Cliff-Diving

Cliff-Diving.

Preface: A series of unfortunate events-not the children's series-but, a series of unfortunate events coupled with a fresh reading of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar created questions in my own mind about the topic of cliff-diving.  One must remember that cliff-diving need not be taken literal, or of course, cliff-diving can be taken literal ...  do as you wish.


Mind Wonders upon Cliff-Diving:

Is cliff-diving really a fun adventure to an individual, to a group? A sport-whatever a sport is? Do groups of people or even a single soul really intend to jump off a cliff for fun? I've seen these cliff divers at the lake, at the beach, and of course, on television and movies, but do they really believe this death dive is fun?  Do they wonder what will happen if a hidden rock only pokes its head above water as their head is greeting it?  Or, do they want to play the mermaid or merman game and never play the earthling game again?  Who knows? For it isn't for me decide. For I've been a cliff diver: both mentally and physically.  Almost all beings have been cliff divers, whether they acknowledge this fact or not.

Some cliff divers dive into the deep mentally. Yup, mentally. Maybe it's a mental reaction to an external force or some physical action inflicted or boundary cut loose: the only thing the mind can do is cliff-dive.  You see, these mental cliff divers, some-for who am I to label which person is a mental or physical cliff diver-wish to not cliff dive at all.  They would rather freefall. But, alas, they finally land. Their landing is not the clear cut noise of a cliff diver gracefully gliding into the water. Oh, no. Remember, these are mental cliff divers.  Their dive is into a dismal land of decadence, of doom. They're quite content with their scratched but not exposed cup, whether it be filled with murky or muddy water.  For when they finish their free fall-the truth, the action, the reaction-into the water, that murky or muddy water filled cup called life pours out and exposes them to reality.

The mental cliff diver no longer perceives the gleaming gold glitter.  Instead, they realize it was only the sun, toying with the fact that the truth can be, or is, the red rotted wood at the end of their freefall.  That rotten truth unfurls and the bubble breaks: breaks and maggots bumble from their opaque glittered bubble.  While we all know that the bubble-we can call it an ornament even-has scratches or doesn't glow rainbow unicorns all day, or even half a day, it's our perception of reality.  We don't want to see our scratched bubble broke and the maggots bumble around us.  So instead, we cliff dive, hoping to freefall, to never land, to never really see reality.

The actual cliff diver dives. He or she or it may get a rush, an adrenaline kick.  So, maybe it's their kick, their fix that encourages this risky behavior?  Maybe it's their thoughts, their images of their beautiful scissor slice dive?   Or, maybe they too wish to freefall and land but prefer the physical to the mental cliff dive? Or, maybe they are the ones we mental cliff divers should look up to: for strength, for endurance to face the truth. Because the actual cliff divers know that in the end of their freefall, they glide into the green lake, the gold sea-where the actual cliff diver sees the crystal clear calm that shows him or her or it, reality-whether contrary to their wishes or to their scratched bubbles.

Guess it depends on the cliff diver.

sm♨ke

lingerin' up-

on a

land. a

land that

lies-li〪〭〫〬 es

open. open to

play, to

ponder upon

the sun's

fire♨♨

his fire that

scorns, that

sizzles e.a.c.h.

golden follicle with

its fury, its

flame. 

the flame- it

fondles, it

fingers her

womb, her

woman, her

wobbly knees. un-

til it

burns, it

blackens 

e.v.e.r.y.

bristle of

her

being. 

♨♨

bloodstream.

a baby-a
bloom. it
blossoms into
a f.u.l.
l. fledged flower❀❀


    it blooms into a ...
    B.
        E.
            I.
              N.
                 G.,  a

thing. an in:
tangible thang-a

tangible thang, to

touch, tango, &

telltale, talk
of timely thangs 
to, w/.

it.

 it. becomes you. its

  being, be-

   comes you. it-

    blooms in 

     you. Until-

you cannot breath, be-

without its 

seeds s/e/w/i/n/g its

seams in-

to your soul. its

rug-

ged roots rub-

bing its rough coils

in your

soil. it

attaches. & 

curls. &

coils. it

 b❀l❀o❀o❀m❀s❀ into

  your being, your blood, your

   bloodsteam ♒. 

Sprouts

Sprouts

color springs &

shouts from

the yellow sea of

weeds!

purple picks the

eye, while white

floorwalls warn

of its dry

soil that

seeps apples seeds.

canary colors connect

the wheel of

yellow---

as black beaded

beaked birds

perch upon----

                        a particular round

                         tree-Moe Like Hair.

these Spanish senors and

senoritas sit

& stare.

right twists &

left turns connect

the curls,

curling up to

the top of the

lovely lavender

lake atmosphere above—

calm cows sit, see

& suckle

the sticks that

stand straight, that

squeeze their

obliques sideways to

speak to the

Sun.

weeds wobble &

sprouts spruce &

spray the

Spanish countryside with

the desert’s

color wheel.

Pieces

Two hefty hens,

hand-in-hand,

matching halves

of a heart: They

harden and congeal

into one timeless 

piece of art.

Boundaries

Boundaries

sucking Sangria under

her brown brim straw

hat—she

surveys the

sky, the

salt, the

slithering

snakes, the

sassy seagulls

that saunter upon

the Sea's scenery--Her

sphere.

she observes

the slimy sun-

kissed king: strolling,

strutting into her

Mother--the

Sea.

he

sees her

shining

sapphires. he

desires Her

deep

diamonds, Her

brilliant bijous.

the sly

slime

strokes and

strikes the

sultry Sea—

yet, She

sinks and

stashes Her

sacred

gems. he

tries to

smooth-talk the

sweet Sea’s

soft sails. he

tries to

suffocate Her

swirls, Her

swells. he

digs

deep---prodding,

stirring Her

surfs.

She sees

his

motive, his

silver-

tongued

talk.

She shoves,

pushes his

plump pink

lips out

of Her

face. She

forces

him out of

Her blue

Being.

the brown brim

straw hat daughter

deepens her

loathing for

such sneaky

slimy

seaweed. shouting

"solidarity!" she

seeks her

SeaMother.

she

walks---wobbily

toward the

deep shrieking

Sea. she sees

Her roaring, Her

writhing cries. the

Sea summons

Her dutiful

daughter and

wraps Her

wiggling, white

worms around

her waist. They

embrace.