He was there, in a turbulent dream; a black man. Not the white of day, but the dark of the hidden, the obscure, the not yet uncovered. He the calm center; I the storm of emotions and of a mind racing without end. He showed me how to act. He showed me how to bear myself. How to bare myself. How to make the emptiness my friend and a powerful ally. Not demanding, not trying, not enforcing, not clinging, not manipulating, not hoarding. Just being. Just. Calm and aware. Filling the empty from the excess of myself. Constant, seeking to stay empty. A conduit, a channel, a river. Moving fullness into emptiness.
Every morning I call him. I put him on like a coat. I slide into him like a new pair of shoes. I see the world through his eyes. Accepting, unperturbed, still like a lake in a deep valley. Useful to all. Useless to my shortsightedness.
He promised me great riches. This too, I must accept, with empty hands.
Monday, October 29, 2007
They Have Come, The Culture Police
They have come, the Culture Police and deftly stolen our treasures. They snatched the innocent smiles off our children's faces and jammed them into boxes full of circuits and wires. From the hearts of lovers they tore the abundance of affection, enough to last a lifetime; enough to fall in love with all life. From the hands of fathers and mothers they erased the caring caresses that lay there fallow, enough for all the orphans and hungry everywhere. They shredded bonds of friendship and co-operation, replaced with promisary notes scribbled hastily on cheap toilet paper. Decency and humanity they replaced with manicured lawns and oil stained driveways. The warmth of the home they stole and left the coldness of an empty bottle and empty talk of winning. From the men they took the essence of manhood and left them the tantrums of two year old boys, and a facade of strut machismo. From the breasts of mothers they extracted the milk of nourishment, left them gaudy malls instead. They took the riot of growth off our farms and gave us bland white food, pasty and mealy and roughly handled.
Yet I have a secret. Underneath the shelter of the tallest tree, there on that hill, lies buried and protected a little box. Inside is a glimmering and a fragrance, that I kept shielded with my vacant eyes and dour face. In that box is a seed. In that seed is enough culture to bring back joyful life to all the world.
Yet I have a secret. Underneath the shelter of the tallest tree, there on that hill, lies buried and protected a little box. Inside is a glimmering and a fragrance, that I kept shielded with my vacant eyes and dour face. In that box is a seed. In that seed is enough culture to bring back joyful life to all the world.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Rabbit and the Kingfisher
He surfaced below me, looking just as startled as I. Furtively slid through the water, to the deep. One last glance thrown to me, from a safe distance. In his beak a single piercing silver flash. He swallows.
I think of the world. The world that I inhabit. For some unknowable reason, he reminded me to see and sense my place. Then I think of the universe and the unimaginable stretch of space and time. I try to fill it with my mind, forcing my presence out to sense my place in this All. My mind returns tired and defeated.
On the way back from my walk, the Rabbit is waiting by the sidewalk. Like yesterday, he lets me get within ten feet. I dare not get closer. With one eye regards me, then sniffs the ground or nibbles. I can't tell, it grows dark. I turn slightly, maybe rabbit etiquette calls for no direct stand-offs, so I mirror his slight side stance. He is the color of dusk. Grey with black and white flecks. I turn farther and cross the street, making a wide circle around him.
The world does not talk to us by television or radio. It talks to us in a language that we knew long before we learned to speak. A friend's loving regard speaks of the deep, as does the surfacing of the Kingfisher. A single flash of silver, though unseen, flashes between us. It lands in my heart, giving me the courage to cry.
I think of the world. The world that I inhabit. For some unknowable reason, he reminded me to see and sense my place. Then I think of the universe and the unimaginable stretch of space and time. I try to fill it with my mind, forcing my presence out to sense my place in this All. My mind returns tired and defeated.
On the way back from my walk, the Rabbit is waiting by the sidewalk. Like yesterday, he lets me get within ten feet. I dare not get closer. With one eye regards me, then sniffs the ground or nibbles. I can't tell, it grows dark. I turn slightly, maybe rabbit etiquette calls for no direct stand-offs, so I mirror his slight side stance. He is the color of dusk. Grey with black and white flecks. I turn farther and cross the street, making a wide circle around him.
