The Crop Circles

 

I can tell you how crop circles are made. Incredible mystery to all who have not seen them made, who have not made one. The search of a life time. Search addicts all over the place. Stalking these circles. These stupendous mysteries produced by something that came form the stars. Pure magic for the scientist. A tantalising yet possible, never the less frustrating, perhaps unattainable, perhaps a never ending hunt.

There are search addicts out there taking photographs, writing notes, songs, calculating mathematically , but never knowing. Wishing it would happen to them, be they quartered by aliens in the process, they want to live it, see a glimpse, so that they know that they have lived it, so that they can, the rest of a lifetime refer, back to that moment.

Ladies working at supermarket tills, single mom's, rugby stars, barristers, super stars, artists, book worms, teenagers, excavator drivers, a whole load of teenagers, and Bridget Joans friends of mine. All waiting for their moment.

Hiding behind a wheat stalk, slimmer than a wheat stalk , invisible in the night, waiting at the crop circle to happen before it does.

Does it ever? How many nights, shooting stars, aeroplanes, plucked daisies, satellites, pass before their eyes see, an unidentifiable flying object ,of the desirable shape and quality, scorch their borne-ready field ,for that unexplainable but lovely cause?

I have made crop circles. All one must do to make a crop circle is just allow your self, to feel rhythm in your legs and arms, and not think about your breath. The opposite of meditation.  All kinds of shapes are created really. Unidentifiable. Unpredictable to architectural tools and rationality.

The ants did not understand those unforeseen crops circles , too wast, to the ants my crops circles where just sudden sunshine, where there was none before. To the cows my crop circles where probably uninteresting. To the farmers the circles we made where greatly annoying I would assume. But to us they where perfect circles.

All you have to do is throw your self in to the wheat field. It can be a green wheat field, like they are at beginning of summer. Or it can be a golden wheat field before harvest time. You throw yourself in to the wheat. The green fields are softer, they have softer leaves. But than who does not like a bit of rugged earth to claw your hands into? You throw your self in, or you get pulled in, or you walk trough a long, very long , field creating some sort of trail, leaving a scent of something irresistible, pheromones behinds you . Is it even possible to describe what happens..

He takes off your shirt, kisses your hair, your lips, your neck, your shoulders, and you are on the ground before you even know you are making crop circles. Your naked skin is on the earth, feeding it, giving it energy, and you are unstoppable, possessed, driven by nature, tons of millions of years of instinct, and scent, that incredible scent of his neck, his hair, the taste of his mouth. Your hands grasp his hair. You are riding inside his eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the universe. All the darkness and all the light is contained in his irises. In his eyes lies the whole universe. The whole universe you care about. Nothing else exists.

The sun is yellow and golden and hot.
The sun goes down.
The sun sets and can-can's its skirts and underskirts of colours.
The sun rises.
Dawns are cold and the dew is wet and you still don't care or feel the cold , or feel the stones ,or feel the dirt in your nails, all that you see and want and feel is the one before you.

Love? I'm afraid I don't know any other world for it. Total love. In love-ness and beyond it, to the other side of space, with a Ferrari, Lamborghini space ship thank you. No this can't be bought dear, or reserved, or booked please, thank you very much. And there is absolutely no way you can predict how your crop circle will look at the end of the day. It may be a set of circles joined up, you have seen the pictures. But you most certainty would have ended up with one, I'm sure, if you went to the wheat field with the right person. And how was the circle made? Well leave the farmer guessing. Let them charge their crystals on good energy in these circles. And heal, and roll and pray in the circle you leave.

Its about the right time of the year now. The wheat is green and lush and soft. The stalks are tall enough to hide you.

Tall enough to hide us as we jump into the sea of green wheat and disapeer from sight. No one will see us, not from the village, not from ten feet away. Maybe the birds will, and the UFOs of course should they fly overhead.

The Bar Tender

As you all know who have read that article of mine ages ago, men in Croatia, in my experience of them, all have a watering hole, a bar, a pub a place they go and do that business men do, newspapers, gossip, gaping at boobs of female customers and so on. ..

Well my husband of course has his local hole, and its my business not to intrude too much on his watering hole, else he would no doubt change it for another. Its just the way thing are. Men go to these places to be safe from their wife's, and only bring the wife's to inspect the spots on special occasions.

