Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Early 21st Century Nuclear Physics

Early 21st Century Nuclear Physics:


A Poem (from Twitter) by Bryan Molloy



Higgs Boson one of a pair; delicate flocking, quarking mare; 1of2, so

are you; all time rocking, crocking there. Faster then faster friend-



Your lightly balanced bending hair; shaft not broke, follicle stoked;

in the end lighting Pegasus' yoke; balance due, 1and2, to the end of-



Bended breath, baited heft; lonely Boson weighted breath; whilst thine

with iron piggy smelt; that on end around the bend, taking with it-



Patience(s)' friend, on the end; solid quiz for meanings' bent- which

they then did divide; confuse. Tallish friend, dimension's end-



Tap thee solid like one friend- to the end, seen like a bend, twisted

in the imagination-land; 'till no more understanding lend, and we of

3-



Coursing tee; ending in the end of trees, willing thee, splitting

thence, into 8s and bits of sense; bits of light standing on end-



Terminating then found friend, as the hence, Olympus rent; the

nodding, failing, trembling fend; off and then, dimension again,

findings-



Order off thine trend; this is well, this is then, #trending motto

'till the end; Alexander follows knot by chopping, lopping off-



But sorting not.



Tuesday, April 30, 2013

2013 Artist Description


My work is primarily oil painting in a "Boston Impressionist" style as established by those artists influenced by Boston at the end of the 19th Century who trained in the tradition of those reclaiming the brilliance of the Renaissance while forging a new Eastern and Western globally integrated style of artistic discipline.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

An Ancient Celtic Boy's Journey from Atlantis to Stonehenge

(From Twitter)


Most families went. They stayed near the shoreline for safety. And it


was easier to make rest-stops that way.

The delicate stuff they had made with their neighbors was safer too in

the calmer waters near the shoreline.

It was strapped in a big cage to the rear. Sticks were bent and tied

with reeds at even distances. Some families used animal intestines.

They dried harder and were stronger, but his father ignored the extra

security measures. No one questioned him.

He made primitive flint-lock spear-heads, his body was all scarred,

and he was the shape of a beer-barrel; and hard too.

His skin was black like everyone else's, but bluer, but not darker.

The super black skinned ones of their neighbors had a lot of blue

in the skin tones, but the lighter the skin of their children or

relatives were, the more yellow it became.

His skin was less yellow, less, blue, and lighter. He didn't look like

any others, and he didn't act like any others.

Everyone of their neighbors was very respectful to him, but he made no

speeches, dances, nor did he stop people from being angry.

Everyone seemed to be very interested in making very fine things. They

made things no one made. Sent them off around the shorelines

trading them with the people who made other fine things that no one else made.

Certain people wanted certain things, others wanted certain other

things. A shoreline trading raft would load and unload many times.

Some circled the globe, they were massive. When one saw them all green

and with barnacles passing by,

you felt as big as it was, like you were strong and could drive one

someday; its great spirit gravity force tickled the closer it got

When it passed you felt as if a 100 foot- tall giant had stooped and

whispered a cool breezy secret in your ear that gave you shivers of

power and smiles and calm. The logs it was made of were 50 or more men

tall on the cut side; you couldn't reach across even one ring.

Sometimes many animals were roped to the shore and pulled along the beach.

Roofs and fires and towns and towers poked and glimmered from its

distant topside.

His father didn't even look up that time. The memory became his son's

responsibility alone.

His mother sat very elegantly- chin high, face to the warm sea wind;

baby nursing; red blanket unfurling like a fish-tail from her hips.

His younger brother had been lulled to sleep in the shade beneath the

roof off the storage cage.

He stood by his father's wicker-braided stool that had been lashed to

the deck, as his father pulled the tiller side to side in the shallows

of the bright tourquoise and white, neverending beach. The trees would

change some, and sometimes there was more rocks than sand,

but it was always the same, soft journey to trade what his father had

taught them all to make. There was a global demand for it.

People made different things, then traded for things they didn't have.

Most people on the planet had a modest collection of the finest

things made all over the world, from the best people that made them.

If you couldn't make the best stuff- you couldn't trade it.

They called his father 'Mac'. His son stood close by in the sun and

traced the line on his father's left hand; the hand that held to the

tiller. It looked like at some point his father had dipped his hand in

black stain. His fingers and palm matched his other hand, but

a circle like a tatoo bracelet of grey/black remained and was dry, hot

and leathery to the boy's delicate soft fingertop.

His father never felt the urge or impulse to speak to anyone who was

near to him, just because they were near.

Everyone else did, even him. It felt like one had to, or else it was

rude. His father rarely even turned his head in that instance.