The world does not talk to us by television or radio. It talks to us in a language that we knew long before we learned to speak. A friend's loving regard speaks of the deep, as does the surfacing of the Kingfisher. A single flash of silver, though unseen, flashes between us. It lands in my heart, giving me the courage to cry.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The Rabbit
In the last light of day I walk. I leave my burrow, with its' dark corners and earthy musty smells and go to the open expanse of the channel. There I stand, a solitairy figure, leaning on the wind humming railing, looking out over the water. I am deep in thought. Writer's thought. To myself I describe what I see and at the same time describe the describing.
I am pensive and removed. I am in life and out of life. I walk slowly, painfully aware of my writer's aches, hours spent sitting, furiously whacking on the typepad, pouring phrases onto a virtual sheet. There's a rabbit! I freeze. I can freeze well, you know. Not moving, I do very well. The rabbit scumps away. He comes to a stop and sits watching, from a safe distance. Mostly he has his back turned on me, but is able to keep me in sight, just in case I am a wolf in manish clothing. We have a stare down. I do what I do. I imagine what it is like to be a rabbit. I touch his soft fur, feel how it feels to be compact sitting. It is getting onto dark, so he is barely visible. I imagine his long ears and think what this means. What is the world telling me? What does a rabbit stand for? What is the metaphor? Thoughts of a madman. The endless describing of the describing. The judgement and the sentence
Carefully, I walk backwards. Turn left and cross the street. I walk on the other side and when I come to par with him, he runs into the street, confused and then back on the sidewalk. He is my friend now, we have something in common. Confusion. There is one big difference between my new friend and I. He is himself. He is just-so, whereas I, I am just confused.
I am pensive and removed. I am in life and out of life. I walk slowly, painfully aware of my writer's aches, hours spent sitting, furiously whacking on the typepad, pouring phrases onto a virtual sheet. There's a rabbit! I freeze. I can freeze well, you know. Not moving, I do very well. The rabbit scumps away. He comes to a stop and sits watching, from a safe distance. Mostly he has his back turned on me, but is able to keep me in sight, just in case I am a wolf in manish clothing. We have a stare down. I do what I do. I imagine what it is like to be a rabbit. I touch his soft fur, feel how it feels to be compact sitting. It is getting onto dark, so he is barely visible. I imagine his long ears and think what this means. What is the world telling me? What does a rabbit stand for? What is the metaphor? Thoughts of a madman. The endless describing of the describing. The judgement and the sentence
Carefully, I walk backwards. Turn left and cross the street. I walk on the other side and when I come to par with him, he runs into the street, confused and then back on the sidewalk. He is my friend now, we have something in common. Confusion. There is one big difference between my new friend and I. He is himself. He is just-so, whereas I, I am just confused.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
On Being (Open)
It is not easy, being open. Not like going to the store and unlocking the door and putting the "Help Wanted" sign out. Being open comes by degrees to most. Some have had single profound experiences that have radically changed their way of actuating. That, I guess is called Grace. In the little book of Not-Doing, it talks about subtracting, daily, in order to move to the destination. By subtracting from what we know, how we think, one arrives at the state of "full potential" or the "uncarved block". Why an uncarved block? Because it isn't set yet. It can be anything. It is in a state of, well, openness.
I am slowly coming to a minute understanding of the little book. I am, as I have confessed to you, Dear Reader, a dabbler by nature. A good starter, often brilliant, but I have no knack for the long haul. The unimaginable mediocrity of just tying my shoes is unbearable to me. I do it, but I do not do it well. So, when it comes to a disciplined approach to a field of study, forget it.
I am, slowly, coming to understand some things in the little book. I am coming to understand that it talks about openness. To be open to the natural self and the natural world. Not the world of television and news media, but to the age-old flow of life. I realized yesterday that this openness is difficult to maintain for a number of reasons. First, I must remember to be open. It is a conscious choice. Requires humbleness. Yeah, tough one for moi. Next, I need to take off the blinders. There are many mechanisms that conspire to keep me blind and unfeeling. Their tenacity and ingenuity are truly devilish. They exist in my mind and outside of my mind. All of society conspires to keep me closed. Nearly all of my mental processes conspire likewise. Then there is the courage to bear the beauty of this world. I sense in this a rushing torrent that I normally see only as a trickle. The beauty of a painting covered by the dirt of time, merely hinting at the bright colors contained therein. Details blurred, fine lines lost. Once that painting is restored, it shines. It is a (w)holy other experience.
I am slowly coming to a minute understanding of the little book. I am, as I have confessed to you, Dear Reader, a dabbler by nature. A good starter, often brilliant, but I have no knack for the long haul. The unimaginable mediocrity of just tying my shoes is unbearable to me. I do it, but I do not do it well. So, when it comes to a disciplined approach to a field of study, forget it.
