Earth /2 | Bjorn Bengtsson

Earth /2

Wind howled in my head, in from the frigid outside windows. At certain tones and pitched, the voice of the wind demanded a door here or there mysteriously shut or open, all dependent upon the present state of affairs concerning one’s attitude toward life and passages therein. One is always apt for universal trope in speaking in or out the one. My peripheral perception tells me wonder is stirring unbeknownst to me. Essentially speaking the Spirit, the depth, the creation therein is all that can be seen and off a westward positive premonition is a feeling for fortunate eyes to open into the landscape I’ve helped to create. I think the white dispelling form before me to be akin to myself this night before bent with back straight taking a mental walk in grandiose garden of verbose flowers smelling sweet to the taste of the moon, all the while leaving and noticing myself finishing counting 73, 74, 75 quarters in total in the work register. I looked up, stood straight and saw an old friend I hardly knew for any extension of discernable time, only that together time quickly fell indiscernible. We talked of grass stains, summer in winter, everything being magic – because it is, he said, if you want it to be.

On the drive home I dried coffee from my painted now again wet and warm coffee stained pants in the growing heat of the car’s air. I played silence. For since the moon’s slow rise, still not yet tipping over the hinge of city and sky, I felt a tinge of lonesomeness in my hands. Likely a physical sorrow in separation in having no one to wave hello to up in the wonderful complexity of the naïve night sky’s myriad corridors leading strangely into longer rooms.

A playful display of modern movement in light slipped by and reminded me of another night drive dream I had. As usual scene change follows no formulaic brewing but rather the like of bleak and drab drywall dropping back for the foreground of brightly dressed future people stirring potions beneath the wave flow of color hair. The walls were not entirely dead as one might think for their laborious procession of shifting in and out their standing, revealing hidden rooms all around, all their unknown seen and just as quick slipped away. Thankfully our work, us two artists of “flow”, survived the weight of apocalyptic existence to paint life to the dead. All the illuminations of the gypsies, a lot of the fine money-making cool cats, no puppets please, the lavish lovers moving, big lipped applicants colored in black, DJs, pastors, patrons, and church and cradled abyss crackling light addicts – all the people of the spirit of the time were present. The days full of candy. We danced, took control, moved pits, and opened mountains.

Here it is always night and when the moon is ticking like a broken grandfather clock, you can see round the red veranda an assortment of hypoallergenic fruit singing under a light pastel purple and blue floral tapestry. I’d walked by the fruit stand which held nostalgic smells of its bald smoker head standing owner with arms crossed, stoge or cigar slowly burning his lips, myself running by as a child, another asking a kind question on the devoted nature of fruit growing while I slipped two dates, fourteen bananas, an oblong pear, a peach squash, and seven apples into my pocket of my art bag.

But at the point of recollection the owner had died, been replaced by a long black haired and smiley overall wearer. I smoked a stoge on a spiraling up staircase a good forward distance from the fragrance of the fruit, meeting a returning writer on the lifting story steps, stopping to hold discourse for the fourth. The air was cold of course, my curls twisting tighter in the wind, whispering in the sound of asking if there’s anything of meaning to tell?

Only then I felt a leak of the Spirit of the depth pool at my feet to reflect the moonlight in the pulling back of the curtain of a doleful cloud overhanging; coalescing futura air pressure to amass a tint of pink aura. A fortunate drift carried cuneiform symbols in the positive space of cirrocumulus clouds to be seen above the great cubes topping little people watching.

The last two artists raced by. One too far ahead for the reverie side street walking seeing tumbling blue homes, dreadfully dilapidated homes that used to house 20’s café goers, now gone and overgrown and knotted to the earth in a wooden scruff. He ran his hand along the twisting trees and felt their natural constricted pain because of their love of breathing and gave their pain to the endless hand of love reaching through him to hold any apt to listen and be touched, to be felt by the Spirit of the depth.

Noticing lonesomeness with a fair gesture of compassion and hands up into the lovely air, he kept walking, kept seeing, kept co-creating anyhow. Down the road, some indiscernible time later the other faster artist could be seen in a torrent of flames, upside against a cube, his people and his time stopped dead with him. He shook a little, the both of them, and kept walking rhythmic to the deepening splashes and soon wadings and then drowning into everything – under moonlight.

