My Diary

The Mystery Entry by the High Priestess
(She wrote these blog entries)

{zpd old entry} [(end)Entry 94] to Entry 101

Excerpt from Chapter 8: Zawmb’yee continues the “Blog of the Caveman.”

[now in “The Blog That Would Destroy the World”]

Zawmb’yee continues the blog

     … Doug came back with all my stuff. He was sweating. I said, “Take off your shirt, and look at my deer sketch.”
     Doug walked down the hallway. “It’s a good start… Y’know, I haven’t heard much about the deer this year…”
     “Yeah. I noticed that. Every year they do stories about how the deer are eating people’s gardens and one group wants to hire hunters and another has some birth control scheme. With all the protest marches, nothing gets done, the population explodes and they starve.”
     Doug said, “We’ve always just ate them. It doesn’t seem like such a problem.”
     “Yeah. I don’t know — city people only eat cattle, I guess. But anyway, this year there are no stories.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “The deer have disappeared,” I said.
     “Oh? Well, we have plenty in storage. Next time we’re in the cave I’ll try out a new recipe for some 20,000-year-old venison.”
     “Yeah. I like your venison… And walk along and look at my tree sketch…” While Doug stood in front of the drawing, I gazed at his back. He has a thick ribbon of twisted hair down the center of his back that looks like a double-helix. The hair on the sides of his back has a horizontal growing pattern from the side towards the center. It was disrupted, so I took a comb out of my purse, combed his back hair from each side towards the center, and then softly brushed it in the same way with my hands. Doug turned and I combed his chest hair downward. His hair is soft: some blond, some brown, and some gray, although the ribbon down his stomach is all dark brown. I petted his chest with my hands and when I rested my hand over his heart, it was beating so hard I thought my hand would be bruised. When I asked how my sketch was, Doug couldn’t speak, and when I reached into his pants I knew why. I pushed him against the wall. I said, “I have an idea for a drawing. Stay here.” I unbuckled his belt…


     Even in the very bright lights of the hallway, Doug looked delectable in the nude, and he stood tall and erect. I said, “I’m going to do a sketch first, but the theme of my painting is going to be ‘Flying mushroom fountain between two trees…’ or something like…”
     Doug looked down at himself and said, “Well, uh, umm…”
     I gently wrapped my fingers around his scrotum and rested my thumb on his lower shaft. “Hmm,” I said, “the shaft is thicker and wider than a mushroom, and the tip has complex curves, actually…” I unwrapped my hand and touched the tip with my forefinger. I said, “Hmm, only a portion of the top front part is a rounded sphere-like shape with two lobes, and uh, what would you say Doug?”
     Doug said, “Uh huh, uh-ha uh-ha uh-ha uh-ha mmmm uh mmmm uh…”
     I said, “I don’t understand… is that a breathing exercise?” Doug sounded like a speeded up version of ocean waves crashing on the beach: the exhale like crashing waves, and the inhales like swooshy gasps. I ran my finger along the surface towards the back edge. I said, “Hmm, the back edge curves upward, but a mushroom curves downward. Sort of like a ski slope or … What do you think Doug?”
     Doug said, “Mmm uh, uh-haaa, uh-haaa, uh-haaa.”
     I said, “Yeah, I think I have the basic form. I’ll do a sketch outline and then I’ll paint it.” I stepped back to get my pencils and look for a good spot on the wall.
     Doug said, “Umm. You don’t want to get paint on you dress — why don’t you take it off.”
     “Not yet,” I said. “I’m just doing a sketch first.” I found a spot on the wall next to Doug. But there started to be some changes, so I backed up, sort of hugged myself and did a little dance in front of Doug. He stood tall again and I went back to the wall, but I drew with my right hand and did some exploring with my left hand. I said, “Should this be a realistic painting or a surreal symbolic landscape?”
     Doug said, “Uh-haaa, uh-haaa, uh-haaa, uh-haaa.”
     “Yeah,” I said, “I should put in an ocean.”