The soft salty shore breeze ruffled the peeling splintering log fibers

on the aft and along the binded roping of the raft.

Remnants of what had been clouds had been mushed and streaked and

scraped across the delicate blue transition;

from a blurry light blue, fading up to a deep blue-green.

The raft slid along a smooth clearwater area that followed the shape

of the coastline.

Beyond this the water was wrinkled from too much sun and striped in

white hashmarks and tourquoise slashes.

If one looked straight ahead, you saw: the green from the left, white,

then blue that got more blue.

The salty air made perspiration dry and put a microscopic layer of

finely powdered salt all over everything.

It made breathing wonderful, it made touching things feel soft, and

everything looked very crisp indeed.

The tiller swished along, curling the transparent water around it,

accompanied by a soft, hollow, wooden clunking that seemd to echo

lightly

, as if it came from inside a tiny cave. His head was feeling big and

his eyes felt pushing out around them and from behind them.

From pushing himself upright on the edge of the raft he smelled the

very salty ocean smell which faded instantly when he was upright.

The delicate brown hair on his thin honey-brown forearms blew in every

direction as he now kneeled.

His oversized head had bits of sand in it. It gave his mother a

regular excuse to rub his head.

When his mother's long, soft hand rubbed his head it gave him chills

down his shoulders and back and belly that made him feel calm and

safe and not scared of anything. His father's hand caused a similar,

sharper vibration, and felt like a stone hat on his head.

From time to time the raft pitched its corners from the opposite one

to the next. Even if nothing onboard had moved.

Everything one touched sounded like crispy dried grass and leaves. The

logs were sanded with wear and smooth and round and soft.

The neighbors would take turns traveling the old trading route up the

coast, but his family went more often.

Trading parteners were always wondering and inquiring as to innovative

new aspects of his father's glasses. Since he only taught the

neighbors how to to help him make more of them, and they were more

happy to be able to make something in such great demand, rather than

really identifying and cataloging in their own memories the

intricacies of all myriad of mystical components

He showed his son how to make the glasses, what kind of metal, what

kind of bacteria, what kind of grass reeds;

;how finely is the powder ground, how long is the fire burned, how to

use the right sand, how long to dry, how long to polish;

how to count the glass rocking, how to stop the seal cracking, when to

trust the metal springing;

how to command these tiny things with the respect of a General for a

great army, and how to never trust them; as cold-handed murderers all;

these tiny bits of grass, jelly, metal, and glass.

The groupings of them were finely wrapped in a certain worthy cloth

they traded for in the past to use to wrap them safely.

There they lay humped with so much hope, kindess, great spirit and

confidence, covered in their plaid swaddling within the security cage.

Some were different than others. Some allowed a person to see in the

dark of night.

Some allowed a person to see the pebbles on a mountaintop.

Some worked better in the fog. Some worked better in the rain. Some

were small. Some were bronze. Some were handled. Some were bright.

Jewlers liked the ones that made small things big, so it was easier to

see the patterns they would scratch into gold and silver.

Hunters liked the ones that showed heat at great distances, and made

seeing far away very much like seeing things in a room.

Cooks liked the ones that showed what else besides the surface of

their food was on the surface of their food.

Much of these fuctional specificities were aided by what his father

said were tiny plants that he carefully grew.

To his brother and him they were among the colors of poop paint that

were smeard on the walls during creative naps.

People and paths and ground color came straight from the diaper. But a

cache of hoarded canisters containing the colored jelly

served to give shape to trees and bushes and carts and clothes. It all

smelled like poop, and naptime was boring; one needed to create!

As he grew older, his insensitivity to the smell of algea and

bacteria, and poop grew. And these things became-

what they were to everyone else.

A technological revolution, a gold mine, undespensible, precious,

highly respected, worth a great deal in trade.

There were few functional necessities in their time, but in a global sense,

his father's glasses were among the top three highest grade military

secrets guarded.

Protecting the American, Austaliian, Pacific, Asian, European, and

African shoreline trading communities,

and their meager inland beneficiaries, was an easy task. Security came

in the form of trade. There was no need that trade couldn't meet.

Civilization was the beachfronts of all continents. Large animals,

irradic and violent weather patterns, disease, and other forms of

illness

made inhabiting any substantial portion of the inland of any continent

absolutely lethal.

And the coastal perimeter provided the perfect commecial transport

arena; water would displace an unlimited amount of weight.

Therefore, to provide a quaint example: A normal-sized donkey could-

tied by a rope to a barge across him in the water of the shoreline-

pull a donkey made of stone 100 times the size of the donkey pulling donkey.