So. If Intend to use his hole, I must do it when he is not there. Only that way can my husbands watering hole be mine to use at liberty. Duje and I adopted my husbands hole, around the 11th hour. We would go for coffee after park every day during the winter, for long enough to be missed when we changed our day plans.

But from time to time its fun to go to this hole. Because its the opposite to the watering hole I choose for my self. My day bar has lots of sunshine, lots of air, plants ,flowers, white , lots of while colour, hard pretty chairs to perch upon, and plenty of fancy, fashionable and arty people served by young and fresh skipping waiters

My husbands bar has lots of smoke, it lacks air, the air you breathe is definitely made of nicotine,  there is not much light in this place,  the colours are saturated and place is full of comfy couches. There you are served by a grouchy, owner, over dosed on  people in his life and thus dislikes them in general, so every drink he serves he serves with a cynical comment at the world.

But sometimes I like to have coffee there just for this. You escape the sunshine and enter this half dismal bar, you enter a world. The music is good. The man knows his stuff. The coffee is perfect. The alcohol is good too, the owner has experience. There are lots of regular men who use the bar as the living room. And than there are the women.

All kinds. I have to have noticed, its a thing I do as you know, collect the curious. So I noticed the women who enter this bar like bees attracted by that giant rotting flesh scented flower. These women may have got lost somewhere along the way , and ended up for coffee at this place, that is not a women kind of place. But once they discovered it for what ever reason, they keep coming back.

A law secretary. A nurse.  Aged post office lady. All kinds of middle aged, past their prime violets, dressed in clothes which mean to camouflage them into those flower printed lavender sacks. They pass and your brain for an instant thinks a country wardrobe passed you by, as they even smell of lavender. And they always have some sort of mission, a letter to give, pick up, something involving touching  the grouch owner . Exchanging something physically. Sometimes even money is enough. She pays for her coffee and greedily slurps up his fingers as he returns the coins.

Yesterday a woman of this description entered the bar from the back. She perched next to the loo  for ten minutes just staring at him, the greying, grumpy owner, slouched in his greying velvet armchair, sipping back his vodka hidden in soda water.

I was unsure whether she had gotten lost. Than whether she needed something. But I decided to just observe. He must have noticed her, as waiters do, and chose not to twitch. So she stared, like a giant jelly, all the flowery shapeless clothes erect and projecting her face at him. She than waved. He reacted nonchalantly, half irritated. As he came close to her, the woman simply blossomed. Grey became pink. Fireworks lit up her face from within. She recited , what ever reason, she invented for coming to see him , than died like a desert flower after a few moments, retrieved back into the darkness of the bar, and slithered away.

I realised than that this was not the only of the kind. There are a whole range of women coming to this very bar tender for a dose of a flirt. On a dailey or a weekly basis. All sorts of women. And he is the kind of guy, always complaining at the lack of sex in his married life, wistfully talking about the good old days when he could have had any woman, he could have screwed a fly in flight.

I suppose he gets his day's flirt fill too. He plays a roll in many a life thus. Of the women glad of some attention,  and catering to the men who need to have a bar like this to relax in from time to time.  The cantankerous , cynical, bar owner is a proper well in demand social function. There is no psychologist who could satisfy the needs this one man does , by simply being a grouch and doing his every day job.

Their bodies made of space and stars

There I was, the sole public, in the darkness, and a dim , smoky light . Afore me beautiful women, dressed in the same dim light and spangled with green light dots.

Their bodies made of space and stars .

 

I was the sole public, and they danced for me, and I have never seen anything like it.


The first was very slow. Extraordinarily sensual. Her hips moved tantalisingly to the mellow music.
However,  the most sexual part, of her performance,  was the cleaning.

 Have you ever seen a pole dancer, polishing the metal pole?

She uses  a completely ordinary paper tissue, but the way that she uses it, oh .
 She wraps her hand around it and the pole, and than slowly , very slowly, slides the hand to the base of the protrusion. Her legs do not bend, no, her head dives down , it dissapeers together with the back , behind her bottom, a very deliberately pouting bottom on top of miles of legs and killer stilletoes, and that enormously round, sex laden ass, stares at you, quite deliberately.

