The amuse bouche goddess


This photo is how it all began and I was hooked back in June 2010.

The poems of Baudelaire. It took me. Not the poems so much but this photo back then, within the dreary, dusty whirl In lived in, art awakened me. Some may feel this is merely fashion, blind lust. I only know that suddenly I remembered who I might be and this might be over took me. I merrily went along, parched in the red neck burnt to raw primeval survival my life had become. Pondering  the husbands of those Southern belles, with their crew box cuts leaving the tender transmission of their throats exposed to the Pythagorean identity disorder.

I had honor, nobility, charity, and transcendental esoteric caveat, but I had lost a hearts scent softly of art which emanates and perfumes ones being. In a word clear, sure, jangling, awakening beauty piercing thru the veils of ones respectable leases on life. Vacant lots on a street paved with sunburned gold.  Seemed as if a meteorite must fall that moment of my birthday to exact a change.

Suddenly there was a bridge, a ladder, a magical galaxy portal which opened up. Star stuff and holy tingling love. I jumped! My fingers were already raw, my nails holding on for dear life and clenched tightly upon the elementary basic chalk board lessons. At times I slept in years before and asleep I had twilight dreams. Once I dreampt of a vortex of labyrinthine echoes, sounds pulsating and birds were speaking to me. Then as if the mists of dawn brought actual licorice, cuervo, vanilla bean and Tibetan incense laden obsidian charcoal squawking blackbirds to our window. The birds in my dream began talking to the birds in my window! My goodness, I thought this was a narrow escape. I am not sure from where but, instinctive adrenaline convinced me that I was fast escaping a bizarre metamorphosis into some sort of radio owl howling oracle. I grew tired of talking to birds, although I love them so very lovely. Suddenly an alabaster pristine white lady with pink lipstick eating flowers appeared. Her mouth told stories of wicked women according to a disheveled French rude fellow, and delicate peony Chanel pink blossoms. Pulchinelle….. A man whom one day discloses never his true eyes, but his hands and sundried throat. His flowers say not evil but ne me quitte pas to life. He begs life do not cease to flourish and for a while longer we dance and dance. We tango. He blurts out what only the stars shall remember. I climbed the ladder of flowers.  If cat women eats birds then which villain eats flowers? Perhaps it is priestesses or pirate priests.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: