Thank you.

Our lecture today is on the various perceptions of the phenomenon of The Hunt.

We previously examined the psychology of early man, as hunter/gatherer. We concluded that the distinction between the two is negligible. A cycle of life is arrested in either case. Of course, we pointed out that we cannot speak as well to the suffering of plant life in the plucking and knifing, as well as we can bear witness to the duress of the animal kingdom.

Only Man remains as Killer, we established having consciousness, and conscience, rather than consciousness and instinct. Early Man seldom found himself in the position of The Hunted, unless straying from the safety of the group structures (physical barriers and social constructs). This vulnerability is best recognized broadly. The Hunter must step outside to marginalized venues to practice The Hunt. And the criminal mind is not far from that mentality of similarly stalking the periphery.

The Killer seeks the gaps of safety net from which to make his Take.

Now, where the psychology becomes very interesting, is where the Hunted goes on the hunt for The Hunter. Whether "criminal" or not, this is known commonly as the Ourobus Complex. Among the more notable cases, is that of Admiral Leane, who in water deprived delirium, did not realize that the Lion he was after, was in fact looping in on his trail. This ended tragically for both the Hunter and the Hunted, when game wardens were notified, from the helicopter.

But a more interesting case, previously classified, is that of Arthur X, who began to stalk himself, perceiving his person as an anonymous stranger out to get himself. Every slightest vague reflection of his self, whether in window or cutlery, provoked in him repressed agitation.

Oddly the release of that tension was not the physical attack of said images. Rather he chose a blunt instrument, plotting his demise with a pen. A Hunt known as Slander. This is of course an extreme case.

12.01.2023

FFF#8 The Hunt challenge @ChrisSadhill

*no facts were sacrificed in the writing of this fiction

Poverty tends to be a common affliction amongst the artistic of every medium. Edgar Allan Poe, Dickinson, Mary Shelley, Emily Bronte, Dante Alighieri, H. P. Lovecraft, Oscar Wilde, and Herman Melville are all hailed as literary giants and all died virtually penniless. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Robert Johnson, Billie Holiday, Judie Garland, and Marvin Gaye created angelic music, yet all joined the heavenly choir broke. Vincent Van Gogh, Rembrandt, and Monet could replicate nature's beauty with little more than paint and canvass, but they too entered the gates of heaven as destitute souls. Sometimes it is only after great artists die that publishers, music industry moguls, and gallery owners reveal the full brilliance of the deceased to the world. Ultimately, they gain great wealth from the works of those who can no longer benefit from monetary wealth. Can artists prosper alongside those who sell their work to the public? Of course. We see it with the likes of Frank McCourt, the Beatles, and Andy Warhol. My question is does it matter? Did the great artistic geniuses of the past create to fill their pockets? They did at least to a point because an artist's got to eat (I've heard they're always starving). Still, would they create even if there wasn't a penny to be had for their work? Duh. For those of a creative bent, withholding the art that rages within would be as impossible as holding in the Arby's mystery meat sandwich a person ate the day before. In short, the creative disciples of all mediums must create because if they don't the virulent infection of artistic expression stewing within the bowels of their souls can only be purged by projectile, explosive art. What matters is that the artist has what they need to continue to express their creativity. Unfortunately, except for a few lucky bastards, this often means working a nine to five. Working a steady gig insures that both the body of the artist and the body of the artists work remains healthy. Thankfully, the art virus will enter remission just long enough for the infected to make the return home from the daily work commute which insures that the infected can continue to spread .

When I was in high school, I had an AP English teacher who wrote great poetry. Looking back, my favorite poems that she shared had an almost spoken word feel. While most of her work was silky, delicate, and colored in shades of Whitman, I preferred when her verse took on a blatant, raw, and a caustic kind of honesty that scarred the listeners thoughts. Though brilliant (and I'm hoping published in poetry anthologies), Mrs. Fitzgerald also had bills to pay, therefore she taught and inspired a love for the word in others. Her husband, was an artist who taught art at Shasta College, a community college in Redding. He also did graphic art work on the side. I only saw a few pieces Mrs. F shared of Mr. F's work (he was eclectic and seemed to do a bit of everything), but to my novice artistic eye he was also very gifted. I always thought of the Fitzgerald's as old school hippies whose jobs allowed them to pursue their art while also keeping them fed, housed, and with enough cash to attend the occasional Grateful Dead show. Though I don't know for sure, it seems that the experiences, problems, and interactions the Fitzgerald's have in the work world may also have provided inspirational sustenance for their artistry. I can't say that Mrs. Fitzgerald's poems and short stories are well known or that Mr. Fitzgerald's pieces sell for six figures in a fine art galleries around the world. Of course, I think their work is worthy of such attention, but I don't think it's enjoyed this level of commercial notoriety. However, so long as the bills were paid, I believe the Fitzgerald's were content to be artistic typhoid Mary's spreading the artistic virus they carried through their work to whoever chose to be susceptible to the infection.

