01. sun and park - Sick Sacraments

01. sun and park

Love, art and beauty will be yours when you embrace the yellow in 

your environment. Greet the day with fresh-squeezed citrus juice.  

Keep a pitcher in the cooler for those languid lazy afternoons in our 

service-oriented society. If the juice is bitter because of the lack 

of rain due to global warming, add honey.

Do your gardening in the morning and your watering at night. It is 

time to bend down and pull up the weeds. Throw them into the compost 

pile. It’s gold next year for you and me. After weeding, fertilize. 

Go ahead and pee on your garden if you haven’t been doing so already. 

Your sunflowers will be especially thankful.

If you were smart, you would have done as I told you earlier this 

year and sown a row of Mary Jane next to the tomatoes. She will help 

keep the bugs off the nightshade as well as keep you spiritually 

connected in the upcoming omnipresent heat. As you while away the day 

avoiding the blazing sun, think about the human condition and your 

place in it, and don’t forget to treat yourself to some ice cream or 

a Golden Delicious.

Take a pause to space out on a trip for the coming year. Since those 

in the know predict that the year belongs to Mars, I advise you to 

avoid taking trips in automobiles, especially on Sundays, from now 

until your departure.

Although this year has already been quite tumultuous, two more crises 

in health, home or love do still await you around the summer and fall 

equinoxes. Thus, one is about to befall you. They won’t hurt as badly 

if you go with the flow, because change is the only constant in life. 

Floss your teeth daily and make sure the phone bill is paid to avoid 

unnecessary complications. Count your blessings and appreciate what 

is around you. Celebrate your losses. However trivial, or however 

great the challenges may be, or you may make them, stay in touch with 

the Mother. Do not forget that wherever you go you take yourself.

Lisa was reading Oprah T. Eunist, a column that gave practical tips 

for everyday needs as well as spiritual advice for the cosmic realm 

and beyond. She had wandered off from the launderette to sit in the 

park. On the way, she had hung a few self-made flyers on telephone 

poles and stopped off at June’s Choice Market to purchase an El Jay’s 

fruit cocktail, a vanilla That’s It, an apple, a bottle of Sierra 

Gold mineral water, a Sutters Weekly and a bag of peanuts for the  

squirrels.

Parked, lotus position, amid the camellia bushes, she had managed 

to finish off her ice cream patty before it melted and dripped onto the 

Weekly spread out in front of her on the yellowing grass. She opened 

and closed her jaw, making sticky sounds with her tongue. The patty 

had left her oral cavity dry. She tore open her carton of 100 % pure 

El Jay’s fruit cocktail and while guzzling gazed into the distance. 

Her eyes alit on an overfilled trash bin beneath a lemon tree and she 

heard the morning train cutting through the Grid.

A question approached and she hitched the ride. Before long, her 

train of thought was headed towards destinations uncharted. Ease of 

being allowed her to disembark, explore an area in question, come up 

with an alternative plan, change directions and restart travel at will.

How long will it take before natural events have spun completely out 

of control? Water is scarce. Energy is expensive. And every month now 

brings catastrophes. Storms, tidal waves, floods, earthquakes, 

avalanches, hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires and exploding volcanoes. 

Glaciers are melting. Islands are being wiped off the face of the 

planet. People have to be evacuated and relief has to be sent.

I wonder if we have enough reserve genes to evolve in time. Flapping 

my arms for a lifetime is not going to give me or the next generation 

the ability to fly. Maybe designer genetic kids do represent hope. 

Maybe the spirits could tell me.

The pesky flies that were buzzing around pulled the brake on her 

thought train. They alit momentarily, scrambled around, and flew off 

to another patch of exposed skin to repeat the process. Jiggling her 

leg, wiggling her foot and waving an arm around in order to shoo them  

away she sighed out loud. Ach, the problem of living in paradise.

As usual these insects became more insistent when shunned, 

which consequently attracted others, all wanting to sample her body 

fluids. She looked around to see what the cause of the infiltration might be. 

There were no discarded picnic products nor doggy poop in her 

immediate vicinity. She therefore concluded that the attraction must 

be her perfume. She was wearing banana peel oil, a beauty product she 

had purchased at Big Mona’s Fast Trash. Big Mona had told her that it  

was a natural love potion and stimulated passion. The label counselled 

the wearer against using it with anything honey based, and disclaimed 

any responsibility for misunderstandings between humans and the 

insect world. The warning did make sense but she believed that it was 

as much their world as hers and that all living things had the right 

to buzz around where they wanted.

She stared at a fly that had landed on her upper arm. 

Remaining as still as possible, she watched the fly run around, 

repeatedly vomit on her skin and suck up its gastric juices with its 

delicately fluted mouth. Hmmm. Putrefaction. It’s organic.

After taking a sip of her fruit cocktail, she got back on track as 

her train entered a tunnel. If only everyone could be psycho-analyzed. 

People displace and project just in order to be. It’s hard 

to get to the end of it all. Believing in this means adhering to that.