His father had explained bitterly that this very principle that

brought stability and peace and convenience to billions of people,

had also timed its own demise. He said angrily, his leathery blue

black face all folded angrily, that the bigger they get,

the more they haul, the more they haul, the taller they haul, the

taller they haul, the slower they crawl,

the slower they crawl, the bigger they are, and the bigger they are,

the harder they fall.

... which explains why his father defiantly dis-acknowledged the large

giant smoking raft-city.

He knew his fate, saw the future, and had built the past.

He was angry and defiant regarding the future mess he had left to his son.

He had done too good a job.

People had had too many healthy children with plenty of food to eat.

Their children had plenty of food to eat and plenty of things to make.

These children had more things to make and more mouths to feed.

So these children built bigger rafts to raise...

All the more things for the more children they made.

His son didn't understand that he understood this far because he

hadn't gotten angry about it:

Like his father was.

So they journeyed on. Along the white lines to their left which were

shown by the moonlight even at night.

Those curls and rolls of foam and sea-sense.

And wide white band of reaching beachfront.

The glimmering backs of humping sandbars, lying around in the bright

specks of coral; like old lazy sacks bursting with snowflakes;

beneath the glass ceiling, of that ocean-bay inlet; in the quiet warm

night in the dark after sunset.

The boy was startled momentarily by the motion of his father's forearm

in the corner of his vision.

His interest was then distracted again by a bird on the land-side

shushing up from a tree rustling;

he had noticed the familiar glint of the metal part of the casing on

his father's glasses and so decided to remain unmoved

by that distraction- meanwhile following the flight of the bird

bursting through the illusory green balloon of this tree.

The bird had been propelled by a monkey screech apparently, as the

sound and bird's speed were of the same moment.

The gaps in the tree's solid exterior gaped like rocking jaws of a

dead animal after the fact;

as if the tree itself was a monkey who swung it's arms in defeat or

calmed menace to distract

onlookers from the shame of its failure to catch keep carry or kill;

the old 'jump and run' after a trip on the curb.

Functional superstition, as it is observed in scientific study.

Superstition gaped greenly by association with it's violent friends,

and rocked and swayed in monkey-shame in this just-after.

The raft rocked gently beneath his father's hammer-steps.

And his son turned just his head to pick up where he had left off at

the binoculars;

the tree's screaming seeming to have been resolved.

The boy's eyes stared steadily at the glinting gold rim of the glasses

his father held.

His eyes moved between his father's covered eyes, taking into account

the tilt of his father's head,

angle of his arm, and plane of his shoulders in relation to himself;

and he was aware of the angle at which he stood

in that same relationship.

And the boy the guessed what his father was looking at- quickly like

an arrow shot from a bow his head snapped in that attack-

until it froze as still as he still stood, rocking gently.

There was absolutely no way he knew what his father was looking at.

There was something very far away now.

After the calm night the bright day blew in and up along the beachline

curving inward to the left,

chased by the rough, green grass on the one side, and slapped by the

whale's tail surf on the other.

The rafting lanes were much further out from all this commotion.

Tiny birds ran about like nearly invisible rolling thistle, or balls

of dried seaweed or grass,

needling the sand like sewing machine heads escaping from their

disembodiment with utmost determination and persistence.

There was something important in the distance that did not discourage

or affect his father.

His father's movements were the same and steady as they were as he now

turned his hulking huge frame round,

drowning his son in his shadow; head down reaching for a bottle of water.

A few drops escaped the whole way to the raft like crazy diamonds

violently reflecting the light

that his father's wide, rocky form had denied them protection from.

No more escaped as the bottle swung back to its cooler safe-house.

His mother sat in the shade by the cooler and did not make sure the

lid was shut tightly.

Her movements were always slow and gentle as well, in everything she did.

His younger brother just curled up at his mother's hip as was his

customary position.

Back at the tiller, his father's bracelet tatoo attracted wayward

glances from any searching waywardly with it's steady

and deliderate back and forth motion.

One keeping an eye out for moving things might also be attracted quite

often to the quickly flailing palm ends

along the lead edge of the canopy cover in front of the glasses' flimsy crate.

The crate had a cover but it wasn't turned over.

It rarely rained on the costal perimeter.

Behind the treeline way off in the distance the sky was darker in some

places than others.

The warm rain came along and vibrated thoroughly the topside of any

flesh it encountered.

It beat out a hollow tribal growling across the wooden decking.

And a spooky grey day-mist was stirred up between the area touching

any body of water;

and up arount their raft. The waves were naught nor the wind increased.

It was a warm shower which splashed the eyeballs momentarily then and again.

