Thursday, September 13, 2018

GNG meeting from July 29th 2018

(Click on their names to be linked to their blogs)

Mia Maine
Feeling: Manic
Image: Addict hitting another line of coke
Word: Frenzy
The root of all evil, rolled tautly into a hollow tube, is placed precisely against my reflection and inserted into my nasal cavity.
I exhale and in the milliseconds that elapsed before my inhalation, I hear it again.
Please, just stop
I close my mouth and breathe in Frenzy ground down into a silky powder 
A star explodes, 
Meteorites crash against my brain and my blood surges in the resulting tsunami.
Mania surfs the wave, widening my eyes, 
Words collide with thoughts, at once I want to communicate all and nothing
I slide, washed away or along-side
companion to everyone and yet eerily alone 
Tossed about by memories and experiences
Churned in life’s undertow and spit out upon the shore of here and now 
I lick my lips, shake my head to orient myself
Dip my finger in the Frenzy and rub it across my teeth. 
I pick up the root of all evil, place it precisely against my reflection, 
She looks back at me and mouths “Please, just stop” before she becomes too blurry to see.
eath and tickling my extremities

DAP Tales
Given word – Eger
Image: Beavers crossing the street

Jackie Beaver could smell the river before he saw it. Despite the annoying smell of steaming hot asphalt in front of him, he could smell it. It was this smell that he raked in with a deep breath. The damp moss coxed and called to him with a temptation that he felt deep in his bones, so he took a step forward. Whoosh! The air trail of the passing car, that just missed him, sent him stumbling into the dry prickly grass. Dazed, Jackie looked passed his sprawled feet to the empty road. He looked left. Nothing. He looked right. Nothing. Decision made, Jackie sat up with every intent to cross the street.
            “Geronimoooo!” Came a shout from behind him. It manifested into the furry hind-quarters of another beaver. The ball of fur flew across the asphalt as if being chased. The beaver, whom Jackie decided to name, Geronimo, turned and waved to him from the other side. Before Jackie could lift his paw to wave back, Geronimo was gone.
            Jackie Beaver took another deep breath of the deliciously wet, mossy scent of the river on the other side of the road. Once again, he looked to his left and then his right. Feeling safe, Jackie eagerly dashed in a lung burning sprint. Just as he made it to the other side, several cars blew passed him with fur cinching speed. Delirious with relief, Jackie bolted toward the lake but suddenly stopped in his tracks when a new smell assaulted him. Blood! Stretching his neck toward the scent, he cautiously peeked around a stout pine tree and there, at the edge of the river, a skinny fox was having a Geronimo dinner. Tearing his eyes from the gruesome scene, Jackie sighed with a heavy heart. Today just wasn’t a good day to be an eager beaver.

Indecisiveness- Befuddled

Warm tousled goodness, intertwining with flowing mastery? No. That won’t do. Cool, tingly, bites that overwhelm the senses? No. Not quite. Melodious melting membranes, wrapping, contouring around one another. Close but… not exactly. Golden heavenly light drenched, bursting with happiness! Nah, try again.

My mental facilities race around in circles, as I creep into sensory overload. The sights are all consuming, the smells tremendously outrageous, the sounds joyfully deafening. And the tastes! The multitude of flavors titillating my taste buds short circuit the little hamster in the wheel of my mind. It begins to shut down as my breath becomes shallow. My heart beating wildly demanding an answer to the question on his lips. What is this maddening world of excess?!

“Honey, what kind of ice cream did you want?” he asked with confusion displayed on his face that mirrored my own. 

“Why would you bring me to this place of wonder called B’More Licks?! How dare you?!” 

Word: Worried
Image:  Draw shade
Word:  Fatalistic

Like marbles, your eyes languish immobile, set to absorb the surrounding darkness.  I see them as if through a slight haze, the distance between us not yet fully brought close.  You are hovering in a space between awareness and dream, looking out through your glass-like eyes towards a day you hope would not have begun, but of course, it has.  I know all about it.  So, familiar, looking at you lying there.  Could say, “It’s like looking at my own self,” but that would be facetious.  Because it is me.  Me here, looking at me lying there, the me who is still alive being observed by the me now already dead and gone, come back to stalk myself surreptitiously from the gathering shadow. 
Dread.  Not a specific concern, but a lingering anxiety, generic, everywhere, permeating.  The room swims in shadow, a tiny, glistening highlight visible at the edges of the drawn shade, holding out the intrusive dawning sun.  Like it or not, the day is trying to start.  With or without you, as they say.  They are always saying something.  The murmuring throng.  The Hapless Horde.  The moronic majority spilling out their morality by the cup full to all the thirsty sponges crying out for guidance.  The path to Armageddon, well paved.  If they knew what you knew, would their tongues wag so much?  You haven’t moved an inch, in spite of the ants crawling centimeter by itching centimeter beneath your skin, driven by the thoughts in your restless brain, endlessly harassing nerve after nerve because you know the sun inches higher and higher above the dew-drunk trees.  I remember it.  I want to scratch it for you.  Let you feel the comfort of a human hand, consoling fingertips, warm palms.  I want to shake you.  I want to drive into your head any semblance I can of defiance, indignation, any refusal to give in to the tides of fate.  I’d scratch you, abrade you with sandpaper, lovingly strip from you every millimeter of precious skin, just to get the ants out.  Make you listen.  Free you from your desperate thoughts of the future; a horrified cow-mere feet before the blood soaked apron and the rivet gun.  More than you are haunted by your dead future, come to skulk at you, I am haunted by my ill-fated past, insipidly slithering idly toward fate’s poised hammer, about to strike.
You stare out at the drawn shade, its rectangle of pinkish light like a collection of hungry fingers creeping round its edge to remind you, “Time slides along”.  Your shallow breathing level, barely audible, even in the deathly still of this room -- So controlled.  Your control shall avail you not, friend.  I oughtta know.  See me.  Come on, try it.  I see you well enough, or is this merely the illusion created by the persistence of memory?  Should a dead man even have a memory?  It’s real, I know it.  See me.  Focus your eyes onto mine, here right in front of your face.  Move! 

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