Spacing out on the speed at which her train was travelling, while 

neither coming nor going, she sat up straight, crossed her legs in  

front of her, and took one long and two short breaths. While 

repeating the breathing exercise learned at a stress management 

course at the commune, she centered the residual energy in her lower 

spine. Deliberately, she began to sway and sang the first three lines 

of a folk song, letting the tone resonate in her head:

You are the one,

everything and all,

sweet number one.

Squinting and staring out across the park, rocking to the rhythm, 

Lisa saw the goddess in all her glory appear in the redwood grove in 

the far corner of the park. She floated dressed in pink and yellow 

and seemed to be pulsating. Soon, however, the natural world once 

again overwhelmed her nervous system and the apparition vanished. 

       A fly landed on Lisa’s cheek and instinctively neared her nasal cavity 

and attempted to enter. She gave a heavy snort to blow it away and 

turned her attention to the handful of squirrels scurrying about her, 

coming ever closer to the bag of peanuts at her side.

She wiped her lips on the back of her forearm and blew her 

nose in a cotton handkerchief, produced from the oversized pocket 

of her yellow apron. Lisa was against using paper whether it was toilet, 

kitchen or  facial. The idea of removing body fluids with a man-made 

product weighed heavily on the conscious part of her brain. She folded 

the handkerchief, put it back in her pocket and pulled out an unusually 

large yellow string that had wadded in the corner during the wash. 

She unraveled the wad between her fingers and picked up a peanut. 

Before feeding one to the begging squirrels, she took a good look 

at its structure: Oblong. Tucked in the middle. Earthy matte-brown 

shell. Dimples. Easy to open. Ready to eat. The perfect balance. 

Two nuts nesting inside, in matching kaput mortum raincoats. 

Bitter skin. Tasty meat. Excellent on their own, roasted, salted, 

in a casserole, or creamed. 

The peanut. A staff of life. 

She tempted the nervous squirrels to take it from her hand 

but when they came closer flung it away. The cute little beggars 

scattered to look for the tossed tidbit. She returned to a lotus 

position, arms resting on her knees, holding the string between 

both hands and repeated her breathing exercises.  While starring 

out across the park wondering where she would take herself she 

unconsciously tied the yellow piece of string onto her left forearm.

Heat waves emanated from the black tar of the road. 

The bells of St. Francis rang the half hour. It was almost noon and already 

hotter than hell. A shopping cart bumped rhythmically along the concrete 

sidewalk bordering the park. An obese woman in pink polyester clam 

diggers and a yellow blouse trudged by in the distance.

She took another sip of the El Jay’s, the natural sourness puckering 

her lips. Reaching into her apron pocket, she took out the 

butterscotch tin containing her accoutrements and took out a pre- 

rolled joint and a book of matches. After glancing around to confirm 

that she would be able to smoke in peace, she lit the joint with a 

wooden match from Joe Sun’s Swedish Steak House and discarded it 

much the same as she had the peanut. The squirrels were confused.

After taking a long drag from the joint, she leafed through the 

Sutters Weekly until her eye was grabbed by the lifeless face of a 

man, powdered and painted, and partially framed by a white wig. Still 

in lotus position, she bent forward and propped up her chin. Another 

puff of the joint, and she was absorbed in the adjoining article.

Death of a Martin

by K.Y.

Martin Griess. Conservative. Paranoid. Demi-religious. Money-loving. 

Organized. Punctual. Efficient.

Martin Griess voted republican, convinced that the other party only 

wanted to raise his taxes. He believed it was right to take away 

funding for education, the arts, social programs and jobs. Martin 

Griess couldn’t give a shit about being PC. He mistrusted all 

products labelled organic, conferred no rights on animals, had no 

desire to get back to nature, and was convinced that all illegal 

drugs were wrong. At the same time, he popped healthy handfuls of 

prescription pills without qualms.

He was paranoid about being a victim so he lived in a gated 

community and made his wife drive a military vehicle. His fear nurtured 

his hate. He wanted to harm others, but unwilling to do it himself, 

he supported broad application of the death penalty.

Martin Griess was a holiday Christian, seeing church as a 

way to be in with the crowd, and performed perfunctory acts of kindness to 

lobby favors. He believed in a Christian division of men and women 

and the sanctity of foetuses. In short: Pro-life. Pro-death.

Martin Griess loved money, the making of it, the saving of it, and 

the investing of it to make more. Martin Griess loved to talk about 

himself in connection with money. I, me, mine. In order to  

communicate with Martin, the pronouns you, your and yours had to be 

used in connection with money, possessions and/or status or he would 

not listen.

His choice of cars and houses reflected this obsession. Martin 

changed automobiles every three years and addresses every six. He 

spent most of his time, however, in his car travelling from one 

appointment to another. Based on wanton research, this author has 

come to the conclusion that the car-penis-ratio theory is true.

His leisure time at home only allowed for a bite to eat while 

watching sports or the news, sleep and basic hygiene. His marriage 

assumed purely presentational purposes. When the children were old 

enough, he started to play the field and had a string of mistresses. 

Martin also liked to bowl, the only other sport he played.

