steam rose from the servant’s half-naked body as it lay in the snow, the flogging from his master being served crumbly meringues; the stripes of a red snow cone formed that was more salty than sweet.
a snake sheds a part of itself — the part we encounter first — to reveal fresh skin, sensuous as a newborn’s.
flogging… a clumsy, institutionalized attempt at guiding exfoliation (against the flogged’s will)
charlie rose from the snow, a cipher reborn. flogged but not broken. he wandered aimlessly, adrenaline warming him well as a flurry of visions accompanied the snow falling on his hair and gashes. how many times had he wished his insignificant pillar of light could be quenched or hidden. and here it was again: the very time his entire being wanted to curl up next to his warm mother and fall asleep until sleep was done, the very instant the peak of his need to hibernate blessed him with a hug he was flogged and tossed into the snow.
a choice. always a choice. forced to choose. can we choose not to choose? is this the only choice we are not allowed?
we are all servants. some willing, some filled with spite. wondering…was there ever a choice? husband serves his wife, the ceo serves his employees, the director serves his investors, the entrepreneur serves his users, the mercantile serves his customers, the host serves her visitors, the mother serves his/her offspring. the person bound by the injury of pronouns serves its mob of diapered judges screaming death by paper-cut
rebirth, scaling and descaling, thickening and thinning may be as necessary as breathing. anything that chooses to exist may also long to re-exist in the ecstasy and pain of being born again. to grow scales, harden shells, chill in an eternal solstice. somehow the fear of these is from a choice already made. but how we are reborn is another question.
these were the thoughts swirling in charlie’s mind — like chunks and tissue swirling in the whirlwind of a toilet flush. what was he to do? to return and make a better meringue would be a performance only the angels would witness: a servant boy suffering from seasonal affectation disorder rising above all the molecules defining his apparent being screaming “no” while firing the oven, whipping the egg-whites, etc.. it would be a triumph indeed and worthy of a short story or a chapter in deuteronomy but charlie’s eyes were both pointed elsewhere
in the cold, charlie’s mind darted towards a word: genshai. it meant self-love, after boiling it down. YOU are the gift. hmmm. it sounded beautiful. his wounds and the cold blocked his ability to see such a thing play out. what happens when everyone loves his/her/xhe/its self perfectly? is a universe of liliths an expanse of lonely stars?
are we a version of another us?
the loofah is a tool
the loofah is a way
the loofah is a choice, each holiday season and/or alternating weekend, to EXfoliate voluntarily, without institutional correction — whether that institution is made of man or other so loofah when YOU want to loofah and do it alone or do it with the people you love. how may ye light shine if ye do naught loofah
the loofah: a sponge by no accident. let it be loved and respected. let it cleanse us of our carbuncles, let it rid us of our treasures, let it strip each of us to the thing, however tiny it may be, that IS and then let the loofah be casted aside, into a landfill, because loofahs are continually springing out of the sea