jewelry

An old coin from 1919, a 1/4 rupee from India.
Gandhi comes to the mind, inevitably and Zaratustra. British tea and sheiks. Hot, sweaty air and Ganges, burning corpses and brain splashing, sloshing, squirting out of the skull, eyes popping out like overripe fruits, skin wrinkeling up like dry baking paper, dissipating into grey black smoke that hovers over the holy water.
A man, who eats boiling brain, every now and then, to get in touch with death, a living absurdity with a long grey white flowing beard.
Monkeys and dusty street. The little princess, sarongs and beautiful women and mourning baby girl souls wandering restlessly about the earth, aborted, drowned, drenched with hidden tears, too much money, too much cost and too much loss to raise a girl.
To raise, like cattle. Not to rear.
Ignorance of the mind in a tradition of mind expanding practices - makes you wonder.
And when I look out of the Solar cafe on Cahuenga and Franklin I see an orange house behind the brickstone reddish apartment complex that, like staircases floods down the street in cascades, palmtrees blistering and glittering and twinkling in the warm gold liquid Californian winter sun. It takes my breath, whispering of thousand and one nights, seen out of context in the frame of a window that cuts away the dirty streets of Hollywood. The sun, just the sun, caught in the beauty of man-build stones.
I look down, my eyes following the smooth curves of my decollete, finding at the end of the plunging neckline, resting between two warm breasts which are sleeping in a rosebed, the turqoise-silver jewelry she gave me. A bracelet shimmers at my arm, nestled into warm and bright earth and sky colored threads. A shell, one of those white ones which look like a vagina, the sacred place and cradle of human kind. Women, so breathtakingly beautifully amazing. Kneeling in dignity, scrubbing a floor, a dirty behind, touching the dirt with hands that turn everything into gold. Potentially.
I breath in, slowly, and then out. How did I come here and where is it, where we are, exactly?

A web spun of filigran, subtle matters.