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From Heaven they fell. chapter 1
If you want to ready more leave a comment. when a hundred people comment I will publish chapter 2
The gods were struck to coin.
Part 1. From Heaven They Fell
Chapter 1. That Ruffian Malcolm.
Malcom Delrio was what they called him. His friends called him Mal. And being a man, a lad really, who was a prudent and good fellow. His father loved him; teaching the lad all the ways of his labor. His mother smiled upon him approving of his every gesture and triumph. Their neighbors hailed him in the street for no other reason for the joy his simple love lit in their hearts.
When the old men sang he would lustily sing along. When a man needed help he would lend his back and wit until the burden was liftable. And with his friends, for he had many, but with those he held dear he would go out and do daring as all young men do.
In the evening he would sit at the gambling tables with his father and his father’s friends drinking, telling stories through thick tales of tobacco smoke. Laughing at the old jokes and each turn of phrase that drinking would create a new mistake to be merry about. And yet bowing their heads in the silent defeat of hard times. But always heading home, head held high, not alone because their spirit, though sodden in beer, was full of the not-alone. And with a full spirit they went tottering home to their wives or mothers like orphans to their foster home.
They would stop at any neighboring hallowing to talk a moment and the women and girls would kiss the young lad. This was the way of things. But where from does custom come? Custom is a short cut to clarity. If by calamity, the calamity is celebrated by the survival method. No need to survive again; but to revel in survival is the sharing in a golden gratitude for having passed through it. But for this method of customary kiss? Because, I imagine, we all must survive love. And when life is slow and affection merely a custom: what then is Love?
The Old grow old by knowing that a longing youth will often mistake affection and its caresses. By misidentifying the signs can build the foundation of their life upon a mirage. Marriage can either be the ends or the means of affectionate life; both are vapors unable to hold love. And if it cannot hold love there can be nothing built here that will last with any satisfaction. But if a touch is a vapor; reasoning is a cold ghost. To save the young the heartache we need to show their contrivance is hollow before a foundation of life collapses. Like a bank built upon self-thievery or helpless dependency. In the end there is only one fulfillment that touches the deeper reaches of ourselves that we can store up away from anything we could touch. We see the hope in the eyes of every fool born and feel foolish ourselves because they are wondering the same impossible thing: can this fulfill me? But only one thing can. But that is easily spoken; and I dare not say it until it becomes clear.
So mothers would press him tightly to their bosoms and their daughters would kiss his lips. In each the boy would feel the duty to the custom. Either in the hesitation of proximity, the awkwardness of shyness, but sometimes there was a surge of pride, happiness and pleasure; a hot unexplained eagerness or a receding sweating anxiety. This was how they raised their sons; so doused in loving affection that no child would know otherwise and no grown man err in his missing the mark of love to the woman he takes to wife.
His father told many stories under the star lit skies as they walked the trail home. Of other lands and other people. People who had treated him poorly. It had a ring of legend. But no other soul in Keythos had these stories.
“This is my resting place,” he would say, “these are my people. Who took me in.”
The people of Keythos were largely farmers. They worked together they married their sons to their daughters and strangers were held at a suspicious and chaste distance.
“I was chased here by my own brothers, who were going to hang me from a tree for the buzzards to pick clean.” his father had said.
“Why would your brothers want to do that?” Malcolm would ask incredulous at the idea that his pure father could ever be hated by anyone for any reason.
“I hurt someone once.”
“Why?”
“Well,” his father would take a big breath but then only say: “Sometimes, you don’t mean to; but you can’t make it right afterward.”
This answer left much hanging in untold story. But these stories often go untold despite the hanging possibility that they will one day be told. Malcolm waited for this day to come; for this is when he knew his father would see him as a man and trust him with his deepest pains as much as his greatest triumphs. We are so ready as men to share in our victories; but so abashed to open for consideration our failure and shame. But if we do not raise up our mortality in embrace of our children; how would they ever know these lessons anymore than a kiss would mean servitude instead of love? Perhaps it is only because we ourselves have never found our own way beyond it.
