There Was A Crow

I have been writing. I have been writing stories that I want to integrate into a larger story that chronicles a series of defining developments in the lives of a small group of characters. With each of these characters I find that there is something about a crow that resonates. I recall a line from Martin Scorsese’s film Kundun where the sister of the future Dalai Lama recalls the birth of her brother: ‘…there were crows.’ Yes. There will be crows.

There was a crow.

There Was A Crow.

©2016 Stuart Dummit

a pliable thing

To write sexually charged prose without being accused by sensible people of writing pornography. Sensible people don’t condemn sexual subject matter. It’s just blue. It’s just blue. 

Here is a slice of thought with references from James Joyce and Frank Herbert. Your thoughts and comments are welcome.

 

In Hand

Wooden hand holding wood.

That thing. That long, hard, supple, pliable, rough, sweet, salty, leaky thing. Yes. You know what I’m talking about. The totality of you. Long or tall, it changes with your orientation. You are pliable, yes. You bend but you retain your integrity. I swoon. I want to engulf. I want to consume. The flavors; raw salted nuts and caramel, umami of mushrooms and earthy earthly delight blooming like fleshy members growing from dark and moist and fecund recesses. Consume. Take in and transform for nourishment. Grow again and I will consume again; hot, creamy, searing juice of Sapho – my lips not stained red but my face turns it with the effort and exertion and the blood rushing to needed places. And what lips? My mind is accelerated past its norm, my thoughts do not speed but become it. I live a satisfied life in a jarring moment of thrusts and convulsions and involuntary contractions of the muscles of the abdominal floor. Pushing out the fluids, spitting them out like a viper and its venom, like a gun and its bullet, like pore and its sweat, a duct and its tear. Gobs of congealed goo, once hot, now tepid, cling to the sparse carpet of your belly. Would that it have found a darker warmer cavern to inhabit. That thing. That long, hard, supple, pliable, rough, sweet, salty, leaky, desirable thing. But no. I eat like Bloom with relish the organs. I wanted more, I got what you gave. Let me taste your tongue’s lubrication, let me feel the brush of your beard against mine. Let me let me please yes. Is that all? It would be hard for you to walk away since you never walked to. Left in silence with my own long, hard, supple, pliable – pliable until next time it might break.

©2016 Stuart Dummit

out

October 11 was National Coming Out Day. Kind of a big deal for some. Here’s what I posted on Facebook and Google+. 

MaxAndMe

Me coming out to my best friend, Max. He seemed to take it well.

Okay. Really. If you folks haven’t realized that I’m a guy that likes guys, you haven’t been paying attention. That being said, “coming out” is one of the most reality renting things I’ve ever gone through, and it’s always a work in progress. People of my generation and from similarly non-cosmopolitan areas had few if any role models, making the process more confusing, alienating and horrifying, despite being ultimately liberating and transformative. Today, with social media and a more inclusive social landscape, things are getting better, but that doesn’t mean realizing that you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender is any easier. Friends and families still abandon their own when realization and self acceptance blooms in a person. So to “come out of the closet” is still a pivotal experience in many people’s lives. It impacts everyone in the person’s personal sphere and rearranges how that person navigates through life. It can be painful. It can be alienating. It can be needlessly permeated with guilt, grief, and fear. Do not take it lightly; embrace it, celebrate it, treat it with respect and a sense of wonder. What you are witness to is nothing less than a self generated transformation that can elevate that person to a wonderful new place or it can lead to isolation and malignant sadness. Do not take it lightly but support it with your heart, your spirit, your love, your words and actions. National Coming Out Day – we celebrate it for a reason. Everyone can join in. Admit to yourself and then to your world a truth about yourself no matter how mundane or radical. Embrace your individuality, realize that you’re still a part of a community, and allow yourself to accept yourself and others for all that makes you, You, and You, one of Us.

 

Pitney Purfoy’s Problem

Without too much effort the ludicrous lackey lined the tub with wax and honey, thinking all the while that what he was doing wasn’t wasteful but wished-for. Ah, the musings of a marshmallowed minion without mind or manner attuned to his business!

longing, lonNeocubist Portrait Reconfiguredging for a purpose beside the one his mother taught him

longing, longing for a purpose other than the one his father aspired to

Pitney Purfoy waddled away from the tub and picked his nose in the process. He had picked it from a chart on the wall in his hall that very same day, but had decided it did not suit him, so he picked another then another then another, only to find each one was clogged and second rate, despite the aquiline lines and sharp and noble profile. Purfoy didn’t want to hear anything about it from his mates, so he turned his head when he picked and flicked the clog into the air from behind his back. No one will see, no one will know.

I tell you what, he said, laughing at his own untold joke, next time I’ll pick one that requires less picking! Too much work, I say!

Purfoy you old such and such! Did you get that there tub lined with the tacks and money?

Tax and money? Thought you said wax and honey! Those two go together just as well if not better, Boss. And where am I supposed to get the tax and money anyways? Ain’t it something I don’t got? Like couth and grammar?


The Boss man, who was called Bob or Bellicose Bob by those who didn’t know him scratched the top of his hairless head and shook the waddle of his neck.

By gum you’re right there Purfoy! You’re right and I’m left here wondering what I was thinking. Apparently I wasn’t and that ain’t never a good thing. Never a good thing!

Poor Purfoy stood there, wanting to pick his nose again, clogged as it was, but with Bellicose Bob standing right there, scratching his own pate, confused by the pointlessness of the process, he was too self conscious. Instead he pondered his longings and those of his parents. Had he exchanged his for theirs? Mayhaps, he thought, mayhaps. Then he envisioned flicking the clog if he allowed himself to pick it, and it landing in BB’s pocket or even in his eye. He laughed and sniffed, but not well because of the clog, then lowered his head and drew a booger shaped squiggle in the dirt with the toe of his boot.

Bob was still wondering where his mind had gone wrong when Pitney Purfoy’s pantomime popped and he rolled on his side to see the clock face, with no nose to speak of, alarming him as to the hour and minute of the half day of morning.

I had better cook the coffee and pour it down fast without scorching my tongue and searing my throat and get me to my job lest my dream become meme and I lose my mindless mind.


His toes reached for the floor and found the rug and its dust and particles of decay and eased his weight onto his left foot and then his right. Padding padding padding he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He popped a stale gum drop from the counter into his mouth and rolled it from side to side, dissolving the minicubes of sugar that protected the flavored gelatin beneath. Lime. Limey. Ought to have tea instead. But that would require lemon. Faster though but not as good. Coffee it is.

While the water in the kettle made psychic contact with the flames on the other side of the aluminum and copper wall, Purfoy padded into the hallway and considered the chart there.

Which one today? Long and straight? Short and broad, sharp and pointed, dull and cavernous? Who knows what criterion to use in such an important business.

Close your eyes and grab one, affix it with care and, sniff sniff sniff! Just the smell of the cooking coffee is enough to wake a boy up. Hurrah!

©2016 Stuart Dummit