III

An artifact of mnemonic hereditary in my hand, my father would say it’s an indelible life skill to hold – that of creating warmth. The kindle fire homely, letting breathe the natural air therein.. I’d always seen stacks of wood cut, or still to be, piled lavishly on the outdoor side of our home. I’d sit on the hot tub cover, exactly where if I was not careful to jump down and awkwardly stand in place to the sound of the backyard door opening and my father’s footsteps nearer following, I’d surely be kindly berated for misusing purpose.

The hot tub lid was fragile and with weight I’d wear it down, it’s not meant to be sat on he’d say. But on the fallings days and cold winter call it’d serve double as a seat warmer and an open plain the sun could pour in on. So of course I sat anyway, fell back supine so only the thin blue sky and lush greens of the top of grapefruit tree could be seen. I’d imagine myself anywhere these two images would lovingly settle me into.

There’d be an ordained eastern feeling for the hopeful placing upon of an Un-intellectual prodding of poetic aptitude of a near treasure. A shepherd I was, cradled by the ideal pasture for which my flock at noonday could carelessly eat of our good earth. Naturally, they kept close for what substantive things of the body I had, I did endow to them and left worship my satiating meal of this day. I could watch the fluff white reflections of my sheepfold by the bright blue winded sky. I needed not look anywhere but up, and listen.

The harp was fire. The instrumental hands to stroke the wind pulled back on account of warmth of the Holy kept close, though would not dare open eyes, let alone touch. The whole field with a sound of trumpet pop fire, whistled with north-eastern story, the angelic memory grew 5 more eyes for each lamb and wrote in the wheat wind – of the one.

I thought of life in the pyramid. O the oeuvre of antiquity ornamental dressing – lifting me out my body – dancing rhythm realm. It seems afterlife glimmer and gleam taught now to each temporal stress in the seam of my skin garment a simple truth of transcendence. Indelible truth of forces beyond mine seeped in by cradled cracks of light in my last moments of life. Newness of naivety filled out my empty skin and again my spirit imparted in coalesce. Free to – flow.

A taut tangle web of interweaved green with my bare left foot and a slowing melodic look down, mushrooms all around, reminds me I am dreaming. I am out, fourteen paces north of the cul-de-sac street sign saying Natal Circle (funny serendipity for the birth-street of me to be rapt in all cyclicality) where something like a fourteen old me stood shirtless and barefoot in an indiscriminant haze. Cross the street, the oxide green bush, sometimes plush with pink frail petals that fell faster than they grew, could house the most supreme of hiding places. Being quite fond of hiding places and nature and looking in from the outside, knowing myself to really be the one in, the bush was a perfect palace for ordaining reverie. Like a false wall in the cabaret of an imperial magic dealers trap palace. One only had to wave a hand into the green, promise to keep this bush secret (and clean of course, for only the bush next door served to be the outhouse of distant children looking for extended stays away from family, and to be home in time still for dinner.

Meatloaf for me I believe, and spaghetti as always for my frequent red haired friend in adventure, keen with eyes alike for what was to those, really outside, the unseen.)

Back into the secret bush would be a delicate array of lust jewelry I’d collected from my goings out, dressed nice and kind but underneath really a fine kleptomaniac. Sometime later my red-haired fanatic friend and I would take this honorable stealing further to our latest school days together. From when we’d steal coveted hydro flasks, worth upwards fifty to sixty dollars, from the wealthier of our private school and like the anti-heroes he said we were, and the retributive not needing a reason kind I was, we’d hand them to the poorer like ourselves under wooden tables.

In the secret bush, partly under torn pink petals were a collection of comics and mnemonic masculine figures for which he would be tormented till later days to uphold their vain virtue. Together though we could strike quite the balance. Lighting fireworks in the park basin which would flood into a small lake following some northern Hopi rituals, then a big decorative rain. In the same basin, gathering ourselves and our strength to lift the cage gate (the size of three of the two of us exactly) from where the rain water did drain into the artificial lake for a day’s worth of sewer-like water tube floating, with concerned, but mostly curiously jealous looks from others outside.