Yes, gulp.  Her ass is out launched at You. Me.
She slides the hand and the perfectly ordinary hanker chief up and down that pole in the most provocative and least ordinary manner. So all you can do is, gasp. Look out falsely, politely away. Than, revert your eyes, fascinated, greedy eyes. Cant'not look, there is a female ass, with all the round volumes and extravagant shadows in the middle, pointing at you, All that is separating it, and you is a little lace , somewhere in the naughty shadows.

And, she hasen't even started dancing.

Oh come on, It really was just cleaning? There is no one there to be watching her, only other dancers, and I, a female. What's that to her?

And than.

She dances.
I can't draw her.
I hide in to my coffee mesmerised, doo be doo, here I am with a friend , just drinking coffee, its true, no one could disproove it.
But I keep watching.

More girls arrive to work.

Outside is still sunshine. They enter, into the darkness, velvet safe darkness, with little magic lights, like when faries pass you, and they start rejecting their vestiments, armour, ordinariness, in the changing room. They throw off all the armour, rhino skin, the belonging to others, the wife ness, the daughterness, the girlfriend ness, and than all that is left is they,

a she.

Like in that  Russan tale ,where swans throw off feathers, and prove to be nude women underneath.
These throw off their ordinary women, and
swans emerge.

One by one they take the stage.
And I start painting.
I don't know how to paint .
They are beautiful, I am speechless, and my paint doesn't know how to event try to describe them.
They are sexy, and erotic, and sensual and so strong, performing the most incredible moves, to the music, and aimed at me.

I can't see the colours in the dark, but I make the paint wet, and feel for shadows in the palette, and paint somwthing inbetween the energy and the movements, but nither. They are too fast. Alien star ships. Ufos. Did I just see that? I am more dazzed by the speed and movement than my hand can follow.

One by one the girls dance.
They climb the pole,
 and slide
 and writhe,
 and open their legs,
 and bend that ass always pointing it at me,
 and she spins, and falls,
 and slides up side down,
 and I have no intention of goin away.

I'm on a completely new continent  sitting with the chief of the tribe.
Cannibals of course, every and each, one of them. Everyone knows that back home, they are man eaters.

Yet here I am. Privileged to be allowed among exotic beings. Far away form home, around the tribal flame, with the amazons dancing for me, showing me the best they can be, their dance.

 The empress, patronises my work, my being there you see, they haven't boiled me in the cauldron with carrots yet,  no, the empress sits, on the couch, next to me, in her red bikini and see trough platform stilettoes, drinking coffee, quite civilised .

The girls sweat,  move to the rhythm, return wet, drenched, and flop around me, decadently.

 Would it not carry you away? Would you not wish to stay in summerland, where hours pass like seconds? Would you not come back again, for a drink, for a look, for a time not to think?

I painted them all. Hello Monsieur Lautrec, Monsiour Degas, voila I have arrived too, to the bar after dark, and I understand. Each century has its seductive ,forbidden dance, the cancan, the ballet, the dances in the pagan temples and forests thousands of years ago. I painted until the paper run out, and than on the backs of other paintings.

And when there was no paper left, and hours had passed by, and dancers had all danced more than once ,and it was time to have breakfast, they said, oh let us dress you up now.

We women, have those expected common prejudices, men too, but there among the deshabilled females, powdered with darkness, mystery,  neon lights I felt like my power grew. Not when I entered. I was wary to enter even. As the full moon grew, so this my confidence, and wish to dance, the backbone straightened , the body absorbed some of the sensuality, when I walked I could feel it. The girls undid my big flowery dress and put my torso in a black corset, my feet into tall lacqured stiletoes a strewn with diamonds. The kind I would never have looked at before. The kind I must have.

 Did you know I have miles and miles of legs? Oh yes I have the kind of legs that ordinary mortals have to look up to, to see the ends of, somewhere in the clouds, in the land of giants and goddesses, the kind you can't touch. ? When I wear there magic shoes.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

I awoke the husband somewhere at am, he must have been worried, where I was, that late, having left to paint in the afternoon, tea time, and having awoken him up so late, he might have been, a little annoyed, but once he opened the door, of the house, and saw ,the new person standing there, was it something in the eyes, in the posture, in the stilettoes? He suddenly was awake, and looked happy to be awoken even, I could say. His eyes, mad in love mad mad eyes. What the heck happened?

I  did leave the house to paint that day. I left the house to paint a goddesses. She was going to let me paint her meditate, and but instead she took  me to  paint her dancing.