Utopia of the blue moon (Steemitbloggers contest)

And above the wind where we sleep there is the murmur of the tides turning...but tonight we have the fitness machine that plays with words and jumps up and down and goes: woo.

So, it is night and the machine has an aversion to being fit and it has a voice. What else is there to know?

Perhaps there is more going on here...Can the machine cry? Hmm.

Right, now then, you know children are not snails, right? I mean, they’re faster than snails, aren’t they?

Anyway, enough about children and snails...

The ego is a dump set in the hierarchical interstices of the brain that can’t transcend its own boundaries and as such seals its own fate.

In time it comes to know this but through fear and denial it chases its own tail in an illusory world it builds around itself.
The first step towards being egoless is to understand that the ego is no more than a passing fad in humanity’s evolution.

Until then the world is full of ghosts that come out of the wood-work at dawn to sharpen their spears then chase along the circular patterns of their run-ins.

OK, I think we’re getting somewhere; but is it worth a pound of hay? A saucerful of lobotomized mosquitoes were swimming listlessly towards the edge of all they knew and couldn’t say in the dungeon deep where the shackled prisoner was shouting that he knew, but no one could hear him. As luck would have it a little mouse crept into the prisoner’s cell and began a tap dance that calmed the prisoner down which enabled the story to be carried on.

A plain huge, big as an ordinary smile of love sang a song of the blue light of destiny as the boys from the up above of down below gnashed their teeth and scribbled all was well on their blackboards of the missionaries who were proceeding, always proceeding in what died a long time ago; and if the love-rats from hell had their way there would be bells to announce the second coming of the infinite one who was a loner and a good farter to boot.

A big smile raised its head about here and said: “this is a strange story.”

The Gravesend gang who were all dead and buried long ago readily agreed that this was so; so let us proceed as if one life wasn’t enough and two would be better.

“How many would you need anyway,” said the infinite one, “and why would joy die like that, taller than the sun and wide awake as you are to say such in the scrambled face of eternity?”

The holy grocery machine in the orientalization had time for thought and so thought about the usual stuff that came from nowhere: wouldn’t you like to go to all the places that you’re in love with, and wouldn’t you like to find yourself there? All aboard the genetic chicken train then.

And now let’s talk about love bombs and smithereens to sign into here then a moment a minute.

“Excuse me,” said the x-ray dog from next door.

“What is it?” said the baloney sandwich waiting to be eaten.

“Depression as a lemonade bowl full of goodies looking into the ecstatic eyes of a long day can be a tad boring if you do it for too long,” said the x-ray dog from next door.

“I agree with you entirely,” said the excruciating agony putting in an appearance.

“Hoy!” said the x-ray dog, “we don’t allow that around here.”

The baloney sandwich looked on with a bemused expression that said it was not going to dance to any of this.

“I entirely agree with you,” echoed a voice from out of the blue.

The x-ray dog walked off to look for a bone, shaking its head at all the messages that were appearing from nowhere.

“We come by here so frequently to dash ourselves against these walls and you can see it in the eyes of pain of those who can’t find a way out or grow wings to fly, said the parrot lifting up a wing.

Are we the experiments of the generations that came before and thought to make us as they would have us?

We are undoing all this and all their scheming has been for nothing...

But I am visible and they can see me in my nakedness where my tears talk so loud in the shivers that assail me down my face and in my heart.

So repeat after me: I am in joy and this is not my inheritance, but theirs, those sleepless ghosts that cry in the dark to be heard.

Death is not the end...we can still hear them...justice comes,” said the voice of the x-ray dog from next door with a bone in its mouth.

“The sex machine was in a quandary with her legs up to her ears, for how would she fit into what could never be said? But not to worry, the menu was written long ago and is not up for improvement and so now we know the difference between half a pound of what we don’t have and the longing to find the fire and jump in and be burnt to dust and then come back again as more than we can ever say,” said this about the sex machine trying to fit it into the story somehow.

“I guess that in the tertiary adjuncts of the mind where we wander lost and alone re-cycling the masks we wear into more durable beliefs and too where redemption is another polished word doing the rounds there are few doors and none we would choose to enter.