It happened one day the lad walked to town alone.
A voice called to him from the shade of a cactus patch that spread itself over the rock for which the road did bend. A tan face peered out, catching the yellow beam on its way to the ground,
its teeth gleamed in smile. Mal’s feet turned up the rock following the voice of the girl until her bare feet stood upon the toes of his boots as she lifted her wet mouth to his lips and pressed her small breasts against his chest. It was tradition that they embrace and kiss but not tradition that they hold each other tighter after and kiss again. And longer. And then stare into the other’s hungry eyes.
It was the wind that woke them to the lost smiles on their faces. The concerns that had brought them together by chance came back to their mind.
“What brought you to me today?” said the girl not caring what the answer was. For she only wanted his embrace.
The lad smiled, “I was walking to meet Avery down the gulch.”
“What you stirring up?” the girl’s eyes shewed the shine that all things the lad would claim would be blameless.
“Batch o’ trouble.” Mal figured reasonably with a cocky grin. Daring her to stop him. But she knew the danger of losing him awoke the desire to use him while he was there. So she came gently close to him to feel the pull. Like a wind of its own creation the pull of the frame of his body through the fabric of her dress; lightly enough for a breeze to shake through, but not enough to break the draw of two trees falling against each other. She trembled for him, looked in his eyes, and trembling again they kissed softer and longer. The wind coursing through their storming insides grounding at the slightest nuanced touch of their lover.
“Come see me again?” as he broke away. He glanced toward her; she let her shoulder strap fall to expose her round and evenly tanned breast for him to see.
O the ripe fruit of womankind! What is a breast to man that God made it such a shape and form of love? As a babe we met our mothers, the first creature to bid us hello. The only constant, in a world of terrible and terrifying unknowns, was the round warm and soft skin near her constant beating heart we taste the sugar of her sweat. Only here did we feel that we came to a world that life is made of expiring inconstants. The only hope of a love that does not give up; that truth and beauty unite in the symbol of yearning the heart by the budding full breast of plenty.
Where we are fed.
Where we are touched.
Where we are cared for.
All in hope of being loved.
Only to slowly wake to the desert of living. Learning that love declines and we, from birth, are coerced, willing or not, to learn instead to give it.
But how do we give what we don’t have? For there is no part of us that did not come from someone or someplace other. So we are not the material that made us. We are the inhabitants of a material we do not choose. Having forgot where we came and for what reason. Only that the breast reminds us of something good and safe. But as we age we are made to give it up. To find we only look for another.
For men we look to the next breast like thing or person that treats us comfortably or pleasurably. For it rests in a sagging breast of loving works but it also rests in a youthful untouched blossom. For some we look for a cushion of truth to feed us. For some we sit in a place of self-made stability; bottle in one hand and inhaling smoke from the other. All to find that taste of promise of growth shooting to new heights. We think:
“How can the aged be youthful?”
“How can the truth touch us? If the touch of love lives merely moments? How is love then constant?”
“How can I trade bottle and smoke and return to loving heart and flesh?”
Inebriate me, my love; enfold me, embrace me. Delightfully. Youthfully in your work, for me, enblossom me with your good.
For a woman she grows an understanding that she is good. Sometimes just for the good of her symbols; sometimes in honor of their symbols. Sometimes in bitterness of knowing they are unwanted beyond their comforting symbolism. In any case she knows she either has desirable good; or is the desired person whose symbols soulfully compliment her. The giving of good is the will and heart of the person. Simply having good is not enough. For either man or woman. They both need the movement of good. She for the feeling of herself as good; and for all to contort in response a writhing clamor of the joy of her self-discovery. That wakes a new dream in a newer soul.
The bell of a cow moving toward the field clanged the alarm of her work and she shrugged the strap back on and sprang off.
“I’ll be back around sundown.”
“Where?” she called.
“At The Goose.” he called after her as the wind seemed to have blown away his skin idol. He strode forward; strong and merry at heart.
