The King's Palette

My short story, The Sun Temple, is being expanded into a full-length novel—soon to be available in both print and e-book formats. Here's another sample chapter: 

THE KING'S PALETTE

…And once again I place myself under the Sun—in the vague hope that he will burn away the impurities in my spirit, and set me upon a more noble course—even while I realize that, in reality, the wicked often fare better than the righteous.

    But a Great Torpor stretches for miles in every direction…it holds me motionless…while it colors the sky, the streets, and the buildings in pale convalescent tones…

    And this monumental fatigue brings with it the conviction of the utter superfluousness of any undertaking. Action becomes pointless because everything has already happened—every utterance—every possible combination of words—has already been tried.

    Conversation is the most blasphemous of all:

“How are you?” “Fine, thanks—and yourself?” “Can’t complain!”

I’m afraid that I can’t muster the cheek it requires to keep this sort of thing going. And furthermore, even if I could, I would be afraid that the other person would laugh in my face at the hopeless artifice of such an attempt.

    And surrounded as I am by this desiccated shell of an apartment (it was a mistake from the beginning!)—any possible word (especially if it remains unspoken) already has a nasty, hollow ring to it.

    I regret every word that I have ever spoken! Each one was false…wrong…a miserable rehash…

And of course—at this extreme juncture—this nadir—this insult to Man and God—this is where I reach for the Soma…the Plant of Kindness...

    Relief is at hand! Cheers! Shouts! The sky has ignited within me—even as I languish in the hopeless dust and filth of the first floor!

    And again I find that I can dream in a kingly palette: I see Sandaraca, Aureolin, Celadon, and Persian Red on the miserable walls…and I can once again imagine the terracotta columns of that magnificent Truth…

"We were dead dogs, but our Lord gave us life by placing the herb of life beneath our noses." [1]

    The Haenap [2] gives me great strength (temporarily!). I feel my consciousness condense to a small silvery sphere (but with a corresponding gain in potency)—then expand out into the grid of the city…

---

[1] A scribe of the Assyrian king Assurbanipal recorded in 650 B.C.—referring to Hashish incense.

[2] Cannabis, from the proto-German

cannabis   ///   psychedelic   ///   fantasy

In the Temple

From Journal #48
Monday, July 27, 2009

3:24—In the Temple in the Village, (now gone!) as the thunderstorm comes on... I’m the only one in here—sitting on a stool up in front and looking out the window at the rain. I can see the WSQ arch and the Empire State Building to the north—the only reason that these views are possible is because the church that used to be across the street has been razed and an empty lot now sits there (shockingly!) on the corner of Third & Thompson. I struggle to remember what the church looked like: I remember stained glass and a modernist style—maybe the 1960's?). A portal has opened temporarily (soon to be shut!), offering a rare and unexpected view—a phantom corridor cut through brick, mortar, and memory.

Now the rains come in earnest and I welcome them—it is comforting somehow in this hollow hour of uncertainty. The rains bring a measure of cessation to the street activity which is certainly welcome. The music is distracting: one pompous piece of classical puffery ends and another takes it’s place immediately... but the pen flutters on, leaving a tell-tale record of smeared-ink hieroglyphic symbols. The Empire State has become pale and gray with indistinct outlines… marooned at Third & Thompson, sipping a bitter barley tea that cost me $1.50: a reasonable price to pay to have a refuge from the storm. I feel better in here than I do in the park—the park is to a large extent intolerable these days: The Desecrated Park*.

3:39—What is to become of me? Steady downpour... Rain-dance in Demonium Square, as streets become fluid, elastic, and strewn with psychic debris…and still the rains come...but no refuge from my troubled thoughts: ensconced—burrowed-in—wedged-in—and hunkered down in the confines of this anomaly known as the Temple in the Village. But even the Temple will be off-limits as soon as the construction begins across the street. I’m sure that the dust, dirt, and fumes will be sucked right through the door—to say nothing of the noise—and I'll be driven out once again*.  But the temple has already closed forever—the proprietors and customers continue their rounds—unaware of their own demise. Smeared thoughts, watery observations, and ink-run despondencies.

Now raining hard... downpour... the rain hits the street and sidewalk with an incredible violence: The Dance of Maddened Molecules, as fugitive colors run out before our troubled eyes... a weird and melancholy outpost in Absentia.

Storm is starting to abate—I don’t know if I welcome this development or not... skies are gradually lightening but it’s still raining...

Third and Thompson Rain-Follies.

In the Downpour...