Visitation – Fighting the Monkey Mind –
A letter to my new readers.
By Øle Ølesen (Pen Name)

A Narcissistic, Pretentious Revelation:

“Hey, well, I’m the friendly stranger in the black sedan, Woncha hop inside my car. I got pictures, I got candy, I’m a lovable man, and I can take you to the nearest star. I’m your vehicle, baby, I can take you anywhere you wanna go. I’m your vehicle woman, by that I’m sure you know. I love ya (love ya), I need ya (need ya), I wants ya, gots to have you child. Great God(s) in heaven, you know I love you.”*


Kalliope, Klieo, and Erato appeared TO ME, out of nowhere – swirling foggy forms – solidifying before me and – in unison – softly whispered orgasmic, muffled cries:


[Aside: Now you as the reader may be starting to yawn – yeah you. You have to understand that abstract writing can be a curse to a writer desiring publication. Yet, while one does it – joy feeds the mind with tidbits of truth, eventually crawling and dripping out of your brain-birth-canal into your published “vehicle,” with pure un-adulterated, clear precise writing thoughts and memories that hopefully rivet. So – while I practice trying to achieve this, you’re allowed to read and hopefully delve into the workings of a deranged, insane mind, full of mythical beings. I owe all these thoughts to Edgar Allan Poe.]


Kalliope said I called all three of them out of my mottled and rattled, old monkey-mind.**

I don’t know how they got in. I had no idea who the hell they were, where they came from and what the fuck they wanted. Quickly researching the Internet to see who they were, and why they presented themselves before me – I had a deep suspicion.

[Aside: Yes, I set myself up this morning as the ‘KING’ of our great room. It’s an ‘El’ off the main house, built by a heavily degreed Masonic Freemason, years after the original builder – a one Captain Rutherford – a ship captain and friend to Daniel Webster, set himself up as ‘Captain’ of the main house, built in 1808 in Salisbury, NH.]

Who knew there would be an unexpected visitation, on this most auspicious day?
To my astonishment – I found they came from Mount Olympus and were tired of catering to Apollo – these – the first three daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. I considered myself blessed to be interviewed and enamored by these three lovely ladies.

[Aside: Apparently their parents thrashed around in bed for nine days producing nine little Greek god bambinos called: Muses. Who knew?]

Being unaccustomed to their fanciful desires I asked if they were absolutely sure I entreated them to come and visit me?

Klieo, the second to speak – a most regal goddess adorned with a green laurel wreath – her body entwined within a parchment scroll winding up between her creamy legs, tweeted and heralded the first breathy pronouncement:

“OUR ’KING!’ – we’ve heard your cries! Cries for a Muse – all over the Internet! We felt our duty to intervene, stroke your ego and ‘loosen’ you up for tasks laying ahead. Writing-Proclamations are forthcoming. We shall shout from roof-tops of the El – the Epic Great Room!”

(I knew this was indeed a dream come true or a scam, for I’d continued looking for a muse in my social media profiles. And, of course Klieo visited Twitter to hear my cry. Alas, I wanted to know how they all knew- the ‘one’ moniker – out of the myriad names given throughout my lifetime, how did they choose to call me “King?” Oh my god. They didn’t discuss knowing their place, my place and the kingdom I formed secretly.)

Kalliope responded again, after reading my mind and said:

“Øle – it is our sacred duty to ingratiate you with our laurels, legal binds and nourishments, within the bones (memories) of your brain, so you will crush as crush can. You shall be Great among all Great Crushers – females and males alike. There shall be no stones unturned nor unmeasured. No competition against all resolves shall impede. You shall write as we implore and implore you on and on, forever and ever. Though, through prior human agency – messengers were sent to you, ignoring and refusing to listen, because you knew it would not happen, until we appeared here and now. SO –

You deserve a spanking.

Therefore, in accordance with your monkey mind and creaky mind farts – there shall be NO narcissistic or pretentious embellishments of any form. It is forbidden. So let it be written. So let it be done. And – in the ways of Solomon’s temple – created in his mind through Melchizedek: So Mote It BE.


Oh My Goddess – the final “AMEN” to her directives! I marveled at her Solomonic wisdom and wondered if she had worked with good ‘ol Sol – too – for I found out she was the main primo-agent for Homer’s publications of The Iliad and The Odyssey.

Her hair was raven black and she looked at me with Bette Davis eyes. Blue as blue complete, and seen through crystal glasses – sparkling and seething like an age old sex-siren – clothed with all knowledge of any delicious MILF, prone to mate. Whose voice dripped with desire, enamoring me into submission for their combined future ecstasies in writing. Her shapely hour-glass body, smeared and slathered in delicious scents, along with emerald green and royal blue shawls and her head adorned with a golden crown. She moved – gyrated – within the Epic Great Room with hip wonders and wet effects. I was indeed fully enraptured, inspired and engorged by this saucy woman and thought of the Beatles’ song: “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road!” – I therefore, pulled down my pants.

She magically formed a tablet and stylus out of the newly moistened air of The Great Epic Room and proceeded to write calligraphy letters, dripping from her pen – something you’d see ancient scribe monks do – scrunched over ancient Egyptian Nile parchments, writing and re-writing, over and over again, to perfection – the secret words of the supposed: One True god and KING.