And unless we are blessed by that touch of grace that enters our hearts from the secret place we will wander without sanctuary or a place to rest and tasting only the meagre scraps of what we once thought into being.

How would one fall so low from such heights of privilege?

Perhaps in the unconscious dictations we let distract us there is that which listens and sets into motion the thoughts that get away from us and those that just come and go.

Maybe there’s a certain irony in this that if we could understand what is happening we could turn it around and have it work for us instead of against us; but how does one capture the quicksilver flowing of our wishes to bottle them, for as soon as we see them they are gone or turned to stone?

I do believe we are best answered by that inner voice, the one that has always been with us and in knowing that the outer questions become stepping stones over the little river of life.

60 or 6 then becomes the same,” said an old drunk who had seen better days and was just then passing the garden.

“Ah, if only we could bottle it,” said Ning Ning.

The garden was sniggering in the background and trying not to make a sound.

The baloney sandwich sighed softly as it went into the gardener’s mouth to disappear forever.

The x-ray dog and Ning-Ning who were the bones of this story met the old drunk who was just passing by the garden gate.

“The end of the world is nigh,” he said and clung to the gate in desperation.

The plastic lateness of an abandoned hour moved inexorably to catch up to all that had been left behind and as it moved against time the jaws of a doomed rock and roller chomped down on it and bit it in half so that there were then two pieces of eternity that couldn’t find their way home from there.

“Join the club,” said a silver dollar that had been lost for a hundred years, its voice moved by the doom of being in a storm drain for so long that it had lost all hope.

The hundred years that had grown up around the silver dollar groaned: “doom, doom,” it said.

And then the doom said: “I’m so tired of you.”

A packet of soup fell down into the drain from out of the pocket of a passerby and the groan shouted in glee: “dinner time.”

They all set upon it hungrily, all except the silver dollar that couldn’t do anything but watch as the soup was devoured.
The x-ray dog and Ning-Ning together with the old drunk looked to see where all the noise was coming from but saw nothing out of the ordinary and so turned their attention to each other over the garden gate to slide this way and that as the dreaming tumbled them into the sea of their aloneness that crashed upon the shore of where they had all ended up.

The old drunk was a scow who couldn’t help himself anymore and had passed through the veils one after the other until there was nothing left but himself and a pair of rusty boots full of holes that couldn’t go any further.

The debt slave of their imputation was hanging about near the rubbish pile of all this and hoping to pinch something to take home and call it a trophy of worth; but the trophy of worth was a pile of dust on the mantel-piece in the front room of an idea that couldn’t go any further either.

“There are more laws than we can break and all of them were made to protect the privileged to the detriment of the rest of us,” said an ex-government agent swimming against the tide and wishing he’d stayed in bed.

“The government is a joke, and if you can’t see it then you are lost in their power; furthermore...” he said, but got no further, as the last of his strength ran out and he was washed out to sea.

A man with flowery fingers and one leg so short his pants rode up his leg to his knee had a fixation and was talking to it as he crossed the road to the other side.

“Oh bless us for what we collectively dream in the hive mind of humanity; we are all on this little planet called Earth and our fates are joined, even though sometimes we live on the island of doubt.”

The x-ray dog heard this from the man as he passed by and so before any more could be it said raised a red megaphone to its lips and spoke into it: “Now hear this, now hear this, I hear what you are saying,” said the x-ray dog trying to find something to say through the red megaphone that was broken.

The megaphone squeaked and said: “If you can’t be here then be there.” And then it said no more.

The broken script of a seeming stray circus of exclamation points began to expound for want of a word to explain the concept that had no word of explanation and so became lost in all the other words that came along to fill the vacuum.

Along the seventh parallel of this blue moon of a thought that was cave diving under the waves in and out of the luxury of a good stroll in the park, surrounded by all the ghosts of old ideas the quartermaster could not be found to account for the exception that was trying to get in and say something.

Under the floorboards of all this, the crazy gang were holding down the concept that could explain everything. The concept was struggling mightily, but it was no use, there was no escape for it, at least not in this story, maybe the next one.

