Squish. Up between the toes. Squish. And, all around, blaring sun and distant snow and whispering air. “Squish.” What an evocative word and sound and feeling! Does it awaken something primal, that soft sound? Squish is the sound of birth. It’s the sound of shit. The sound of tender lips on a milky breast. The sound of fruit and a deep pussy. Squish.
We found this spot, this living slimy glorious spot, on the spinning globe in the spinning solar system in the spinning galaxy in the spinning universe. “Squish,” it said. It spoke to our feet and legs and hands and slipping, sliding, spinning bodies. We flew across it and into it. Squishing into the creases and crevasses and hollows and pores of our bodies, the mud brought the life of prehistory to life, once more. And we laughed the joy of remembrance into the air of all ancestors. Squish.
In one small spark, this was set into motion; the skating and slithering essence of being. And we saw it and grabbed onto it. “Squish.” The sound of the beginning and the end, and all things sacred in between.