     Geez. Oh Kievifkwa! I’ve been struggling to do a Gijlek in Doug’s hallway. How am I going to do one on the ceiling of the Kmpamew if I can’t even practice a little splash of creativity. Well, I suppose I had demonstrated that I could exercise a certain amount of self-discipline by not removing all my clothes and throwing Doug to the floor right away, but I had struggled to stay in artist mode and only tease Doug and not myself, but he has always been so cute and… oh Kievifkwa, never mind.
     I had finished the sketch when Doug said, “So now you’re going to paint. Right?”
     “Yes,” I said, knowing where this was going, but I wanted to succumb to the emerging seduction, because his transparency of desire has its native charm, and even if he doesn’t know it, I think he is different from the tiger with alpha sperm, as no tiger wears a condom like he does, but his seeds in actuality are more like spiritual teachings by serendipity that would bear orphan followers, if bare essences be known, more like this than the seeds that would create his own child who he would dearly love if he could. So something of him must continue to thrive, and that is why I must keep him alive, because I am his only fun, his only true love, and I do love to play and why should I not be of pure lust sometimes. Philosophy can be written later when we conquer the world gently, when the outgoing tide leaves us oysters and pearls. Oh Kievifkwa, this is nonsense. I’m enough grandiose for two. Never mind. I can’t justify anything. I didn’t care. I’d eat my dessert if not first, then soon.
     So I had done a preliminary sketch and had thought maybe after I got started, I’d just do pure painting from then on — and if necessary, even do more ‘sketches’ but with the brush and paint because it’s acrylic and not oil anymore; I could do quick changes.
     But Doug had said, “You don’t want to get paint on your dress.”
     I said, “OK. I’m going to paint now. I’ll mix up some flesh colors and if the wall is bumpy enough, maybe I’ll do a dry brush technique to get color variations just right.”
     Doug said, “Y’know, you don’t want to get paint on your dress.”
     “OK. Stay there. Stand tall.” I walked back a few steps to where I had dumped my purse and bag. I dumped out some tubes and a board. I squeezed a lot of white onto the palette board, and squeezed dabs of several reds, two yellows, two blues and I had to try to remember which was which: cadmium yellow medium is actually slightly yellow-orange and cadmium yellow light is slightly yellow-green, or is it the other way — oh phooey: mix and see, mix and see. Then oops: I almost dipped my dress into the paint(yeah, I know, I could have changed before I decided to run out into the hallway for this project). Yes, alright, it was time. I stripped off my dress. I carried the palette board in one hand, and my purse and a fist full of brushes in the other. I put them off to the side of Doug where I had started the sketch.
     Doug said, “You don’t want to get paint on your bra, do you?”
     I sat down in front of Doug, and looked up at his endowment. I said, “Hmm, these flesh colors are all different. Let me see the palms of your hands. Hmm, no, it’s not anything like that color; even the tip is darker than that, and the edge is an entirely different color.” I reached up and Doug’s knees bent and shook a little. I ran my hands up his inner thighs. I said, “How do I paint all these colors?”
     Doug said, “Mmmm, uh, mmmm.”
     “I want it,” I said, “to glisten in the sun for the painting. I got up and walked to the side to get my purse, look at the sketch, and mix a little paint.
     Doug said, “How would I glisten in the sun — there’s no sun here and what color would I be in sunlight?”
     I left the palette on the floor and came back in front of Doug with my purse. “Glisten?” I echoed. “Well, I can add a little shine.” I fumbled through my purse and found a tube of K-Y jelly. I put the purse down. I stood and squeezed some onto Doug’s shaft, let the tube drop to the floor, and spread the lotion with my finger tips. I said, “I think this will help capture the light and reflection and give the painting the right touch. Don’t you think so, Doug?”
     Doug said, “Mmmmm, uh, mmmm.”
     I sat down on the floor in front of Doug and looked through my purse. I tore open a package. I reached up and Doug’s knees bent and shook. I unrolled a condom on him, grabbed his hands, and like rowing a boat, pulled him down on me as I lay back onto the floor. He kissed me, thrusting like the artist he is.