It made the eyes a little stingy and bloodshot, as the water- warm and

slick as it was- was by no means slimy.

It lacked completely the lubricative properties of oil.

Squinting from the rainshower, the boy looked about with his head down

and shoulders hunched,

keeping his hands up as if he were boxing if the need be to wipe his

eyes to see.

His mother sat quietly but attentive, firstly to his siblings on her.

Then also, as the boy was, to the large form of the father's shoulders

swinging his arms back and forth up the front,

engaging as he did, the heavy dock-rope spiraling from them in the air

to breach the gap between a dock and their raftside.

As the raft neared the dock; a row of logs itself looking no different

than any other raft-form;

the father at the front corner was pulled together with another man on the dock.

The corner clunked flatly, the sound matching more closely to the high

tones in the falling water than

the heavy 'clack', 'thunk', or 'knock' of wooden object on a clear day.

The boy stood in the middle and braced himself; his little gray form

shuddered in the greyness all around shuddering everything with gray.

He stood near the middle of the raft, and had learned this moment of

action, though never confidently adjusted to it,

and had always been caught off-guard and off-balance no matter how

hard he tried in as many times.

As he looked at the shrinking pie-shape of tickled water to his left-

hissing at him-

it felt as if their speed had become increased and uncontrollable;

like they slid now wildly out of control sidesliding like

on a sheet of ice and sinking to the right as the water between

compressed and swelled to fight them away!

And... 'clunk'... the boy was inevitably tossed over onto the dock;

tripping lightly to control his balance and

regain his footing; despite the effort of the furious ubiquitous rain

and the weight of his large-melon-head to force him to his knees.

The men had already navigated the gray breakable strings of atmosphere

and had tied the things off long before the boy regained his balance.

The merchandize was safely away down the docking platform.

Protocol was followed and there was no throng of excited people,

customers or theives, jumping about excitedly as dogs greet a pack.

Two men shared a crate-bar for a handle waddling stiff-armed to meet a third.

The crest of every hill was faintly darkened by the smudge of a

cloaked perimeter guard.

The mechandize floated not across sand but along the boardwalk up to

the boardwalk proper.

There a fourth man met the assembly, now worthy of being titled a 'group'.

And that group grew blurry.

The distance became to great for the boy's entranced large eyeballs.

But his head guessed a point in the future and his eyes appeared to

address it true.

But as loyal and sincere as his sightline was, it was in its effort

deceived. He couldn't see where the men with the crate had gone.

Their shapes had been interrupted by so many vertical gray liquid

strands that at some point they ceased to be.

And he was comforted by his mother's presence, and the lump of his

brothers with her.

They were entirely dry.

The light frame of the leaf'd canopy directed the water as surely as

it wished with absolutely no effort.

The canopy was not tri-form, or pedimental, or traigular in any way,

and its shape was definitely not patterned after that of a triangular boat-hull.

Such a pattern did not exist.

A cone was to be found here and there in use. But rafting was more

practical and effective. As sure as a floating log rolls-

no human would sit in a 'capsize waiting to happen'. It just wasn't

safe. It didn't make sense.

The ocean was unpredictable and these people spent enough time on it

to learn how surely its power must be outmaneuvered

to survive for tens of thousands of generations just between the cheek and gum.

And to flourish in peace, harmony, wealth, and humility- these generations did.

The boy, still in the rain, standing as if oblivious to it, looked down,

mainly because it was easier and quite a relief from staring wide-eyed

into a driving summer downpour,

at the dock. It was the same as any raft. Logs were lined up all the

same length,

lashed together with an ever-repeating series of figure-8's. Since the

rope was flexible and the logs bouyant,

they rose and fell with each passing swell in dutiful harmony.

The perpendicular aspect of the bordwalk minor, joined of couse, at

some point in the future, with the major,

caused it to perform at once during low-tide as a boardwalk, and at

high-tide- a dock.

Now, the boy followed the swirling anchor-rope at his feet untill it

disappeared 6 inches or so beneath the agitated surface.

Normally one could see the rope softly swaying alongside the seagrass,

disco-ball light-spotted and very thick, deep and greenish blue,

a very long ways beneath the log's edges.

Today of course, it was raining heavily, so it could barely be seen at all.

He remembered his father explaining that the rope was attached to a

ring, embedded in a boulder, buried in the sand.

It could be loosened, or tightened. The dockmaster checked it daily.

The boulders, hundreds in number, were not large enough to pull the

dock under- 'in the case that the bottom drops off the world'.

The whole of every village was also a raft.

Many a huge storm and rising deluge had carried one off to sea.

Gardens, storehouses, stables, houses- all joined together as one

little, man-made island.

