies—well, that, and the ride they missed on the ark.)

Long story short: Man found himself with Woman, Woman with Man. Most men have forgotten the bonding between the first man and the chipmunk who danced in his shadow and within his being–but not all.

I, the anonymous author of this informative piece soon to be posted on Wikipedia, have met one such Man—a man who celebrates the chipmunk, who dances the dance, who heals and is healed by Woman. Unfortunately, names must remain hidden.

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750words & The Moon Song

The coat she wears is special. The pockets are deep. Zippers and velcro closures protect the contents of the pockets. Collecting moonstones requires special pockets. Moon stones are what keep her from lifting off the face of the moon. The lighter she becomes, the more moon stones she must find and carefully drop into the carefully-carefully opened pockets to weight her to the moon’s surface. If she is sloppy or careless in the opening of the velcro and unzipping of the zipper, the stones collected and protected could jostle out or spill.

She has been on the moon for more seasons than she can remember. Nor does she remember how she came to be there or why she is alone or when she last tasted honey or bananas. She doesn’t know how she survives with no food, no water, no liquids of any kind. If only it would rain on the moon. But it won’t. There aren’t any clouds carrying moisture. There isn’t a system to provide climate changes.

It is only cold. And then colder.

There is only hard and harder.

The moon stones are waxy yellow with a tinge of rust-orange, the exact color of the moon dust and moon mountains and moon everything. Her pocketed coat is the same color. Her skin, too, is waxy yellow with a tinge of rust-orange. As is her hair. She believes her eyes are this color as well; even what used to be the whites of her eyes are the same so that anyone looking at her would see disk-shaped openings that seemed flat as copper coins. Can she see? Well, she must see, mustn’t she? How else would she be able to scour the moon’s surface for the moon stones she needs to stay on the moon’s surface? In fact, her vision must be truly fine as the stones are the same color as all else and not easily discernible. It’s not as if they, the stones, lay about on the surface of the moon dust. Often there’s only a dent in the dust signaling where a stone has sunk. A dust dimple to find. A dust dimple hiding a stone.

She’s no angel (as some may think), yet she breathes (or as the case may be–doesn’t breathe) in the same manner as all angels. She exists, not certain existence is all it’s cracked up to be with physical presence only half or a third of what it once was causing the coat with the special pockets to drag along, a good two feet of hem sweeping moon surface as she moves. The sleeves would drag as well if she didn’t continually roll back the cuffs to shorten them so they stay out of the way during moon stone collections. If the pockets weren’t as deep as the length of the coat itself, she would’ve run out of room a long time ago. She’s in danger of running out of room to store the stones as it is.

Quite suddenly she realizes there will come a time when she will disappear all together, when the coat with its stores of moon stones will be all that remains: a heap of pebbles the size of earth’s marbles in flattened oval shapes, not too dissimilar in shape to the appearance of the disks of her eyes.

It’s not a good realization.

Quite devastating, in fact. One can understand why she stopped, mid-stoop, from the task at hand.

She didn’t slump to the dust in that moment. The opposite occurred. Her spine straightened and her shoulders stiffened and her head came completely upright.

In every direction there was horizon. Like a rainbow one can never reach, the horizon’s bumpy line waited. Or appeared to. Mirage? Unreachable? This is the moment when her knees found the moon’s face, when her shoulders rounded, when her moon-dusted yellow hands found her moon-dusted face and coppery tears dampened the palms of her hands.

Did she sob? Make a sound? Speak? She may have. With no witness present, the answer is–and must remain–beyond knowing. But one can imagine her there and imagine a song from a place she no longer remembers making its way up from somewhere inside to rest in her throat a few minutes or possibly less than a heartbeat before finding the moonscape atmosphere. There would be words to the song known only to her and the words spilled forth to be taken into the dark and the light, rising—because no gravity was present to pin them down—as she pulled one arm free of its long, long sleeve, then the other, and the coat, heavy with moon stones, slipped from her shoulders and she, lighter than life, slipped away with the words and the melody.

[March 6, 2014 750words.com free-write]

The Daisy

After her center went bald the daisy was left to stand in a room owned by the sun; she knew from the feel of his rays on the dimples where seeds had been, by the riffling of his heat against her sere under-leaves like a tattered collar about her throat, by the ache in her roots for water, and by the absence of any green bodily smell—an absence she rued, and with great discontent, though she wasn’t certain why.  It had been with her from near her beginning, this odor that came with her greening, with her first frail reach through a crack in the loam, a spindly pale curl unbending, reaching up until light filtered in and with the light there was bird song.  The songs were air-shifted into notes by other air shuffled by leaves in high trees until they bloated, becoming plump melodies too heavy to stay airborne and sank like the knees of a nun near a narrow cot, where they whispered Grow, grow to the mere thread of her, before sinking further like rain.  And the songs tilted grit in the dark earth as they went, easing the way for root hairs to flow from her source, to cling and rest, feast on worm castings, move on.  It had been an adventure, a two-way fun ride, in which the opening curl of her and the smell of her greening shot ever upwards while her footing slipped by increments through a darkness she trusted without knowing why.

She’s been standing for days in this room of the sun’s and knows it belongs to him by how hot it is kept in the long corridors of July, and by the way the old songs rise out of the earth in waving undulations, silent in their evaporation.  She is exhausted, tired of this bed, this room.  The burred clover crowding her stalk is too green, its small yellow blooms too yellow, but she should not judge, she knows she should not, those lives unlike her own.  Her face lowers.  With every lowering there is no going back.  Her last petals, poor darlings, have loved her too dearly, have clung to her chin like a beard, all their fired bright life wrung out by the bully who rides up the sky everyday to lash all he owns with his infernal rays.   There is no going back.  Daily, her neck atrophies against upward motion and she is a crippled thing, unable to lift her head or turn, unable to spot from what direction her landlord may approach or which door he may take to leave.  Death is slow in arriving, a tardy guest, and the emptiness of her face looks on the floor of her home, now usurped by the massing clover.  She is anxious to know the outcome of all her flown seeds.  Then the roots, idle for such a long time, release what they’ve held and are released.  She is light as a shaft of airborne song, she is song, she is rain, she is earth.