The Furious Spinner

Hmmm. Something or someone is whispering to me. Not sure if I understand above the roaring in my ears. What is it? What? It pours down rain. So much rain it is almost unimaginable. Our vehicles swim in roads paved with liquid. Outside our enclosures, the world is golden green. A sweet color of abundance only visible when it rains, as though the water is the key to turn on the enchantment, turn-off our nearsightedness. Can you see it? Feel it? It's in the juicy core of your being, isn't it?

As we swim in metal, we pass a park where the rainlight is at its peak. Artemis watches me, her arms reaching for the swollen clouds, tickling the fog into rain. The world is moist with love. Life. Her many breasts go all around her blond body.

"It's Artemis," I whisper. "The many-breasted goddess. She looks like a sycamore."

I am well with love.

We stop the car. I dodge speeding bullets and run across the river road to the many-breasted goddess. I stand in a state of agape (the original meaning of that word), my arms outstretched, drinking in the rain and her loveliness. How could I never have noticed these trees with breasts? I look around. Two more stand nearby, making a triangle, like the triple goddess the wild Artemis has always been. The cars race by. The trees and I are still. Why now?

At home. The poppies have started blooming. They are visible even when the rainlight has faded. In sunlight or rainlight they throb with orange. Rarely one of them. Always more. The many-bloomed goddess. Is it a coincidence that poppy remains are found in sanctuaries for Artemis? Not the drug inducing kind. Just the kind that bloom. And bloom. Survivors, thrivers.

If they were women, they would dress only in orange scarves and dance under the many-breasted goddess trees, laughing, cupping their breasts with their hands, their feet planted on the ground as their hips swayed in time to the beat of the planet.

Can you feel it?

Voluptuous.

Poppies are the flowers of Demeter, whose attendants were said to be the melissae, priestesses of the bees. Yet Artemis was also surrounded by the melissae. Bee goddesses both? Fertility. Abundance. Wild and cultivated. Ain't that the definition of a modern woman? No, sistah, ain't no definin' me!

I dream all night of the Many-breasted Goddess and orange poppies. What message have these dreambacks brought to me, crossing the borders between dreamtime and lifetime?

Words are not art, I've heard. Black and white scratchings. No sun or rainlight. Ahhhh, but don't they see? It is the ultimate abstract art. It is the key to the imagination. The palette of our being. Not a dream. Not anything quite so ethereal. Living, breathing. It is you? Don't you see? You are the artist. And the art. The Poppy Women and the Many-breasted goddess. The rainlight and the dance.

Voluptuous.

Cup it in your hands. Life. Feel it shivering? Waiting for your response... 0 comments

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