It’d be exactly 10 at night, for that was when the park lights went off and anything could happen (one in the starry night can always see out while others under artificial street-lights can never see in). The gate would, after too many remembered tangents hitting the head like rain, eventually be realized as un-openable and we’d learn we could silk our slender bodies through the bars till we’d grown stronger. Now we’ve entered the phantasmagorical labyrinthian system of post-Hopi prayers. As not even the starlight could reflect the universe of our stargazer eyes in the ever deepening dark tunnel, I must say I am evidently not permitted to recount yet the tales trailing our spectral dream walk.

Back in the bush I could enjoy mine own solitude. Temporal splashes of light pushed out by the sun and onto the forest textured leaves would tinge sap green and slowly run sweat down my face. I could close my eyes and shake my head to make out an ancestral dance of contemplative compliments from new sun made in red eyelid dance with the shadowed life of another’s yore. To sit still I could make out the language of the sun inscribed on the back side of my eyelids. It told me something of purity in a comfort for a not knowing I now must hold dearly and ascetically intertwined with the good.

The human being is made more so by an inherit desire of imago that in being human, the human retains a sense for being. O human of petal’d perception – Do you think of the flower? How a singular petal, pink and lush in life is a beautiful addition the scent, stem, seed and other petals and their color. To be that singular petal, pink and lush of life for the enumerating grandeurs in beauty of the being a flower. How wonderful to be of the flow of life brinking on beauty’s edge by the very breathing of a flower you are apart of.

Deep green verdure of the galaxy – immensive space, rolling refreshive breath in wind o’er the endless hills rolling passing pastel petals into the thin blue sky. So calm, so vast so free to roam. So that you incubate your west wind fly and float for another pasture, pulsating poetic blood life for the whole of the flower – that in your pink and lush presently being petal’d to the flower, you impart life to the whole of being a flower. All creative expression, and the beautiful good therein is made whole in your contribution of perception by presently being pink, lush and petal’d. Days array like color to canvas and in a final stroke of the winds breath you unhook free. Free of the scent, stem, seed, and root grounding into soil of the green and brown earth whence all and every flower blooms forth only to see (rooted) the vast thin blue sky you (fly) in and above with the Windsong.

VII

The painter steps back, dearly contemplating behind a growing crowd of ascetic aesthetics (fire atop their heads!). He does not see the shifting blend of flesh for awe forming, de-forming, and forming their faces; for the painter must keep pursuance perfectly onward. He kneels to wash rose of his hands. The sky above him grows yellow laden, lifting illumination into the pink puddling pasture. He raises his clean hands in worship, his palms full with seeds and his white garment glowing. His feet fall, the earth lifts – he floats in the abyss of a black void. Eyes closed. Contemplation a positive spiral staircase, where even at the last spectral step, he clearly hears the God echoing name – YAHWEH – reverberating in the inner halls of his being. They are breathing. Life settles for soft song of breathing into silence.

VIII

A small arrangement of leaves, their glisten, other-world refraction, forged prophetic incantation of the hours in life. To come into being, as tough by a fortunate feeling of always having been. That in a moment of reflection, what lives symbolically manifest is green, glistens in the bleeding sunrise, pulling back the dark flesh birth of the world, the rivulets of thin red and warm streams, all this before the eyes, fragrance for futura and even eights and ever-lasting sublimity (the only joy therein!), ruffled into the recess of active emotions, suddenly seeing clears. All the while the outside mind walks trailing into sweet solitude of the sun. Washing over the universe – an inward light.

Coming back from a dream drift decidedly necessitated in 4 hours of sleep, because living and genius is just too sweet. Yes, coming back to a place mostly inscrutable save the door I see before me, standing gloriously welcome for the apocalyptic backdrop and lack of walls, save the gold tinge frame of the whole scene where reality is seen as lightly purple dressed people doing a forest walk. There life reminds me of frailty and nothing more. I am filled with premonitions of worth and continuity and my lack of feeling present for them. There in honesty, a clear pasture the sun and the moon recline for. There the good work is endless. Joy in an ever-reaching.