     So the painting wasn’t done — just an idea teased out, a glimpse of something to come. ‘The calm before the storm’ as they say, or is that ‘the calm before the orgasm.’ No, the storm before the … Never mind. It was play; it was a play for drama, for time and moves, a game, a passion flowering as we stood nude in the hallway.
     After Doug had stood up and removed his condom, I had walked over to the scattered painting paraphernalia to dip one of the little buckets into the giant bucket of rinse water, and walked back to splash Doug’s new exposure and splash I did.
     Doug said, “Yow. Is that for the painting?”
     “No,” I said, “um, every cannon must be cleaned so it can fire again.”
     “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he said as he casually kissed each of my nipples and made his way over to the buckets. He dipped two buckets into the water and brought them back. He gave me one and said, “I demand a duel at 30 paces.”
     I said, “Huh?”
     He put my face in his hands and he kissed me. He said, “We stand behind-to-behind, walk thirty paces, turn and fire our buckets of water.”
     “You mean, we stand with your little cute butt pushed against my voluptuous derrièré, and then we each walk forward thirty paces and turn to throw water at each other?”
     “Yes,” he said and turned.
     I stroked his hairy cheeks, and then I turned and bumped him. We each walked forward carrying our buckets of water. Doug had walked only 15 of his 30 paces when I turned and watched his cute hairy butt and cute hairy back move down the hallway. I stopped, raised and aimed my bucket to wait for him to turn around. As soon as he turned, I threw it as hard as I could, but it didn’t reach him. He threw his and the water hit me between the breasts and dripped down. We raced to the big bucket to get more water. I took Doug’s hands, and we sat down and laughed.
     Doug said, “You are a joy.”
     “We are,” I said. But then I frowned.
     “What’s wrong?”
     “It’s an Utd’mbts word…”
     “Uayi! It’s Apacevj.”
     “What’s Uayi?
     “Well, it’s very formal. It means, ‘If I may have your permission to fuse and join into the node of your beingness, I would wish to impart to you, with deference and respect, the essence of my cognizance that I fervently believe is an element of truth which I believe will be to your benefit and which I offer with benign intention.’ ”
     “Um, it means that he says ‘hi’, can I speak to you telepathically for a moment please.”
     “Oh. At least, a lot more polite than what happened in the park.”
     “Yes. Um, give me a moment. I’m not used to this. This is very uncomfortable.” I lay down on the carpet and meditated. After ten minutes, I sat up.
     Doug said, “What does he want?”
     “He wants me to come back to the Kmpamew so he can properly teach me upper Utd’mbts. He says I’m awkward and not very fluent and it’s vital in these crisis times that I learn more.”
     “He’s that blunt or…”
     “No, I’m just summarizing it for you. He said it in a kind way. But…”
     “But there’s serious things happening…”


     Doug did the dishes even though I cheated on the contests for who gets to do it. But I don’t think he minds. He’s meditating while his body is automatically doing the chore. But he’s lost his way with meditation in general, I think — it can be an empty gesture if not done correctly. Utcoozhoo says, as a child , Doug spoke upper Utd’mbts fluently, but now, Doug mostly represses and blocks it — he almost always has to ask what something means. I don’t know exactly what happened to him to make him forget.
     In the morning, at the breakfast table, I said, “I think I’ll at least meet Apacevj in person, begin a little instruction, and then start on my painting for the ceiling of the Kmpamew.”
     Doug said, “Pirgrikwa! ”
     “Hmm,” I said, “you suddenly remember this?”
     “Something,” he said, “about all of this sudden outbreak of upper Utd’mbts speaking is disturbing. Is it even safe to contemplate that such a thing exists when most people are incredibly vulnerable, because they are only aware of such things in their dreams and even then, they protect themselves meekly with symbolism and rationalization. What if their defense mechanisms are manipulated by others deliberately?”
     It was a little bit shocking to hear this outburst. “So how would you define ‘pirgrikwa’ ?”
     “Uh, well, um, uh… ”
     “Vigilance is required whenever we feel driven to perform an action which relieves anxiety, seems mandatory to survival, but has no known rational or logical connection to the resolution of conscious dilemmas. ”
     “Um, ubemuwx! And maybe if you practiced authentic meditation you’d know more… ”
     “Yeah, touché, but just be careful.”
     “Yes, OK, I will, thanks. I love you… and I should pull myself together and call a cab to take me to a spot, a safe distance away from the secret entrance to the caves. I use slightly different locations each time, but the cabby usually looks at me and says, you want to get off here?”
     Doug said, “Well, Utcoozhoo told me not to tell anyone but…”
     “Uh, well, since you’re on the Grand Council, I suppose I could tell you… “
     “Tell me what?”
     “Uh, well, I know a short cut…”
     “A short cut?”
     “Well, remember how I told you there were two extra elevator shafts?”
     “Yes. You pointed to a manual emergency exit… ”
     “Yes, well, there’s something on the other side… ”
     “Yes. You can get access to a train… ”
     “Train? What kind of train?”
     “I’ll show you. I can get you to the sacred corridor and then you can go from there.”
     “Oh, hey. That would be great. ”
     “OK. Get dressed and when you’re ready, I’ll take you.”