So, what about the great creators who created masterpieces while suffering in poverty? Would they have created even if they knew that their brilliance would go unnoticed until they slept eternally in their pauper's grave? I think they would have pursued art even if it meant living in the gutter. The desire to recreate, reinvent, and reexamine beauty with word, paint, stone, or melody is more visceral than the desire to become wealthy or even the hope to someday be dressed up as a German school boy and spanked with a rubber chicken by a 200 pound Polish lady body builder wearing a Swedish milkmaid costume. No, the desire to create art is an all consuming, virulent compulsion to bend the human condition over and repeatedly thrust new visions, textures, sounds, and ideas in until the orifice of understanding has expanded. Let publishers, art dealers, and the music industry reap the benefits of the dead. Those of us infected by the creativity virus must continue to hump the human senses sans lube because the orifice of human understanding is always in danger of puckering especially when it is cruelly exposed to the likes of the Harry Potter books, Thomas Kinkade paintings, and the sounds of Taylor Swift or Nickelback.

Can those who create poetry, literature, art, and music enjoy monetary success alongside the opportunistic executives who specialize in selling the various artistic mediums? Of course. However, the person infected with the artistry virus will create no matter what. The desire to be wealthy will always be secondary to the feral desire to produce beauty. So to those also infected with the virus of creativity, I say we much continue to go at human understanding doggy style, because if we don't I'm afraid Franklin Mint collectors plates, reality television, and (gag) country music will become the new, much diminished standard for what can be considered art.

It's like the tide, said Bertrand.

It comes and goes, like breathing.

It's like a chicken with it's head cut off, said Tarun. It comes, stays a while, walking in circles and you're unsure if it's going to leave or not, or perhaps if you should, because someone sent a headless chicken your way.

Well, they might not have sent it, said Bertrand and looked annoyed over having to play part in the metaphore, not deliberately to walk in your direction.

Tarun scratched her head. And from this we are supposed to calculate an income? She said holding back a nervous laugh.

Well, said Bertrand, just because a guy walks into a coffee shop and buys a cup of coffee doesn't mean he didn't have an interesting day. Sales are part of it already, and to some extent perhaps vice versa. The cottage in your story was bought and sold, before Goldilocks waltzed in like she owned the place. They just try to make money dirty so they won't have to bring it up.

And... began Torun, as if she was waiting to be interrupted, and continued; and, with that said... with monetization not necessarily being a negative factor

Negative not being enough to describe it, perhaps, interjected Bertrand.

... how am I supposed to make money of what I am doing without making it all about money? Continued Torun. Or at all, for that sake?

Take that sentence and see what you can do, give it a few days, said Bertrand, try it with and without, try it in a different order. Drinking a cup of coffee completely ignoring that it was for sale doesn’t make the cup any more of an interesting artefact, does it? Keeping flies away from a piece of poop, excuse my French, doesn’t make or break a piece of poop

Are you saying that a cup of coffee is... poop? Said Torun.

I am saying, Bertrand corrected his collar, whatever sounds good, preferably making money in the process… and I am adding… is that so different from, or indeed bad standing by itself, what most people are doing? How relaxed do you have to be before you produce something that can cash a cheque, Torun? Work!

There's a hand

that maps

the small

of the back

to the shoulder blades

and rests between

your heartbeat

and mine

pressed

12.1.2023

The Comforter micro challenge @Last

sensual strokes

of a brush

on a pale-skinned canvas,

forms taking shape

smooth curves, unblemished skin

an ideal form.

perhaps with a familiar face, or based

upon a photograph of a loved one,

a character from a show.

better not

to ask questions. instead,

paint the answers,

in the form of

swaying hips and

parted lips

pornographic portrayals,

commissioned

paid up front.

draw by request, anything

your sick little mind can dream up,

and it can be yours... for a price.

it is the lesson every artist learns,

the progression from starving to success:

sex sells.

