Of Warm Pancakes and Ghosts of the Heart

Joey's story is not unlike any of our stories, therefore Joey (shredder, artist, teacher, maker, good man) is all of us.
Joey saw something that pleased him, just as we all see things that please us.
Joey touched the thing that pleased him, as we all have touched things that please us.
Oh, only if there was some sort of big book to guide us through our temptation!
Perhaps Joey let his hands linger a bit too long on the thing. Perhaps, later, Joey's mind returned to the thing, warmed it over and over like a soft pancake.
The pancake then quietly, expeditiously, scooped a tiny, warm pancake cave into Joey's brain, where it tucked in, pulling the blanket of Joey's desire around itself.

Joey and not his own 6'4 Clover.
Full story HERE

At times, the pancake slept. Warmly. Peacefully. Almost invisibly, only the occasional pancake corner poking forth from the deep folds of the blanket, the occasional pleased sigh muffled by its own fluffy epidermis.
Other times, though, the pancake raged. The pancake seethed and the pancake coveted. The pancake wanted. Oh how the pancake wanted! The pancake felt no shame in this, this naked wanting, this perfect desire. For this is what the pancake did, this is what the pancake was.
When the pancake raged--and oh how the pancake raged!--it was untiring in its want, indefatigable in its trickery. It snuck out of its cave at night, quietly, hauntingly. It slunk from its quarters at day, oozing and slouching and slinking. It sprang forth morning and evening and at work or in the workshop or during lovely dinners with his lovely lady artist, and during quiet moments when there was just Joey and the pancake. It nibbled and gnashed, tickled and punched, and at these times there was no blanket, and there was no rest.
The pancake wailed and screeched and tore at him with talons. The pancake soothed and whispered and touched the places it touched with the lightest of touches. It hacked into the voicemail of Joey's soul and left a message on endless repeat: want, need. Need, want. Must must must!

Joey's 6'4 Clover

During these moments in our lives, there is only one path before us. The path of submission, spinning into the distance. The ocean of surrender.
Now Joey is sated. The pancake rests, its warm golden chest rising and falling imperceptibly, the tinest of watch-motor movements in its carbohydratic center.

Joey's 6'4 Clover with his original art

But the pancake's heart--the gluteny dry paste of it--beats. It beats slowly now, but one day, perhaps, it will beat faster. It will squirm out from under its blanket and its voice--strange at first, then familiar, oh so familiar!--will begin to whisper.