I sensed she’d be writing for a while, as she didn’t roll up her sleeves ready to spank me. So, I took it upon myself to entreat the third of these beauties, asking her who she was, as I pulled up my pants (thankfully when the writing was done) and why she also presented herself before me. I both relished and worried about her impending reply:

“My name is Erato and I’ve come to eat you, for you are delicious – like a pomegranate in full ripe season. You are wonderful! I shall help you! I have helped you! For it was I taught you the lyre, sang to you songs and lyrics for publication that failed and are no longer. And poetry, already posted on your word-press site and Twitter that went nowhere. Airy dispensations! You shall be mine forever and we will make love and babies and well, I just love KINGS!”

Oh my goddess. After she said this, I wasn’t sure if I could trust her – she sounded just like a third-born child, lying through her teeth and I wondered if she was an April child – you know – an Aries. (I’ll admit it – I’m all three.) Thinking to be careful with this one, I downplayed her obsequious tendencies and wore a male chastity belt, just to protect myself for obvious reasons. (not that my junk was anything to write home about…)

All these emanationists, cut to my quick with their sexy pronouncements, binding declarations and legally deemed assertions, seemingly springing from a dangerous Pandora’s Box – somewhere hidden in The Epic Great Room. My mind reeled and threw out flies attached to thin, airy, fly fishing lines. Oh the lines! Oh the fish! Oh the flies! What will I catch! (I smelled tuna)

I felt my self – lighter, looser and floating off my chair into the upper recesses of The Epic Great Room. A signet ring placed on my middle finger by a soft, loving, ever enduring hand and a crown of laurel green leaves, lighted upon my head.

My clothing, stripped from me in a circular swirling motion, amongst the dark-brown timber-frames of the cathedral ceiling and replaced with a velvety, white, shear silk toga, slithering around my old fat shape, to form the delectableness of an erected NORSE GOD they pined for – I floated and churned toward their charmed sexual wants and spells, grabbing out with open hands and fingers and closed fists again, willing my own aromatic pheromones to entrap these three, inviting, Muses. But, alas – at my age, I couldn’t poke Jell-O.

These female gods, in turn, suddenly disappeared and I was left to view The Epic Great Room with mended eyes – fish scales dripping like tears from them – no longer chained to a fixed cloaked vision. I clearly viewed the early morning sunlight emerging from the eastern window panes – cascading shafts and prismed light with all colors of the rainbow, exploding throughout what was now AN EPIC GREAT HALL – cavernous and powerfully built – seemingly, with the Cedars of Lebanon. The odors of myrrh, aloes and frankincense smelled tastefully and wafted from the ancient paneled woods lining the walls. Golden hues of sunlight exploded from the western windows, as the day immediately shifted to an ending carousel of ‘Magical Light,’ (coveted by all directors of photography and cinematography, from every award winning film ever made) – that mystical golden illusionary-light, permeating the earthen sphere in early morning or evening twilights.

My emerald green-glass-shade-lamp, on my ancient oak-round-table, shone with more brilliance and highlighted its golden lamp-stand – as if I was in Solomon’s Temple – just before the Red Heifer is sacrificed and shiny crimson blood spurts forcefully into drains, feeding the lower earth with the feeding force of life, welling up into my life as a writer. My life now is writing. I must write. I’ve been spanked.

I could feel the book cases behind me move and shake – running, circling, gyrating books, coming alive and all speaking again, without need to visually read. All those books through the years brought forth secrets, bloodied and washed-up upon the shelves, dripping with love, hate, greed, joy and memories shared by many crushed bones – by the many authors before me. I bowed in obedience to them, as a King to greater Kings.

One shelf contains epic memorabilia of the Great Lambeau Field and Brett Favre – with memories of massively long, historic, touch-down passes – with screaming crowds enveloping touch-down Packer Players – their signature leaps and grabs – I among them!

I smelled hot-dogs, French-fries and beer-spilling fans, drunk as skunks by the end of 3rd quarter – when all sales finalize and smelly urine leaked floors define the lavatory halls of the stadium johns, where bloody fights start with Bear fans.

And a lone, old, white wrinkled man, in the stands, accosted and fondled by horny drunk Milwaukee girls wanting to ride it out after the 4th quarter, grinding on his aged limp lap, hoping they’ll create a massive thick pogo stick to achieve their orgasms.

Oh my gods. What have these Muses done? Have my abstract thoughts become clear and precise?

Where will it take me?

Where should I go?

Should I stay?

Or should I go?



Till next time,


d. Øle Ølesen

*Monkey-mind – Natalie Goldberg’s descriptive moniker for the critical/editing/procrastinating mind – one of the greatest reasons for never getting published.

** “Vehicle” – Single (A side) by The Ides of March – from the album Vehicle; Released March 1970; Format 7″ single; Recorded CBS Studios in Chicago; Genre Funk, rock; Length 2:56; Label: Warner Bros. (US); Songwriter: Jim Peterik; Producer(s): Bob Destocki, Frank Rand

About Øle Ø.

Feral Writer since 1960-61.
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