I am, slowly, coming to understand some things in the little book. I am coming to understand that it talks about openness. To be open to the natural self and the natural world. Not the world of television and news media, but to the age-old flow of life. I realized yesterday that this openness is difficult to maintain for a number of reasons. First, I must remember to be open. It is a conscious choice. Requires humbleness. Yeah, tough one for moi. Next, I need to take off the blinders. There are many mechanisms that conspire to keep me blind and unfeeling. Their tenacity and ingenuity are truly devilish. They exist in my mind and outside of my mind. All of society conspires to keep me closed. Nearly all of my mental processes conspire likewise. Then there is the courage to bear the beauty of this world. I sense in this a rushing torrent that I normally see only as a trickle. The beauty of a painting covered by the dirt of time, merely hinting at the bright colors contained therein. Details blurred, fine lines lost. Once that painting is restored, it shines. It is a (w)holy other experience.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Under the Knife
I went to do laundry. It has been piling up. It is raining and it is cold. I pedaled my bike to the laundromat. A big, black plastic bag tied to the back; inside, my clothes ajumble. I couldn't find the laundry detergent. I couldn't see. My eyes open, awake and I couldn't see. I've been crying. Today is a day for crying and losing. I lost the detergent.
Finally, I had to ask for help. I asked God to help me find the soap. I stood there, lost and confused. I knew where it should be, it's not there. I looked and looked. I had to ask for help. I almost gave up. With my belly I tried to sense where it would be hiding. That led me back to where it should have been. Is this just my imagination? It isn't there, I know that. I sensed again, paying attention. No, it isn't working. I am fooling myself with the belly sensing. I am playing at magic. I know what I know and I know it must be somewhere else. The sense was insistent. Pointing, pointing. I gave up and looked again. I found it, there, where I hadn't seen it before.
Doing laundry is like doing dishes. It is comforting. It is doing something to give me the feeling of order and progress. I was crying while loading the machines. Machines. I am a machine. I must come to life. Nobody was there, I was alone. I am alone. Nobody is in there, inside. The rain is not rain anymore. It is tears. The cold is not cold, it is loneliness. Everything is magical and points to my illness. The world is dead and somehow, somehow I must bring it to life.
While waiting for the washers, I read in the little book, the book of Not-Doing. It told me to use the empty, the nothing in things. The book is hard to understand, it makes no sense. Yet it has been around for thousands of years and something about it, about the crazy wisdom of it, I recognize. So subtle, so faint, so fleeting.
It is a day for crying. My tears mix with the rain. I am trying to understand what I feel. I think it is sadness, yet I don't know. Maybe it is happiness. How is it that after fifty years in my body, that I cannot tell sadness from happiness. This is absurd. At the bad coffee place I see a dime on the ground. I do not pick it up. I leave it. With my coffee I sit at a table, away from everyone. I look at the sad world. The rain and the cold. I am reading a book someone gave me. It was written by a poet. It is about a little donkey. I am overcome by the beauty of this man's writing. I am crying. My body is heaving from the repressed sobbing. I can't cry. What will they think. They will think I am sick and call the police. They will not understand that these words are cutting into me, that I am doing laundry and lost the soap.
It is a day for crying. For losing. For cold and rain. I cleaned my bedroom, washed the walls and dusted. The bed has new sheets, with lace borders. My bed is white. It is as white as a frigid arctic plain. Even the electric blanket turned to high won't warm my bed. At night I slide into the new sheets and wrap my arms around my loneliness. I might as well sleep with the rocks and wet leaves. My bed is empty. I am empty.
It is a day for crying. Here He comes, with the sure knowledge of a surgeon. I see the knife. I am begging Him not to do this. Can't I have a little fat, a little flesh? Oh God, please. Just a little to remind me of my self. He tells me: No. You asked to be alive. We cut away all that you use to hide, to distance yourself from life. Your skin is too rough, it keeps you from feeling. Your flesh hides your heart. You need to be painfully open, cut open, raw and defenseless.
It is a day for crying.
Finally, I had to ask for help. I asked God to help me find the soap. I stood there, lost and confused. I knew where it should be, it's not there. I looked and looked. I had to ask for help. I almost gave up. With my belly I tried to sense where it would be hiding. That led me back to where it should have been. Is this just my imagination? It isn't there, I know that. I sensed again, paying attention. No, it isn't working. I am fooling myself with the belly sensing. I am playing at magic. I know what I know and I know it must be somewhere else. The sense was insistent. Pointing, pointing. I gave up and looked again. I found it, there, where I hadn't seen it before.