Like great hamster-pens, filth drained along with the rain, between

the cracks in the deck.

Some western cities had become eastern cities overnight.

Many African cities had become Austrailian cities.

Indian cities had a quaint penchant for navagating in Austrailia's direction.

Many cities on America's east coast had become cities in Europe and Africa.

All cities were coastal, floatable, portable, flexible, joinable, and

essentially based on the same traditional, tried and true design.

Each new generation of people had no need to shred and claw at the

architectural and foundational principles of the society.

There were, however, some older coagulations of certain populace.

They had been coached; manipulated to purpose.

United, forged and stacked solidly puposed, these unusual groups of

specialized force built like ants in furious symphony.

They raised armies to defence, hoarded grain in fear, and primarily

busied themselves with mining and quarrying rock and metal.

They walked on stone, ate with metal, sat on stone, killed with metal;

dwelled in stone all lined with metal.

And were wholly dependent on the trader-raftsman as they were too busy

working to cook, brew, farm, or herd.

The massive cities of solid rock and metal and glass were hot.

Sun-baked stone perfectly contained the sun's heated photon waves

and metal beams nearly glowed as if they had never left the blacksmith's forge.

And innocent glass window-panes became lethal conversion portals for

lazer-like death-rays.

No weeding was necessary in the city streets, for little weeds found

no refuge in persevereing the cracks from the relentless wicked beams.

City-dwellers lived nocturnally. The stone dwellings, so heated on the

exterior, but so cool many bricks in.

As with the traders' societies, cities spawned great and elaborate

harbor-systems; but all of stone and chain.

The boy's father, imposing and fearless as he was, avoided trading

with the builders of stone harbors.

All save one.

Their little raft pulled gently alond the coast of Ethiopia, and

rounded the familiar tip.

It never rained at this equatorial penninsula in years past, yet now

this trip would not see the drops shrink even to evaporate upon the shore.

A second rafter's trading port appeared midst the steam bath at the

lesser horn's interior curve.

Again the boy was tossed lightly with the 'thunking' in the gray.

Again the flimsy crate floated away... into the stringed gray.

And again returned swiftly through sorcerers' deceit with the bond of

laden truths; the fulfillment of their traveled quest.

Amber, glass, various chemical powders, bits of gold, aluminum, and

red quicksilver;

carried by the brawney black and blue men;

bowls and jugs of the most exquisite design and manufacture, inlaid

with polish and cloisonee;

abalone, blended melted amber and jeweled mosaic;

enamel so meticulous in its layering that it was as if dipped in

glass; gold flakes and specks suspended,

rioting with delicate beauty in the reflected shimmer of and light

trapped in with it.

There was a baby sippy-cup studded with split pearls showing their

rings, smoothed and inset with flat diamond studs.

The boy knew who this was for, but no jealous glance betrayed his

knowledge of it.

Their were bolts of fabric of silk and wool and spider web;

bold blues, quiet yellows, and seemly reds.

They received lotions and soaps and spices and books.

Potions and salves and rare jellies and spreads.

Tumeric, paprika, pumpkin and such.

Jerkies of mammoth, buffalo and shark.

Yogurts of animals from here to the arctic.

But by far the most exciting acquisition for the boy, was the hard

cheeses from the north of the bay.

It was hard as a rock, salty and sweet; had all the flavors for all

sides of the mouth.

Beneath the canopy and out of the pour, he knelt quickly with a pick

and tack-hammer and chipped off a bit and placed it in his cheek.

He would scrape it against the outside of his teeth for hours and

hours without chewing at all.

The flavor was intense, tart, and neverendingly satisfying and entertaining.

The boy didn't care much for fabric, he hated wearing shirts. He

didn't care about jewels and fancy table-settings.

He hated spicy things that burned one's tongue and complicated

mixtures and confusing flavors.

But he loved that cheese.

His father gestured him over. It was time for his lesson- a strange

obsession of his father's, it was uncommon to any family he knew.

His father made primitive flint arrowheads like he was addicted. He

was very serious about it- never explained why, just how.

And he made sure his son was a master primitive arrowhead maker. He

was forced to wear his handymanship in his belt- visibly so.

In the one hand with the tattoo bracelet that faded up in towards his

fingers he held the white rock.

In the other hand, he held down the shiny flintstone firmly between

two fingers, braced with the other fingers hard on a flat rock.

He glanced up; his gentle order to pay close attention; and counted as

he aimed two practice hacks.

And then a third sharp whack which whittled in violent fracture, bits

of deadly glass-shard flint fragments,

containted masterfully with kinetic direct control as if the sphere of

a force-field directed from his mind alone had allowed the shards

to fall gently and stick like an Olympic Gymnast their landing.