If you want to ready more leave a comment. when a hundred people comment I will publish chapter 2
The gods were struck to coin.
Part 1. From Heaven They Fell
Chapter 1. That Ruffian Malcolm.
Malcom Delrio was what they called him. His friends called him Mal. And being a man, a lad really, who was a prudent and good fellow. His father loved him; teaching the lad all the ways of his labor. His mother smiled upon him approving of his every gesture and triumph. Their neighbors hailed him in the street for no other reason for the joy his simple love lit in their hearts.
When the old men sang he would lustily sing along. When a man needed help he would lend his back and wit until the burden was liftable. And with his friends, for he had many, but with those he held dear he would go out and do daring as all young men do.
In the evening he would sit at the gambling tables with his father and his father’s friends drinking, telling stories through thick tales of tobacco smoke. Laughing at the old jokes and each turn of phrase that drinking would create a new mistake to be merry about. And yet bowing their heads in the silent defeat of hard times. But always heading home, head held high, not alone because their spirit, though sodden in beer, was full of the not-alone. And with a full spirit they went tottering home to their wives or mothers like orphans to their foster home.
They would stop at any neighboring hallowing to talk a moment and the women and girls would kiss the young lad. This was the way of things. But where from does custom come? Custom is a short cut to clarity. If by calamity, the calamity is celebrated by the survival method. No need to survive again; but to revel in survival is the sharing in a golden gratitude for having passed through it. But for this method of customary kiss? Because, I imagine, we all must survive love. And when life is slow and affection merely a custom: what then is Love?
The Old grow old by knowing that a longing youth will often mistake affection and its caresses. By misidentifying the signs can build the foundation of their life upon a mirage. Marriage can either be the ends or the means of affectionate life; both are vapors unable to hold love. And if it cannot hold love there can be nothing built here that will last with any satisfaction. But if a touch is a vapor; reasoning is a cold ghost. To save the young the heartache we need to show their contrivance is hollow before a foundation of life collapses. Like a bank built upon self-thievery or helpless dependency. In the end there is only one fulfillment that touches the deeper reaches of ourselves that we can store up away from anything we could touch. We see the hope in the eyes of every fool born and feel foolish ourselves because they are wondering the same impossible thing: can this fulfill me? But only one thing can. But that is easily spoken; and I dare not say it until it becomes clear.
So mothers would press him tightly to their bosoms and their daughters would kiss his lips. In each the boy would feel the duty to the custom. Either in the hesitation of proximity, the awkwardness of shyness, but sometimes there was a surge of pride, happiness and pleasure; a hot unexplained eagerness or a receding sweating anxiety. This was how they raised their sons; so doused in loving affection that no child would know otherwise and no grown man err in his missing the mark of love to the woman he takes to wife.
His father told many stories under the star lit skies as they walked the trail home. Of other lands and other people. People who had treated him poorly. It had a ring of legend. But no other soul in Keythos had these stories.
“This is my resting place,” he would say, “these are my people. Who took me in.”
The people of Keythos were largely farmers. They worked together they married their sons to their daughters and strangers were held at a suspicious and chaste distance.
“I was chased here by my own brothers, who were going to hang me from a tree for the buzzards to pick clean.” his father had said.
“Why would your brothers want to do that?” Malcolm would ask incredulous at the idea that his pure father could ever be hated by anyone for any reason.
“I hurt someone once.”
“Why?”
“Well,” his father would take a big breath but then only say: “Sometimes, you don’t mean to; but you can’t make it right afterward.”
This answer left much hanging in untold story. But these stories often go untold despite the hanging possibility that they will one day be told. Malcolm waited for this day to come; for this is when he knew his father would see him as a man and trust him with his deepest pains as much as his greatest triumphs. We are so ready as men to share in our victories; but so abashed to open for consideration our failure and shame. But if we do not raise up our mortality in embrace of our children; how would they ever know these lessons anymore than a kiss would mean servitude instead of love? Perhaps it is only because we ourselves have never found our own way beyond it.