Doing laundry is like doing dishes. It is comforting. It is doing something to give me the feeling of order and progress. I was crying while loading the machines. Machines. I am a machine. I must come to life. Nobody was there, I was alone. I am alone. Nobody is in there, inside. The rain is not rain anymore. It is tears. The cold is not cold, it is loneliness. Everything is magical and points to my illness. The world is dead and somehow, somehow I must bring it to life.
While waiting for the washers, I read in the little book, the book of Not-Doing. It told me to use the empty, the nothing in things. The book is hard to understand, it makes no sense. Yet it has been around for thousands of years and something about it, about the crazy wisdom of it, I recognize. So subtle, so faint, so fleeting.
It is a day for crying. My tears mix with the rain. I am trying to understand what I feel. I think it is sadness, yet I don't know. Maybe it is happiness. How is it that after fifty years in my body, that I cannot tell sadness from happiness. This is absurd. At the bad coffee place I see a dime on the ground. I do not pick it up. I leave it. With my coffee I sit at a table, away from everyone. I look at the sad world. The rain and the cold. I am reading a book someone gave me. It was written by a poet. It is about a little donkey. I am overcome by the beauty of this man's writing. I am crying. My body is heaving from the repressed sobbing. I can't cry. What will they think. They will think I am sick and call the police. They will not understand that these words are cutting into me, that I am doing laundry and lost the soap.
It is a day for crying. For losing. For cold and rain. I cleaned my bedroom, washed the walls and dusted. The bed has new sheets, with lace borders. My bed is white. It is as white as a frigid arctic plain. Even the electric blanket turned to high won't warm my bed. At night I slide into the new sheets and wrap my arms around my loneliness. I might as well sleep with the rocks and wet leaves. My bed is empty. I am empty.
It is a day for crying. Here He comes, with the sure knowledge of a surgeon. I see the knife. I am begging Him not to do this. Can't I have a little fat, a little flesh? Oh God, please. Just a little to remind me of my self. He tells me: No. You asked to be alive. We cut away all that you use to hide, to distance yourself from life. Your skin is too rough, it keeps you from feeling. Your flesh hides your heart. You need to be painfully open, cut open, raw and defenseless.
It is a day for crying.
How am I Doing?
I am frightened. I am scared. White as a ghost with fear. I pretend to know, but the truth is, I don't know squat. I have been going to the wrong school, learning the wrong stuff. I have learned about war, not peace. About hate, not love. I have made myself hard, not soft. Closed, not open. Poor, not wealthy.
I am beginning to listen to the voice of my own conscience, my own truth. Though it is patient, it is also brutally honest. I throw tantrums, like a two-year old, I don't want to hear it. I don't want to. Hear it. I need to be emptied, so to start anew. I must learn how to live, come back from the walking dead.
Wish me luck.
---------------------
This week I rested from writing. Last weekend I wrote like a demon and it was exhausting. Soon I will start again. Thanks for checking in, my preciousnesses. Ta ta.
I am beginning to listen to the voice of my own conscience, my own truth. Though it is patient, it is also brutally honest. I throw tantrums, like a two-year old, I don't want to hear it. I don't want to. Hear it. I need to be emptied, so to start anew. I must learn how to live, come back from the walking dead.
Wish me luck.
---------------------
This week I rested from writing. Last weekend I wrote like a demon and it was exhausting. Soon I will start again. Thanks for checking in, my preciousnesses. Ta ta.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Woman and the Fire Bush
A woman noticed a remarkable bush growing near the trail she walked when she felt well enough to walk. She had been sick for over a year with a painful and debilitating illness, that doctors were unable to name nor cure. The little bush had beautiful, shimmering leaves and she began looking forward to her walks, making an extra effort so as to admire the remarkable plant. After a month, she realized that she was feeling a tiny little better and had been able to walk daily and that just by being near the bush, she returned home with more energy and peace of mind.
She brought a folding chair to that place and would spend time with the bush. Gradually, she felt better and better. She was convinced that the plant had some kind of curative power and that it was of great help to her.