Neither the father or the boy had any thought of bits of microscopic

flint shredding their eyeball lenses.

The force of the boy's concentration was weaker, but it was there, and

the father was not concerned,

for their combined generated Gamma-radiation and magnetic fields of

their focused concentration

were sufficient to physically deter the force of any errant bits.

This followed along whacking on by whacking off in three strokes those

little bits by both men.

And there raft rocked along quietly amidst the sharp whip cracks they

battled between them in the atmosphere they shared.

Father and son battled it out for volume supremacy; father gently

encouraging the child's confidence by undetectable gesture and

modulation.

Building in his son those violent urges and the subtle control of that

innate bloodlust of the animal spirit of life-force extant in all life.

Both upon finishing their focused craft of primitive mastery removed

the point previously made from their belt-loop,

Threw it in unison; their black arms agaisnst the fetid gray glow of

sunset were darkly illuminated as the brightest of blackness;

like stork-necked crows frozen in the arc of the throw;

they were replacing the new shard in the belt loop with the same

synthesis of movement.

And they rinsed the log-deck of their work area on the raft nextly,

flushing through the cracks all the back bits of chipped flint;

so many little bugs of pestilent form, irresistable to the splashing

attraction of the seawater's own form.

Were lost in the slight swirling of that seawater's foam.

Beneath the wood rolls, ropes pulled, and green glow, which lit the

boys arms from beneath and between,

in soft green stripes, reflect'd of that light in the rippling echoes below.

Their raft tolled on, rocking oddly like a bell.

It seemed monsoon rains became the norm. The rain only let up for a

few hours in the clear, cool hours of the twighlight and early

evening.

His father mentioned an explanation which was meant to seem incomplete

in conversation with their mother:

He said something about the particular Nile Coast City Region being

nearly completley saturated; that they must get some local bread.

Their mother responded that when the continental shelf of Egypt fills

in and the Nile becomes a proper river, it will be like a desert.

The father agreed with emphasis on his, "YA, as if his response had

been squeezed out of him by a higher power with increased foresight.

Right now the whole of the North African and its closely Neighboring

Indian plate was the densest, most fertile region in the whole globe.

Egyptian bread would be a thing for millenia.

The boy's favorite part of the journey was to come. His father pulled

the till in the rain as he had for weeks and days and hours.

The swishing and screaching of a pack of dolphins alerted his heart to

a level of glee usually reserved for northern hard cheese.

His little brother, who rarely unclutched himself from hugging his

mother's sides was standing on the raft's side patting his chubby

little

hands together awkwardly and frantically like he was trying to rejoin

two magnetically charged fried chicken bits with opposite charges.

The cherub of chubs squeeked along with the dolphins, and they clearly

understood eachother.

The little guy waved his chicken wings and knew they would turn to

fish; motioning the dolphins near

with crazy symphony conducter phrenetics. The dolphins agreed and

believed him that they would, and desired it so.

They formed a slow pinwheel together, which brought the one at the top

cresting the surface by about a foot,

and sliding the tiny splayed-fingered mini-potato along their backs,

one after the other, round and round,

so that the small boy was petting their shiny, slick, machine-wheel

continuously with no effort of his own.

The hissing swish of the dolphin pinwheel was complimented and

conducted in apparently to the new symphonic delight,

a new hissing brief and steady, by the father letting the pressure

valve vent on the pressureized fish bucket.

The tiny fishes were chilled by compressing the air around them to

preserve them for when the dolphins and seaturtles came to visit.

As the father gestured to the older boy, his eyes squinted and face

crunched in a half-smile like it was made of stone; his expression;

his face burst not, from pride and happiness at the sight of his

little boy's joy,

The lidded coffer pulled off with a 'pop', and the father's crouch

swiveled laterally to hand off the bucket over to the boy, who, in

turn,

squealed with delight at the inevitable prospect of feeding the dolphins.

Two looped leads lay hanged beneath the raft's flat bow.

The small boy roughly grasped at the frozen slippery fish with little

mallet hands. He held one up as if offering it to the rain-veiled sun.

And he threw it away from the dolphin pinwheel with subtle surety of

slight command as a drunken monk would, into the water at the front.

The pinwheel immediately broke in elegant parsing of smooth gray forms

into folding florets of seawater and the front edge of the raft jerk-

ed gently downward. A thin film of clear water was quietly expressed

through the soft rounded openings between raft's structures, and

welled

smoothly before revealing the rough texture of the wood and bark again.

The increase in speed threw not one of the ancient family off guard or balance.