     I was dressed in my formal purple dress with the gold embroidery that Doug calls my “Goddess Dress” when I saw that Doug was still at the breakfast table nursing his piece of venison and buffalo fried in duck fat with truffles. I said, “Let’s go. Put that away — you’re only picking at it anyway.”
     “OK… or maybe I should bring it to snack on the way…”
     “The oven and the stove are off. Right?” Let’s just go now. Don’t look so glum — I’ll make you some fresh in the sacred quarters. It’s not as if I’m asking you to defenestrate the baby from the fire.”
     “Like when the Bohemians threw the emperor’s envoys out the window.”
     “Egads, what obscure history that is. OK, OK, this meal is history.”
     “Sorry about that: I’ve always wanted to find a way to mention the ‘Defenestration of Prague.’ I guess, most of history study is a waste of time.”
     “Now, I think they say, ‘throw him under the bus,’ rather than out the window.”
     “I’m not throwing you under the bus. I just want you to show me the train like you promised.”
     “Yes, OK. I’ll go to the bathroom and be back in a second. You look great!”
     “Meet you in the hallway.” And I dashed out. I was standing at the elevator when Doug returned.
     Doug said, “Wait ‘til you see this. Step in.”
     The doors closed. We faced front. Doug pushed STOP.
     I said, “What are you doing?” I looked over to the right where it said ‘Emergency Exit.’ ”
     “No. Here on the left. I’ll stay here and you go to the back of the car and feel along this left wall in the back until you find a slight indentation.”
     I walked to the back and found something. “You mean, this?”
     “Yes. Now wait. I have a matching one here up front. OK. I’ll count to three and we’ll both push together against the wall and then step back.”
     “Step back?”
     “Yes, push and step back. We’re going to push the wall down. The top and sides will release and there’s a hinge on the bottom. Push and step back so you don’t fall forward. OK?”
     “Ready. One, two, three, push!”
     “Ugh.” I pushed, trotted back, and almost fell backward. The wall fell and became a platform. Straight ahead was the end car of a subway train. Doug walked out onto the platform to show me that it was safe. He pushed the handle on the door down and opened it for me. I walked across the platform and went through the door. The car was set up like a living room with a couch and a table. Doug came in. We sat on the couch. I said, “Now what?”
     “You see the panel on the armrest? Push Q1”
     “OK.” The car accelerated smoothly to a moderately slow steady speed. “This seems slow — is this going to take a long time?”
     “No. It’s following a downward spiral inside the building. As soon as we reach the basement level and then proceed into the underground bedrock below the building, it’ll speed up. When we’re deep enough, it’ll level off and go fast.”
     I looked out the window, but didn’t see anything except a narrow curved ledge. I could feel the continuous turning of the train, and the downward tilt. “We’re circling around inside the building?”
     “Yes. That’s right.”