I find inscribed, when the sun is out, a leaf lifted into the light, simple and pure to speak to glory eminent to Life pulsing in the being for Life and natural discourse for harmony. Conversation in the silence of creation and I hear a soft worship to the Creator.

Familiar eyes of an equal mind, there I feel them on me. Less poetic than ought to be wished for. For the mind dissonant recounts every person walking by trailing thought strewn like yellow and orange pink color strewn on the telling wood of birch. Fingernail, black hair, ice speaking of the warmth and skipping comfort in the melt. The coffee!

My world, phenomenally speaking is a dole carrying in and every morning soar in blue of dove. Mystical mishaps with reality incline me to believe reality is really best when lived in all-consuming love. The table snakeskin and a place I’d rather not visit now, thank you anyhow.

Write on one thing:

The sky’s hung the beautiful fullness of gloom, dressed every touch of wind with a cold hand, cut every sunrise open to spill pools of incandescent red with the going into blue. I feel physically, mostly in my legs this time, all I’ve extracted to be up above the roof. Presently I am sat in a café where tapestries construct idyllic pastoral probability for a slip out of modernity to the verdant life of a loving botanical dream. If there were any consonance in continuity for my outward living, then as most days I could be sat back straight under the golden hair touching mine tassel of a pink and green garden shed swung open in a wooden door time above mine own tassel.

The coffee is served free for me so long as Louis is present and needing someone to talk to between his goings in and out, holding empty and full platters of food through the two wooden swinging kitchen doors. I thought surely the doors were black but should my channel of sense stay true, they are as matter of fact wooden. Nothing is properly as I’ve known it to be today. Someone surely has walked ahead my familiar perception to slightly alter my experience to resemble just as close to consistency can conjure, but ever so slightly a noticeable difference. And how great that procession of differing things which follow from the slightest shift to one’s life! All is new again.

To start I’m not wearing my usual beige paint work pants (the ones with patched holes on the backside, a vertical landscape of a lake up the left leg, sunflowers up the right, and the timely palette of all the colors I’ve strewn since). I’m not at my typical café table. Louis is here and decisively not serving me, leaving me to a plump man who resembles suicidal death all too much.

Well, I do believe I can say now I’ve expended the extent of anguish stirred in the changing of my pants I’ve worn successively for what must be at least two months, and now walk in big brown corduroy ones. The other changes are but vain frailties in the fabric of continuity.

In my new place today I have wished to watch the washing stir of people moving in the reflection of quite the distorted reflective coffee pot. The coffee pot is now gone. Everything is still distorted.

The taste of my coffee resembled the feeling of running my hand around the spine of an oak tree. Suddenly I must leave.

XII

I am looking out the mountaintop of keen perception in the hope, a wind whisper, a soaring sight of a word to dress the content of my experience for.

Sanguine. That at the lifted sweet open taste in the mouth comes only close for the immediate impression strikes me as a bit fabricated.

Evanescent. I must admit my spirited skin does flow a tinge of ‘out of this phenomenally sensationed world’, thought in living unbridled to the always un-expectant joy hovering above a field of sensation, I can say my feet are on the ground. I am not yet fully transparent, for what that would look like. The word of transcendence seems fit.

Transcendence. I have none at all here to transcend though, except possibly the slipping seconds and in each new moment I am finding them stretching longer. The world parting essentially its most internal elasticity for spirit in color.

Is this coincident that love telepathic clears the air in ecstatic certainty for exceptional feeling in light of unknowing? Surely, among the medley in loose verbose, ripples on the tongue are giggles of a lost word. Idle we think the sound be, lipping lavishly of all the oldest meanings bringing serendipity singing, lulling the tongue. Unfurling fecund for I am thinking it has lovingly eluded me. (In edit I believe, for whatever reason unknown to me, the word to be ible – pronounced eyebl)

XIII

If ever I let myself blink will the beauty which compass me carry with me too into infinity? To the farthest reach of space between what I see, and how I see and how beauty always wishes most to be seen. To be seen for what beauty is.