The raft lurched to attention and sped up to a motorized elegance as

the dolphins happily harnessed themselves like Poseidon's sea-horses;

floating the sun itself determitatedly in it's holy triumphant arch

across a level horizon in a flattened world; a mottled, ungilt

chariot,

rolling on thickened wind, above the underworld

As more fish awkwardly pelt the water surface above the pulling

dolphins' blowholes, other loop-harnesses were filled,

as they hung beneath the length of the raft's full length and breadth.

Tiny frozen fishes plopped between the contrastingly delicate

raindrops, and the raft surged ahead to Atlantis.

Before the Pyramids of Egypt housed the bejeweled murdered corpses of

Pharaohs gone wild, they stood as foundation-blocks;

great mechanized lotus blossoms; ancient power-plants, generating

quite a bit more than mere electrical current.

Before the great pyramids, pyramid-structures abound about the

Egyptian continental shoulder. The boy's father had explained in

detail.

The women there wore the lotus blossom tatooed on their shoulder-blade.

The great pyramids spotted the shores of the shoulder's plate like

fantastic blazing blooms. At night, in the rain, as their raft pulled

to,

their glimmering metallic bulk, sliced elegantly through the sheeting

rainwater, upward and curvaesiously, like so many liberty torches.

Jagged yet smooth, the folded gigantic petals mimicked the action of

an actual flower in the absence of the sun.

The boy recalled the last trip here. It was daytime then. The Great

Lotus were open to the chariot crossing,

and the air crackled and sparked with errant escaped electrons. He

could feel his neck-hairs tickling.

The rain was so thick. They could barely see the docks. The boy stood

in the drops at the bow to watch the dolphins retreat.

They were just silver slashes and streaks that slid away to the right

and around and underneath, flitting with a curl and gone.

The harder he squinted, the more he blinked. The heavy water droplets

hit his eyelashes like feathers over a shaking duckfeather.

The more he blinked, the easier it was for the drops to invade. The

rainwater was a chill to his warm eyeballs and they absorbed them;

sponging the water in to blur his vision all the more

The docks here were of logs despite the insitance of the large ancient

generator structures which were of an obvious permanent nature.

Although protocol was observed, there were many more people bustling

about here and there. This was a very wealthy city; soon to be empire.

He remembered the last visit, relieved to do so in the cool rain. When

the arrived last, it was too hot. Then he was just as wet with sweat.

He had hung off the raft to wash and cool. The great lotus blooms were

full open, prostrate to the sun.

As with the sun, one could not look at them directly. They were far

too bright and burned the eye sockets in full on view.

If one looke at some point in the sky above them, a great yellowish

arc could be seen; more of an oblong hairy ring of fire and current

and

ozone and smoke. The lotus drew the lightening and heat of the sun. A

few days open would see lightening on a clear cloudless day.

The heat was tremendous. The whole area was an oven until the

atmosphere could no longer bear the radiant heat of the flowers,

and they drew in the clouds like a black hole sun.

A man-made storm, the heat ventured too far and heated, and drew a

ring of storm clouds to rush in wanting.

They brought riots of lightning bolts, nearly non-stop; and so loudly

they screached and thundered.

Everyone there spoke loudly, not for competeing with the thunderbolts,

but to hear over the tinny ring in their ears.

One could not compete with Zeus' crash, and would not fool a try.

This stop they would stay at for a few days at least. The hotels were

grand indeed. The stone-walk streets were laid smoothly and true.

A mixture of melted amber and gold and mineral conducters was melted

and poured over the stone.

The electricity from the lotus was channeled through it; and indeed in

varying degrees of voltage throughout the entire city.

Every surface was amber-coated, inside and out. Elaborate decorative

patterns and painted symbols, shapes and representative things, from

people, to places and distant lands animals decorated every wall, walk

and signpost.

Varying hues of luminescent pink green and blue hovered in the mind's

eye with delight long after their short stay.

Beneath layers of amber, raised and lowered upon the surface,

paintings of beautiful things shown through and were illuminated.

The boy followed his family after the raft was secured at moor. His

feet tingled as he felt the smooth paving through his toes.

His head was down in fascination and frustration at the glowing,

glittering street and bowed from the opressive, cooling rain.

The family strode and tottered and skulked along the welcome road.

All the tiny hairs on one's body stood erect and tickly.

They passed a glowing pink house beside a glowing blue house beside a

glowing green house;

flowers of such beauty lay beneath the walls' surfaces as if trapped

in some liquid, irredescent paradise.

Woemen with beautiful glowing eyes, men rippling with strength,

fighting to please them,

were trapped shallowly like the bee in the amber stone- almost living preserved.