Gray, brown buildings, factories, side work, hustle and money, kids playing on the sidewalk, talking. Black. White. Porto Rican. Shouting across fences. Growing up, hometown was something like the area behind homebase, in forced retreat. A seat to regroup after dubious wins and losses. We sat out, to the left or to the right of the catcher's box, in the on-deck circle.

That was Granny's turf.

Our "family" was out there in the seats, that elusive grand slam. Home. On occasion, everything worked out alright, and everybody cheered, at the awe of it. Winning and losing team alike, knowing that it takes two sides to make a play spectacular; till the recognizance that we are opponents still. And new attempts to steal home.

The Catch.

Back to Granny's.

Back to Granny's watch.

Back to Granny's cooking.

Back to Granny's schedule. Back to Grandpa's interventions.

Grandpa was umpire, in the Catcher's box. He made the calls, and placed bets, doled out the dough. Mom and Dad as children, just like us. Rookies. Kept short, on deck. Rivals on the same team.

Dad cut and ran from the in-laws.

Mom stopped dreaming of homeruns.

They left us, on the edge of outfield, still looking for the foul ball.

11.30.2023

Hometown challenge @ErJo1122

The beers were cold, the sun hot. He was an old miser, they’d been told. There would be no family, no friends, no mourners. The backhoe was good for digging the hole, but it would take good old manual effort to fill it back in, so the pair peeled off their shirts and picked up their shovels.

The first knock could have been anything, but still the pair paused without the first spade-full thrown.

“What the fuck was that?” It was the shorter one who spoke.

”I don’t know. Probably nothing. “

”Naw, that was something.”

”What was it then?”

”I don’t know, but it was something.”

”I didn’t hear nothin’.” The taller one threw a shovel-full atop the casket lying in the bottom of the hole.

The next knock was actually three knocks spaced perfectly apart, knock - knock - knock.

”Shit! Now what was that? Are you doing that?”

”I didn’t do anything except throw some damned dirt.”

”Well, you heard that, didn’t you?”

”No! I didn’t hear shit.”

”All right, then.” The shorter one scooped up a shovel-full and tossed it in next to the taller one’s previous scoop, just to see what would happen.”

There were three knocks again this time, only faster, and with greater urgency, followed by a voice. “Heeeelp meeee!”

”Awww, shit man. There’s somebody in there!” It was the shorter one again.

”Of course there’s some ‘body’ in there. That’s what we’re burying here, some body.”

”But he’s alive, man!”

Knock - knock - knock “Heeeelp meeeee!”

They both stood gazing into the hole, the shorter one wide-eyed with fright, the taller one tight-eyed with consternation. After a long moment the taller one picked up his beer, took a long pull, and began shoveling dirt into the hole.

”What the fuck are you doing? He’s alive in there!”

The taller one stopped digging, and leaned on his shovel handle. ”Are you going to climb down in there and open it up to see what it is?”

”Hell no I’m not climbing down there. That’s crazy.”

”All right, then. Shut up about it, and let’s do what we’re getting paid to do. Fucker was supposed to be dead.”

Oh, how the dirt flew then.

Sung night eccentric

tender evergreen nectar

infec.. tious…

Spread sentient liquor,

sweat of eve, revival infested.

anger swims like

Sea dragons in abyssal

canyons; burdens comet onyx

sealed, orange volcanic bliss

Covet our ghostly spirits

drifting unfinished countertops

nod at her, round up

Chivalry and spit wicked

whistle, sentient liquor

storms valhallan guts

Awake in afterlife;

unconscious fights my

snipers breath.

Caustic mind regrets,

fight time with swamped

Dimes, lost time and sickened

Seconds, lost to Beelzebub:

God reunites the visage, drink

to disunite the feelin'..

Sometimes the shape of creativity

is the undulation of a violin

the way the sound

waves

with the silence

of the wood that extends, to tuning keys

up where resonance is contained,

in unexpressed ideals

Holmes

as loose string

when words fail

and imagery evades,

and a sigh escapes--

from the audience,

Hanging on life's

Expectancy--

and that

amorphous darkness

staring between.

he wakes his love

dark rumble

over lush surface

she feels his insistence

a building deluge

that can no longer be denied

cloudbursts profess

his love unbound

as she achingly pulls

every aqueous droplet offered

into her substratum

for she knows

this is life itself

spent, he deeply inhales

the rising aromatic nectar

of their liaison

upon her landscape