     After I had just gotten used to all of the turning and tilting, there was a sudden change like we had just reached the top of a basement roller coaster and were about to plunge even further down, and I had grabbed Doug’s leg a few times on the way. A bing-bong noise had sounded. I had said, “What’s that?”
     Doug said, “That means we’ve reached the basement level and will begin a downward plunge.”
     It almost felt like free fall, and I was glad I wasn’t drinking any coffee. “Yow,” I said.
     “Told you it would get faster.”
     Just as I adjusted to the fall, holding Doug’s hand, the train slowed and leveled off. Then there was a buzzing sound. “What’s that?” I asked.
     “It’s the five minute warning. We should go over to the forward-facing G-posh chairs.”
     “You mean we could be thrown off the couch or something onto the carpet?”
     Doug led me over to one of the chairs. He said, “Have a seat. This will cushion the G-forces when we accelerate to super-speed.”
     “This is a joke. Right?”
     “No,” said Doug firmly, and he sat in another cushioned chair.
     “I’d rather sit on the couch,” I said and I ran back to the couch and stretched out.
     Doug said, “Come back quick.”
     “If you insist.” And I mischievously sat on Doug’s lap facing him. The train took off like a jet and I got pushed onto Doug like I weighed a ton — I thought I was going to crush him. Doug tried to get to a seat belt but couldn’t. The train seemed to stop suddenly and I fell backward onto the floor with Doug on top of me. He braced himself with his arms, so it wasn’t too bad.
     Doug kissed me and said, “Are you alright?”
     As he fondled my whole body, I said, “Not now. I’m supposed to see Apacevj. Remember?”
     “Oh yeah. Well we’re here.” And the side doors opened.
     We came out onto a platform with rock walls and no sign of an exit. I said, “Uh, well, we’re here. Where’s here? I have to get to the sacred corridor.”
     “Yes, don’t worry. We just have to open a door. It’s right behind these rocks, somewhere, um.”
     “Where, where?”
     Doug walked along the rock wall. He said, “Uh, yes, right here.”
     “I don’t see a door.”
     “OK. We just do the ‘ka’ sound thing like you taught me once. You know, you make the gargle sound, then the ‘ka’ on the roof of the mouth, and the motor sound through pursed lips until your sinuses vibrate.”
     “Yes, I know that one. ” We did the sound together and adjusted our tones until the beats made a wah-oh-wah-oh sound. I made the same mistake I did the last time and a rock from the ceiling crashed beside us.
     Doug pointed in front of us. He said, “No, focus here.”
     We did it again and a slab of rock rotated on one edge and opened like a door. I could see my paintings through the doorway. We walked into the sacred corridor.


     Doug had said he recognized the passageway to my old sacred quarters when I realized that he could sense that I wasn’t going to invite him to the Kmpamew. “Well,” I quickly said, “I know I said I might invite you to stay at the Kmpamew, but I have all these official things to learn, and uh, well…”
     “Well what?”
     “Actually, the only way you would be allowed into the Kmpamew is if I officially appoint you to some position, um, y’know, like Minister of Finance.”
     “No, I don’t think I could be Minister of Finance.”
     “Or you could marry me…”
     “Uh, um, good luck with your studies, and…”
     “Or you could be my official Lalasaco. ”
     “What’s Lalasaco? ”
     “It’s the Priestess’ official escort or consort or ‘satyr in residence’…”
     Doug hadn’t slept well in days, hadn’t been able to make much progress with his novel, and I think, given his eokxavexa, doubted he’d ever finish. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I’ll never learn to love truly, never really be of any significant value except to offer a jester’s lust: seductive speculations and a dance for profundity, like a rain dance that never produces rain.” Doug turned away, but I heard him cry as he ran up the far stairs of the corridor, past the children’s art works, and turned toward the stairs that led to the Qukwerpfm, the Cathedral formation, and past the golden stalagmite.
     I had a little silly note that I wrote for Doug, but I never gave it to him. It seemed too absurd, and I didn’t think he could understand it. I don’t know, I’ve always written silly things. I took out a folded up silly paper: “I’ve written many fairy tales, illustrating them in paintings of my heart, but every time I’ve read again , I’ve seen you a vision there, and I have always searched for you, my Prince.” But I don’t want to appear silly. Oh, but I could do with a jest, and why couldn’t he be my laugh if I am in his smile.

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