No Pastels Need Apply

galaxy 2      Black, white, and red have proven beyond any shadowy doubt to be three banging colors that know how to walk the talk. You’d be wise to keep a safe fucking distance during subdural arousal periods. Walk in this exalted context does not mean shuffle or mince or promenade. I should add that I have nothing against lesser colors that are less able. Or differently abled. I don’t wish to offend deliberately. Although, fuck it.


If you were sufficiently awake to see the Berlin Wall fall, or fortunate enough to see the high gloss DVD in the comfort of your own home theater, you might remember how little hesitation was demonstrated by those with hammer in hand.  They plunged right down into the moment. Dust flew. Smoke choked. Lots of black, white, and red action. No pastels.

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At the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness, where the subject of evolution in a multiverse without beginning or end is not restricted to a single small, somewhat quiescent planet, no matter how parochial the local sense of entitlement, I have learned not only beyond a shadowy doubt, but its sneaky fucking doppelganger as well, that nothing beats flying. Walking isn’t close. Just take a look at who does it and how simply it’s done. No wonder it’s so hard to get anywhere with those funny looking feet splayed at right angles.

Swimming requires deeper breathing than the limitations of binary laden lungs can provide, although floating offers much untapped potential once unleashed. Nevertheless, the basics still apply.


Tersely, the tawny owl was explaining to me just the other day a rudimentary connection between standard exultation and the performance of figure-eights in dual contradictory rotations. Or perhaps what he was doing was not exactly explaining in the human sense of the word, not in any language easily understood by children. Unless that was a week ago, not a day. He started to laugh his ass off before I had much of a chance to react too presently to what he said.

I said, “It takes me a good eight or nine solid deep breaths to get a handle on where I am and begin in retrograde, or as deep as I can imagine, before I am able to recognize tangible progress. Sort of. Then improvement doesn’t last me long too before constriction returns. I can’t help that it makes me kind of crazy. It’s like it’s non-stop, huh?”


It was too late after that. Nothing I could attempt as redemption was going to make up the distance I lagged behind. The tawny owl laughed his ass off so hard he spit a roughly greenish fluid diagonally in a loop.  I saw where it landed. It contained chunks. I withheld further comment.

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Don’t you agree that talking is just so easy any sentient being can do it? Slugs do it, weasels do it. Simple minded amoebae, too. Sucking and fucking, as well. If you are serious and logical about the prostrate worship of one of your omnipotent Gods who possesses the great connections to vaporous clouds that are  held so almighty and high, and from which all other righteous shit flows, don’t you think by deductive reasoning you must be referring to an amoeba? In addition, for purposes of true unbiased enlightenment, check out for explicit behavior all the vermin on vermin action which is legendary for its yuck factor. Humans try hard to deny the vital relationships maintained with slugs but look how silly that becomes upon cursory examination. The epidemic of shallow breathing continues unabated.

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C’mon, squeamish humans, get fucking real for a change.  If you suck, swallow. Worship away if you choose but what is so great about standing up straight only to bow down at the scabby knees? Can it really be the strength of your back muscles that ache? The drugs you get to take by the fucking fistful for the chronic pain? Or you get to wear a mask and march and pretend in pantomime? Or better yet, goose step? You still can’t see what’s coming before it hits. That’s why cartoon characters are epidemic. Take a peek without the shades drawn. How cool can the shallow end of the pool really be?

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In my professional career as a servile underling to my Chinese overlord, to whom what I have vowed with vital liquid to owe knows no bounds, I strive to remain sensitive to widespread issues in communication errors.  If I had to do it all over again, I am somewhat certain I would have been better off to make the psychopathology of missed signals my independent major in college. And especially with a concentration in its absence.  And a minor in red flags. Sort of.


The tawny owl, naturally, speaks to me from a lofty position of rising consciousness, which is understandable in his abstract, but rarely mine. I’m not anxious to be confused for one of those habitual knee-jerk deniers, though, with the splayed feet who are all cheap shop talk. Which of us is the frequent astral traveler to the spiral galaxies NGC3314a and NGC3314b who receives the efficient transmission of consciousness going back fifty million years? Like, duh.

I was observing a woodpecker in flight from one of one of the tallest second growth redwood trees in the Santa Cruz Mountains, a survivor of the clear cut Catastrophe of 1949, and its aftermath, who was not coincidentally black, white, and red, and not only because there is no such creature as a coincidence, when the idea for a new cutting edge product came to me that I felt strongly would excite the highly strung loins of my stalwart Chinese overlord. Don’t ask how, and especially why. Technically, I put aside the work I was doing on the floating platform for heads only that will become vital in deep space. The verbal was still wrong. Of course, the idea like all ideas needed some tweaking.

I am lucky enough to contain a valuable sampling of the most important of all modern demographics right in the comfort of my own home on alternate weeks, the tween twins. No need for hanging on corners with formatted questionnaire to hand out.  No sufferance of scorn in episodes of public humiliation. I drew a detailed sketch of my idea to begin the discussion.

I said,”What do you think?”

“It looks the same as the empty bowl you showed me last time.”

“According to your verdict, that was an empty head.”

“That must have been my sister.”


“Yeah, right.”

“It makes a difference.”

“To you.”

“Not only me.”

“Not to me.”

“You can’t say that yet.”

“I just did.”


“What difference do you think it makes this time?”

“I can’t say just yet.”

I hoped to have better luck in the spirit of a true Socratic dialogue of unfettered give and take with the yin twin. The softer, recessive edges on the yin twin are more forgiving. The yang twin tends to feel the acute urge to probe my weaknesses at all inconvenient times.

She said, “What is it this time?”

“It’s an all-purpose helmet.”

“If it’s so all-purpose, what does it do?”

“I can’t say just yet.”

“What is that sharp part sticking out?”

“It’s an all purpose defense mechanism.”

“Do you mean like it could poke an eye out?”

I said, “I can’t say just yet.”

“You could probably skewer meat on the end of it.”

“You might have something there.”

“What’s the language of that writing under the picture?”

“That’s no language. That’s my doodling.”

“It looks like it could be a language.”

“Hmm, that gives me another new idea.”

“I hope it’s not going to include poking any more eyes out.”

“It might need some tweaking.”

She said, “Try rounding some of the edges.”

I said, “I’d better reserve my booth space at the big helmet trade show in Las Vegas.”

“Don’t forget to bring me back something.”

I said, “Wait, don’t go. What is that you’re wearing?”

She said, “It called a shirt.”

I said, “But, it’s pink. You never wear pink.”

“It used to be bright red before it faded.”


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in animals and birds, environment, evolution, family, fiction, humor, tawny owl, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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