She decided to take the plant home with her. One day, when she felt strong enough, she dug the little bush up, carefully, so as not to harm the roots and carried it home. She planted it next to her patio. It was, though small, a beauty-full addition to her yard.She was enchanted by its' shimmering, nearly irridescent plumage of red-tinged green leaves. With the bush in her yard, she spent more time with it and improved faster still. Within a month she felt well enough to go out, be with her friends and even work a little. It was a miracle!
As she recovered, the little bush became sick. It lost the sheen on it's leaves and began to droop. She had neglected the bush and didn't give it what it needed to adapt and grow. One day she realized that it had died.
She brought a folding chair to that place and would spend time with the bush. Gradually, she felt better and better. She was convinced that the plant had some kind of curative power and that it was of great help to her.
She decided to take the plant home with her. One day, when she felt strong enough, she dug the little bush up, carefully, so as not to harm the roots and carried it home. She planted it next to her patio. It was, though small, a beauty-full addition to her yard.She was enchanted by its' shimmering, nearly irridescent plumage of red-tinged green leaves. With the bush in her yard, she spent more time with it and improved faster still. Within a month she felt well enough to go out, be with her friends and even work a little. It was a miracle!
As she recovered, the little bush became sick. It lost the sheen on it's leaves and began to droop. She had neglected the bush and didn't give it what it needed to adapt and grow. One day she realized that it had died.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Another Talk with God
God? Oh, Gaw-wad, are you there? He doesn't want to talk to me because I thought it over and have a new angle. The bastard probably knows I'll have him over a barrel with this new approach. He is a slick one, I tell you, I...Oh, hey! There you are, I was just thinking how much I have missed talking to you. "You were, eh?" Shit, this is the problem with an omniscient deity, he knows what I am thinking. "Cut to the chase, I'm busy today." Busy? Busy doing what? Fucking things up in the mid-east? I don't care if he can read my mind. I'm not going to bow down to some tin-horn dictator unless my ass is being Guantanomized. I have a question, God. Nothing. Some hold music would be nice. Hel-loo, It's me! I have a teeny weeny question! Hello, hello, get the cotton out, Mr. God. "What's the question?" Never a good sign when he uses contractions in his dialog. Gotta be careful today. What'cha doin'? My best curious kid imitation. "Paying bills." What? What's he talking about? "I'm paying bills. Costs a lot to keep this rinky dink solar system running." Oh. I'm confuddled. God, I don't understand. "Paying bills, what's not to understand. I'm doing the utility bill, right now." I don't understand. "The utility bill to keep the sun running." The sun running? My confidence is evaporating; I have a queasy feeling in my midsection. "What's the matter?" I don't feel good, God. "Lonely?" No, I have a tummy ache. "How come?" He clucking damn well knows why. I ate too much, that's why. "Whadcha eat?" I'm stunned. He sounds just like a little kid. It's disarming. I ate five baloney sandwiches, God. Before I can check myself, I blab it out. Silence. Frankly, I am kinda glad for the silence, now. Maybe he is licking the stamp for the bill envelope. My tummy hurts. I got bread today. Didn't eat my oatmeal this morning. Went to have bad coffee and work on the Lannee story. When I got back, I wanted sandwiches, made from the bread, the honest neutron-dense bread. Went to the store with gusto and a real appetite. Holey Smoke, the baloney was on sale! Only cost a dollar thirty nine. Caught myself speeding home. Slice, slice. A quick anti-evil ritual over the mayonaise. When in doubt cast it out. Fumbling the baloney open. Sandwich constructed and happy, leg swingin' and lip grinnin', munching away. "Sorry, cellphone rang." It's rude to talk on the cellphone when you are having a conversation, don't you know that, God. Got 'im. Ha haa, neener neener. "I apologize, but it was for you." Somebody called your cellphone to talk to me? "Don't be so naive, you are less than unknown. I was getting the winning lottery numbers for you, so that you can get rich. How is that story going? Get a lot of work done on it? Huhnn, what's the matter, cat got your tongue?" The winning lottery numbers? Yeah, uhh, it's goin' great. "Whadzit 'bout?" The kid again. Oh, it's about .. how .. uhh, well .. it's about an alternative universe and their God is going mad and all the stuff around that...My tummy really hurts, now.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 6)
I was hanging out with the guys, in my spacious, new office. One of the first things I had done was get a big flatscreen installed. That used to be more difficult than talking sense to the Pope. Now it was a breeze. I just mention it, and it gets done. Rank has priv'ledges. I have a lot of new friends, nice guys, too. We are sitting around with cocktails in our hands. We don't actually drink or eat, but it is cool to pretend. There is a lot of that "Satan was in this room-- wow." going on too. Helps if you know famous people. "Yeah, we're practically buddies. He depends on me, says I'm his devil on the ground, yep." A little bragging, where is the harm in it, I say.