The x-ray dog and Ning-Ning held hands as a rumble shook the ground. It was a rumble that had come all the way from the far reaches of this story and was on a mission to devour everything from within.

Closer and closer rumbled the rumble until it could go no more and then without a backward glance the rumble turned into a sinkhole that swallowed everything down into its black depths that was so deep that not even a word could escape, except one burp to show its appreciation.

And the moral of this story is: there’s always something to appreciate if you look hard enough for it, and sometimes even when you don’t look.

Anyway, Gustav Strontium 99 had more ideas than could be counted by the ordinary man and he wanted to share them bad but a suitcase full of money made an abrupt appearance falling out of the sky and so Gustav Strontium 99, being nobody’s fool picked it up and escaped all the way to the magical wood and turned into a tree.

After an ageless age of just being there, a wooden house sprang up next to the tree so the tree knocked on the door and was let in by a nervous old doorman who showed it to a back room where it could belong without getting in anyone’s way.

The compressed urge of a tar-paper of love slid gently down into the depths of all this and wound itself around the tree’s roots where Harry Houdini was escaping from the after-life.

The secret agent called Joe with only one tooth left was hiding in the bushes of the garden by the wall of the wooden house and spying on the Sasquatch mouse that was playing in the cider of the sundown.

The faceless idiot was also hiding in the bushes over on the other side of the garden. His grin, which someone had stuck on with glue when he was a child, stared in complete happiness at the mouse playing.

The sun was going down fast and making deep shadows race across the ground.

At the back of the house, Arthur the electric lemonade bottle was building his escape rocket to Mars and had got as far as securing a jar of dandelions for fuel, five rusty nuts and a hammer which was quite an achievement all things considered.

He was scratching his head and looking up and wondering which way Mars was and would he need to take a pair of sunglasses with him when he went.

It was dark out the back of the house so the moon shone bright as it came up above the trees.

“Maybe I should go to the moon instead,” said Arthur to himself and put the hammer he’d been holding down beside the rusty nuts and went inside for a cup of tea.

The secret agent yawned with nothing to report yet and the faceless idiot lay down and went to sleep.
It was twilight in the front garden; the moon not yet raised enough to shine there and the mouse had gone inside to its nest and a large piece of dried cheese it had found in the kitchen the night before.

The holes of an encyclopaedia that was abandoned behind a rustic armchair leaked secrets that wanted to be found by anyone that was looking for them but nobody was looking just then, they all had their own ideas to follow for better or worse.

The secrets spread out around the room and hid in the shadows waiting to pounce when the time was right.
Gustav Strontium 99, in the middle of the room and who was now a tree was unmoving and silent and truth be told was fast asleep.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck a peculiar hour and said: “bless us for what we may dream until that time comes when we are but a memory of a memory of a memory.

The deadly duo, who were all but indifferent to all and sundry except themselves and were called the Doomson twins were the cats whiskers of the opening doors of their mother’s eye for them, but she had passed on and so now all they had was each other.

They were so alike that is was as if they were talking to themselves, when they used to talk to each other that is; these days they never said a word anymore, just raised an eyebrow when the wind of an opposing thought raised their hackles, which was not often but more than a month of blue moons.

One day they were out riding a motorbike when they came upon the endless sinkhole and down they fell until they reached bottom which hit them unexpectedly.

After they picked themselves up and got back on the motorbike they rode around in circles hoping to find a way out in the pitch black.

A clock on the tower of their dreaming had rusted away to an ecumenical shine somewhere at the back of the midnight choir and was making hand signals to Leonard Cohen to say the sixties were over and can we stop singing now.

In the downtime between this and any other tale that can be told, the dance of Zen gang can be seen rowing their boat along the horizon and singing: “row, row, row your boat...”

“And I will be taking the next train to sunset with emergency hope,” said the revolution that was not getting off to a good start.

Government agents came then and fixed a manhole cover of doom over the sinkhole and abandoned everyone to their fate in the utopia of the blue moon...

Images from Pixabay

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_{Animation By @zord189}

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