excerpt from my journal…

9 June, 2017

Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to make an impression and I’m wasting it with this drivel. I’ll apologize now and get it over with, but I won’t promise that there won’t be more apologies as the text continues to unfold. And, to say the text will “unfold” is just convenient flowery talk for the idea that I am currently writing with no real goal in mind other than to fill up a page and kill the twenty minutes I originally mentioned.

WC12-001 27-1I am succeeding at both. I’ve got a paragraph written and I now only have 19 minutes to murder.

You may have noticed if you look at the divisions, the chapter headings, the markers in this document, that there are days missing. A good journalist, not necessarily a news writer, but merely one who at least claims to verb it along, as in one who journals, I would think would create an entry every day. Within every 24 hour period there would be written documentation, a document, some text, that would be associated with that calendared span of time.

(stop the clock – I want to go get a warmer on my coffee and taste the biscuits I pulled out of the oven about 30 minutes ago. Yes, they will be cold by now, or maybe tepid, the butter won’t melt through them, but they also won’t burn my sensitive mouth. And my mouth is sensitive. brb.)

Okay. I’m back. Sorry about that. Yes, the biscuit was tepid, but still tasty with a slathering of butter and some peanut butter that I made the other day.

What? You don’t make your own peanut butter? It’s really quite easy. I have one of those Ninja food processors. I buy jars of peanuts at the market when they’re on sale, usually one unsalted and the other dry roasted or lightly salted. I’ve used the “honey roasted” peanuts before and it’s a little too sweet for me, but still, it tastes mighty good. I’ll do it specifically if I am making some peanut butter for, say, my little sister, who likes such things. Anyway, regarding the making of peanut butter, I just dump two jars of on-sale peanuts from the market, usually 2 for $5, into the Ninja food processor, secure the lid, and turn it on crush. It takes, oh, about seven or eight minutes for it to get good and smooth. Then all I have to do is use a spatula, and sometimes my fingers, to transfer the peanut butter into a plastic container. Yeah, I should use glass. Maybe when I get to California I’ll get some glass containers. As for using my fingers to assist in the decanting of peanut butter from the Ninja to the storage unit, the blade gets kind of gunked up and it’s hard to scrape it clean without really getting in there with my fingers to get to every nook and cranny. The peanut butter is valuable and should not be wasted.

With that, I have achieved my goal. It is now 9 a.m. and twenty minutes past my start time. I’ve written a short piece which I will analyze before moving on to my next chore. Thank you for the privilege of your time and attention, and if you feel as though you’ve been cheated, well, I apologize.

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A Roque of Ixpremiads

Lode, the waining trembles of sentient orthonauts fly! What dreamy and miasmic turnbulls wait in the gnarly wings? One treads not on such dainty, delicate tomes. The festooned reliquaries grumble and hum with unsanitary expectations. One does not suffer such imbrications lightly.

– Stout heart! Fondle knot the tender eggs of men! Your unfiled nails might scratch and tear and summon sanguine leakage upon your hands and the earth between your feet!

Crimson fluids gush from fresh rent flesh and congeal into wrens and rooks and other winged beasties. Clear water, fecund with womanish stuffs wash away the evidence, but the roque remains. Do not fear the ixpremiad, but embrace it. Make it your own. Color it in scents of pastures and loose-clothed mornings like the marmalade of the Sun, sweet up front and bitter at the back.

Centurion! Do you heed the warnings of your sister’s mother? What works for her falls flat for you. Sitting in static at the foot of your birthing bed, Time’s gondola and gambit conspire to dongle to the status quo. Such translations rarely do justice to the anticipation and afterscent of desire’s placenta.

©2017 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