Martin barely made it through high school. A football jock, he was 

voted most popular guy in the high school yearbook and king of the 

senior ball. After graduation, he married the queen. He entered 

Fresno State University on a sports scholarship, but due to his chronic 

allergies he was forced to quit sports in his junior year.

The wheels greased by his frat-boy connections, Martin dropped out 

of Fresno State in his third year and slipped into a comfortable job at 

the Madd & Son Advertising Agency. He soon had a list of clients 

whose names were featured on various public buildings, and became 

known for his creative and innovative methods of using corporate 

sponsoring to take control of local cultural events.

It was while working on a deal to save the Raisin Festival by having 

Realife underwrite the event in exchange for exclusive advertising 

rights for their various agro-products that Martin was headhunted 

to work exclusively for the company. His first project there was 

a bid to underwrite the costs of the Fresno Community Theater 

in exchange for renaming it the Realife Cultural Center and 

assuming control over its cultural program.

Soon after Martin started working for Realife, he was asked to  

participate in a variety show at the Young Millionaires Gala being 

held in Fresno to honor Mr. Thorndorn, founder and chief CEO of 

Realife who was forty-nine and soon would no longer be a young 

millionaire. As many readers probably already know from press 

reports, it was at the buffet after the show, where Martin still 

dressed as the king of France and thirty-six millionaires died. 

Lisa raised her upper body, straightened her spine and 

stretched out her legs. While wiggling them in front of her to stimulate 

circulation, she grabbed the bottle of Sierra Gold and twisted open 

the cap. The bubbly water fizzled and squirted out and onto her 

apron, and she yelped in feigned surprise.

She took care, although, not to let the joint, which had gone out 

between her fingers, get wet. She had forgotten to take regular 

puffs, having been so engulfed in the article. With a wet hand, she 

patted her neck and face and then took a sip of the water, gargled 

for few seconds and swallowed.

The squirrels darted in and out of her personal bubble begging 

temptingly with their cuteness to be fed. They had been running about 

the whole time she had been reading, so she tossed them the rest of 

the peanuts and watched amused as they scrambled in every direction 

searching for their little staff of life.

She resumed her yoga position and relit the joint. What sounded like 

a Ford Galaxy was approaching, and she glanced at the street to 

confirm her aural impression. How embarrassing to know the make of an 

automobile by the sound of its engine, she thought and made a mental 

note to take an up close look at it when she was finished reading.

Martin left behind a wife and two children. Shortly after his death 

his son, an A.C.N.E artist, moved abroad, and his daughter, a 

prominent Mary Kate sales representative, relocated to another state. 

His widow, Dee Griess, has settled in Chico with the man she 

accompanied to the Young Millionaires Gala.

What drove Martin to be the best damn adman up and through 

the valley and ultimately led to his death? Why did the man go along to get 

along? Why was he willing to sell his soul to obtain only ephemeral 

satisfaction? In trying to put together a clearer picture of this 

normal man and his attributes, one only comes up against further 

questions that will remain forever unanswerable. Why did he accept 

the kidnappers’ candy? Did he ever stop beating his wife? How wide was 

his hole?

Martin was an inmate in a corporate prison, together with all those 

who are locked in by their desire to attain money and all that it 

brings. It is a world of expense accounts, status slavery and mutual 

back scratching, a world where Martins at least believe that they can 

choose their own dehumanizing labor.

Martins help keep the big wheel churning and benefit from its output. 

They are certainly never ones to bite that hand that fed them. They 

accept their position in the pyramid of power and do what is 

required. They actually like what they have to do. They participate 

willingly in the system of friendly fascism. Today, Martins are 

considered normal.

Now a Martin is dead. Long live the free world!

Well. If that ain’t something.

The joint had burned down to a tiny roach that she pinched between 

her thumb and index fingernails to take the last drag. She flicked 

the remaining butt to the sky, watched a squirrel go after it and 

thanked the goddess for getting her high.

After taking the last sip of mineral water, she stuffed the bottle 

into her cloth bag. While gathering the rest of her litter for later 

recycling, she noticed a fuzzy blur sitting on a bench at the other 

side of the park. As she concentrated on the blur, a gentle inner 

rhythm took hold and she started swaying her upper body and singing.

I chi, you be.

So to, you do.

Peace and love and happiness.

She raised her hands, with her middle and index fingers extended, 

shook them in the air, and then hugged herself. Back on track.

Sitting watching the squirrels running past her, she spoke, “Here 

kitty, kitty, kitty. Pussy farm deluxe is coming soon and it’s time 

to make things grow.”

After a few deep breaths she regained objectivity and focused on

the one squirrel still hanging around to beg for a nut. In a desperate 

search for one more, she stood up and emptied her cloth bag. Nothing 

was at all appropriate except for the apple, so she fumbled around in 

her apron pocket, located the penny she had just found at the 

Laundromat and tossed it. At least it was the right size. The furry 

critter scuffled up, sniffed, dug a hole nearby and then buried the 

penny. Task completed, it ran away.

Hmm. Maybe someday money will grow on trees.