The surface of the amber was moulded in low-releif so that an arm,

fist, shoulder and hip jutted out from here and there.

A mammoth's tail, a lion's paw, a hunter's bow- these things jutted

smoothly from the undulating, polished surface of the architecture.

Flower petals curled towards you. One bore no sympathy for the trapped

creatures and things, they so rapturously endured one's love,

that one could no more resent them than one's own mother for not

confining a creature to her womb.

Certain elements clouded certain elements. A leaf had a mineral

component of metallic compound which glowed green and a bit more

opaque than

another leaf, petal or stem, so that this added another layer of

transparency to the #art and lay in more layers to the glowing

spectre.

The family sloshed on, lit with the ambient glow from around and below.

The boy turned his head in the sounds of the rain and all the people

saying his father's name, 'Mac', 'Mac', 'Mac'.

His eyes met Boticelli's grace, those black-ringed eyes of noble, glazing blue.

Startled but impressed, he glanced away quick. The woman was trapped

and burned with St Elmo's fire, she, offended not, stared on in

The group wove their way through the spotty, wet crowd in that ancient

neon-bright Las Vegas city.

They arrived at their hotel, a small, three-room, one-story, slightly

sunken building.

The building was not sunken literally, it just was low to the ground.

The mud-brick foundation was excavated to the interior a few feet

deep, making the walls look quite short from the outside.

The boy followed the family, stepping down into that magical space.

His father laid a hand flat on the wall as they entered.

The textured amber sent a ring of light vibrating outward.

It was followed by a few others more faint as the walls' lit softly

and grew in intensity and lumino'city.

Like ripples from a stone lobbed in a pool, the light fed itself from

the father's hand and soon the room was lit from every walls' surface.

The room glowed softly and steadily, flikering gently like a

battery-powered candle here and again.

Softly hued, gold and blues; mauves and browns all center-back-lit.

Purple, silver, orange spent, and even here- a little bit of reds.

The beauty and calm was outrageous in its union.

A small pathway amid their cusioned lair allowed them the path of a

cross in each room. The corners- all pillowed- advanced on the center.

In the center of each room was a circled clearing around a circular

low-set table. It's height could be adjusted.

One might stand to make use of it, or one might grab a pillow off the

great beds around in an easy reach, and sit upon it low.

The cross-path, table, walls and ceilint were all aglow. The beds were not.

The fine fabrics and upolstery shimmered in certain areas of metallic

thread embroidery and multi-textured fabric combinations.

It did not look like a middle eastern Sheik's tent.

The patters sewn into the fabric did not compete in horrid cacauphony

with the art'ed walls; they were in no way Oriental or Islamic.

The patterns sewn into the lusxurious fabrics did not display strage,

complex versions of spotted, writhing paisley.

They did not trace curved 'x's or diamonds throughout.

Gold thread was not embroidered into swirling lattice mini-roads that

jumped and leapt,

curling from under and dissapearing on a pillow's round.

There were not pairs of prurple silk pillows embroidered with silver

threaded garlands, hiccupping allong like frozen, sparkly

waves-crests.

And there were no velvet maroon blankets with golden silk hems.

The patterns were dynamic and dimensional. They were like Japanese

natural formation artwork.

The tones were earthen, violent, and harmonious.

Each pillow did not volley for one's singular attention.

But each was unique, lovingly handmade, and brilliant.

His mother made him towel off. But then he jumped and flew, arms

outstretched, and faceplanted into the flower-smelling bed closest to

His mother did not chide him immediately for jumping on the bed. She

wasn't disturbed at all by the swift action.

The fabric was cool and soft; silkier than silk; smoother than butter.

He remembered his father telling him about the man who developed the

formula and method for weaving spider's webbing into cloth.

His cheek and eyelid were caressed so softly and comfortingly by the

sheeted pillow-tops,

that wonderful calming chills and shivers galloped like tiny

fairy-horses across his neck and down his sides.

Maggots on rotten flesh were bred, the meat was marinated in metallic

compounds which bonded and altered the iron and magnesium;

causing certain chemical reactions in the fetid blood brood as they fed.

These compounds were metabolized by the maggots and turned them bright red.

Upon the subsequent metabolic explosion and conversion of the larvae

from their gory Michelin state,

the genetically altered worms calcium expansion entwined these new

metallic compounds into the belly juices of the baby flies.

When born the flies were fed honey slightly diluted with ammonia and

ground silica.

Born blind, fatly fed, the flies flew up and straight into the webs.

The fabric on his face was smoother than silk, cooler than cotton,

softer than velvet, stronger than broadcloth; delicate as tissue.