Entirely I am in an eternal stride inside my eyes. My eyes open wholly, liberating the lifting essence therein. The trees of the street drift and slip slightly out their rooted place in a spiritual haze. The aromatic aura of their color splinters softly their immediate atmospheric air. Closer, rain flitters and listens to the upmost of its fluidity in natural glory. Rivers born, come streaming in and out of existence on the glass before me, my mind conjures coalescence with the air and words thereupon, the way rain drops drop and slide and gather speed in humbly joining to another. Farther out the clouds invisibly curl and laugh for the doing of their duty to the dance. Delightfully they’ll unfurl here from under and behind the phantasm blue mountains.

I am standing in modern pastures, glorious verdantry and never petty petal thoughts. Botanicals glow, go, lift the light of iridescent light surrounding me. I am standing, feet digesting the good earth. Legs uprooting, hips wind swaying, back body bending back and looking up and dancing. Faithful assembly of sound erupts in the quivering quell back and forth movement fell upside and right, leaves float into my hands. Convalescence of the tree curl gravitates an ever upward winding steppe upon which I near natural. Forgiving special tension, the sea and sky land, crown themselves on present a setting of unity. Together, the strewn out cells to space see fit to coalesce. Less I blink, let this world of one retain still within.

XIV

All aglow and atiptoe under the sun’s shade of the night, I was looking for a four leaf clover. A figure in the florally overhang sung and stemmed of the strewn stars and looked into my eyes. Their eyes big fleshy ovular. In them from back to front being white space of nothingness, floating red strings level with an ocean of vibrancy circling blue-green, in the ocean an eternal channel – the kind one falls forward for looking into – if not for the speck of a lightly living flash of light, dancing about in the foreground of the abyss – the kind to penetrate the soul.

On night walks, this world is not as what is seen. To speak prophesy, speak into existence, peel back the phenomenal. What you feel – that is real. They see we seem solemn, pensive presence in the dining room. The table is set. Botanical in the dining room. The table is set. Botanical jungle. Figures in dreams, spin round your way. Through the flora, my life absorbed and love is full – that is good.

You say it’s only downhill from here. But I let love overflow, I live for the overflow. Pinned pen to wall, drew fourteen waterfalls for us to bathe. To drink milky pink. The sky’s white, clouds nodding, painting nudes, trees, landscapes, dragons in the atmosphere. It’s only love in movement here, revolve around to show ablaze death of days. Pollard willows pillow talk immortality. Time is sweet for dying, time for flying. I’ll go flow anywhere. Revolve the love. Anywhere. That’s all love is, that is deep – the ocean. In my dreams I’ve drowned, pulled up opulent perception.

Other tongues taste like rose pink, our aroma an etching in the sky I surely won’t forget. Strewn stars to discord the blue broken clocks, pastures pure sex atop orchestra orchid, oleander, all the leaves of the field, sky falling. Breath into the ear. Around a memory statue cupped the winds and drank lines loose as paints of green over nothing, pink above on backs. The sky is blue and yellow.

I prefer the appeasement of your lips, thin sunset sung glorious color show on your face. This is honest. This is the place of bed. Incubation in heaven hung humble his head, the ground, the sun, the roots and moon lift. I know beauty is all you see. I’m blessed to smile for thoughts in you. You are the color of the eternal moment, transition into time.

Be honest. Hands golden green. Glimmer on my windshield. The upside down world, head shake, the rain puddled my eyes. A year ago today, I am praying for today. Harrow the soul for harvest. I am stepping barefoot, holy into water. Head crowned. Awaken dream set! Play at posture straight, the year birth thousand return to the cradle. The restraint temple chandelier, only stuck looking up only ever feet above, now is screaming prophesy.

Outside the shop we sit together. You need, you feel to tell me the hallucinations you see. Trees falling, mountains burning, death in the bushes. Nature is no more to the modern world. I am in the last of the living. These days of green I cherish, I tell, I hope the seed of eternity to be – welcome life again.

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