color of the day — “crème de menthe”

by practicalspactical

a sweet, mint-flavored liquer, a cordial, made from the corsican mint, favored drink of Hercule Poirot, Agatha Mystry’s Belgian Waffle, looks like Absinthe, evokes thoughts of healing, committment, vision, green liquid in green glasses, masters of artifice, no true water ever looked so greenlike — sparkling neon lightjuice, drink this potion and poison and drink up — silliness and strangeness and then much dancing and giggling in high-pitched squelches.

Read all about it.

or what pantone says << gift of healing gift of touch >> << nofraid to commit butoncedone difficult to give up>>  << resonates with yr divine spirit >> << stay connected to the truth open to change >>

 Or go onward and look henceforth — very henceforth similar to pennyroyal tea, drink it, drink up. Large stone cavernous atrium and a dark wooden table, attended by two highbacked chairs, upholstered in a sumptous black velvet — on the table sits this shiny drink in sparkling shining decanter, glistening from the candles that line this tall place”s walls — an old man, with pale and chalky skin beckons, smiles toothily, lips and gums pulled back, rictus, old teeth of old serpent, saying drink, drink this glowing applejuice and be like gods — I look to my right, and my naked wifemother, short and swarthy, stands beside me, giggling, dancing, twirling, not a thought in her silly little head, or so I think in my silly little head, and she goes first, like always, not fearing, some primeval unearthly confidence animating her stepdance, and grabs the glass from Old Nick’s hand and downs it in one gulp.

The lights blow out and darkness at noon, somewhere a carpenter is being hung in a terrible awful stress position, that’s right, he’s still hanging, and I’m still waiting to take my first taste. She, Havva, is next to me, touching me, as the world melts, drops, stones from the floor dropping falling off into oblivion, Old Nick’s parchment hand reaching for me, guiding her to me, I cling to her as ash and dust begins to fall from the sealed-up ceiling miles above — the sky is falling, chicken littleit’s raining men, deathclouds from the Teleutian Parembole (And they went up on the breadth of the earth, and compassed the camp of the saints about, and the beloved city: and fire came down from God out of heaven, and devoured them, Re. 20:9) the daughters of memory at twilight sing nightmares, while I am tied by my auxiliaries to the beamstaff of the Earthship, Axis Mundi —

“Drink it, become like Gods” He says, She says — the walls have collapsed, I am in a dark and endless garden, huge oak trees rising like new walls — I am in the wilderness of truth, or naked experience, the room was a lie, I am in a wood, and there are wolves slinking in the darkness, smelling my lifesweat which betrays me — out there, among the wolves, a larger being, the Whirlwind Raging, moving through trees, I fear its lightning bolts, its Jovespears, the Terror of the Angry Universe —

“Drink me,” the glass says, sitting in the nook of a knothole of an old sagging oak tree — “Drink it,” says Wifey, whose hair is falling out and turning white — It is not white, it is silver, truecolor, undying loveliness and love — her skin is bunching, burning, mine is too, peeling back

“Drink it,” says my double, “Heal yourself, You cannot survive but at least you can Know” and I look back at Old Nick, Ancient Serpent, Asclepius, Wise One, “The Darkness is not your friend,” says he, “I am your friend, I will save you.”

It is salvation that I want, for surely surely yes. The glass is in my hands, my old hands, trembling, as sped-up hypertime breaks off my fingers one by one, I raise the glass quickly it is not a glass, it is an apple, Walt Disney is painting the forest as quickly as he can, seven dwarves sit on seven hills, dressing my bride in fine silk garments, the Serpent is wrapping itself around my arm, it is holding up my arm, catching the teetering chalice — DRINK, it screams, but it is not a chalice, it is an apple, EAT ME, EAT ME, I AM THE BODY, I AM THE BODY, I AM THE BODY — it is my mouth, my jaw comes up, juice explodes pours out my mouth, it is drowning me, drowning me but it is sweet, sweet euphoric water I am deep deep drowining in a dark green winedark sea but up above a light, perhaps the moon shining down on this dark ocean and the water carries me up and my head breaks through the surf and sweat beautiful real air fills my lungs and in the distance I see it, the shores of Ithaca, and somewhere on the far side of the island, lights and Penelope, waiting in the recesses of my oaktrunk sleepplace, dreaming of my safe return.

I swim through the surf until I a collapse on the sands, and clutching at the sweet grainy earth, earth created by the movement of tides over thousands of thousands – myriads of myriads — of suncircles — I breathe, and stand, and look down at my broken fingerless right hand — I have forgotten Jersualem — I espy the path that leads over the hills and to the further shore, and one foot in front of the other, begin my journey home.