It happened one day the lad walked to town alone.
A voice called to him from the shade of a cactus patch that spread itself over the rock for which the road did bend. A tan face peered out, catching the yellow beam on its way to the ground,
its teeth gleamed in smile. Mal’s feet turned up the rock following the voice of the girl until her bare feet stood upon the toes of his boots as she lifted her wet mouth to his lips and pressed her small breasts against his chest. It was tradition that they embrace and kiss but not tradition that they hold each other tighter after and kiss again. And longer. And then stare into the other’s hungry eyes.
It was the wind that woke them to the lost smiles on their faces. The concerns that had brought them together by chance came back to their mind.
“What brought you to me today?” said the girl not caring what the answer was. For she only wanted his embrace.
The lad smiled, “I was walking to meet Avery down the gulch.”
“What you stirring up?” the girl’s eyes shewed the shine that all things the lad would claim would be blameless.
“Batch o’ trouble.” Mal figured reasonably with a cocky grin. Daring her to stop him. But she knew the danger of losing him awoke the desire to use him while he was there. So she came gently close to him to feel the pull. Like a wind of its own creation the pull of the frame of his body through the fabric of her dress; lightly enough for a breeze to shake through, but not enough to break the draw of two trees falling against each other. She trembled for him, looked in his eyes, and trembling again they kissed softer and longer. The wind coursing through their storming insides grounding at the slightest nuanced touch of their lover.
“Come see me again?” as he broke away. He glanced toward her; she let her shoulder strap fall to expose her round and evenly tanned breast for him to see.
O the ripe fruit of womankind! What is a breast to man that God made it such a shape and form of love? As a babe we met our mothers, the first creature to bid us hello. The only constant, in a world of terrible and terrifying unknowns, was the round warm and soft skin near her constant beating heart we taste the sugar of her sweat. Only here did we feel that we came to a world that life is made of expiring inconstants. The only hope of a love that does not give up; that truth and beauty unite in the symbol of yearning the heart by the budding full breast of plenty.
Where we are fed.
Where we are touched.
Where we are cared for.
All in hope of being loved.
Only to slowly wake to the desert of living. Learning that love declines and we, from birth, are coerced, willing or not, to learn instead to give it.
But how do we give what we don’t have? For there is no part of us that did not come from someone or someplace other. So we are not the material that made us. We are the inhabitants of a material we do not choose. Having forgot where we came and for what reason. Only that the breast reminds us of something good and safe. But as we age we are made to give it up. To find we only look for another.
For men we look to the next breast like thing or person that treats us comfortably or pleasurably. For it rests in a sagging breast of loving works but it also rests in a youthful untouched blossom. For some we look for a cushion of truth to feed us. For some we sit in a place of self-made stability; bottle in one hand and inhaling smoke from the other. All to find that taste of promise of growth shooting to new heights. We think:
“How can the aged be youthful?”
“How can the truth touch us? If the touch of love lives merely moments? How is love then constant?”
“How can I trade bottle and smoke and return to loving heart and flesh?”
Inebriate me, my love; enfold me, embrace me. Delightfully. Youthfully in your work, for me, enblossom me with your good.
For a woman she grows an understanding that she is good. Sometimes just for the good of her symbols; sometimes in honor of their symbols. Sometimes in bitterness of knowing they are unwanted beyond their comforting symbolism. In any case she knows she either has desirable good; or is the desired person whose symbols soulfully compliment her. The giving of good is the will and heart of the person. Simply having good is not enough. For either man or woman. They both need the movement of good. She for the feeling of herself as good; and for all to contort in response a writhing clamor of the joy of her self-discovery. That wakes a new dream in a newer soul.
The bell of a cow moving toward the field clanged the alarm of her work and she shrugged the strap back on and sprang off.
“I’ll be back around sundown.”
“Where?” she called.
“At The Goose.” he called after her as the wind seemed to have blown away his skin idol. He strode forward; strong and merry at heart.
If you want to ready more leave a comment. when a hundred people comment I will publish chapter 2
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