I got the flat screen on and my spotter demon is beaming live footage of Gabriel venting on the Energizer Bunny Mariachi Band, who just launched into yet another mind wrenching abomination of a song. Gabriel has, over the years, picked up quite a Spanish vocabulary and is practicing on them. The words, from what Spanish I know, are very, very vulgar. My, my he is doubting the manhood of the lead singer, a excessively mustachioed and portly howler. The insult just adds to the sense of dejection that is precisely called for in this croaking screeching, all about the loss of honor and a traitorous woman. "With more emotion, Manuel!" The guys are laughing to my witty jab. Oh, there he goes with the sword! Everyone is pointing at the Demon Slayer as he heaves the flaming sword around to the side and behind him, for a good swipe, staggering Mariachi ward, shouting obscenities, what was that one? Putrid son of a mangy, and is it pusstulating,? oh, yes, lets not forget the flea-ridden. You tell 'em, Gabriel. He misses the Mariachi! Unbelievable! A miss that spun him around and brought him to his knees! We're just hooting and whooping, high fiving and snickering, when I feel a chill tap on my shoulder.
Oh, God , it's him. Crap. My whole body tenses, yet oddly my hand doesn't. The glass falls to the lush carpet. I spin around, apologies ready. The room empties of sound. "Satan. Sir." I try to snap my voice to attention. Satan's face grows a smile. "Having some fun? No harm in that, Mogon, good to get in some relaxing after a hard days' work" He puts his arm around my shoulder and turns me back to the flatscreen, giving me a couple of manly shoulder tugs. I thought I heard him use my name. Did I hear right? Satan steps to the corner of the desk, where Aloran is sitting, throws a glance and a slight jerk of the head. Aloran shoots off the corner and stumbles aside. "Got anything to drink?" We are speechless and frozen. Aloran recovers quickest. "What can I get you, Sir." "How about a gin and tonic. Yes, that sounds good. Hey, is this one of those new Hitachi model 7000s? Damn son, you got some pull around here. Good man to know." He looks over at me and winks. "You want some lime with that, Sir?" Aloran from the back, at the bar. "Got any olives? How about two." Aloran brings the empty glass, stirring it with a clinking spoon. "Enjoy, Sir," handing it to him. "Hope it's to your liking." Suddenly, I don't like him. He's an asskisser, too smooth. Gotta keep an eye on him. Satan lifts the glass and offers "Cheers". Cheers all around and just as sudden as it stopped, the party is back on. We watch the Gabriel epic. He is chasing the last Mariachi up the hill, his lungs ejecting perversities. Satan: "I didn't catch that, Mogon, a needle dick bug, what?" "Fornicater, Sir" "Oh, good one, glad that Gabriel is keeping up on his education." Laughter. Gabriel is hacking the last demon to pieces, hurling obscenities with every heave. He stops, leaning on the sword, looking around furtively, disheveled and deranged. It is quiet. In the room the tension builds. Where are the Mariachis? Gabriel looks around triumphantly. "I've killed you, you-" the rest is in Spanish. "Mogon, Sir, what did he say?" I clear my throat loudly. "To put it delicately, he called them sons of festering dog feces." We all about fall out on that one. Satan is looking at me with something like admiration. I am glowing inside. "Here they come!" All eyes to the flatscreen. "There, up on the hill!" I can see them now, wearing black with pink trim. "Seven of 'em." "What's wrong with their hips?" They are running down hill and gyrating, hands flipping back and dipping down. "Oh my God, they are gay Mariachis." We are stomping and nearly on the floor. The Mariachis stop about fifty feet from Gabriel, who is looking at them in disbelief. Some are blowing kisses, others are suggestively swiveling their hips. The guitar players are frantically untuning their guitars. One of the trumpet players lifts a very suggestive phallus to his lips and blows a horrible crawk out of it. The band starts in on the first song, thrusting their hips in unison to the beat. Gabriel is more than furious. He charges into them like a bowling ball, strike bound. The Mariachis deftly scatter, then reform behind him. "They are quick!" Not missing a beat, they continue the nightmare serenade.
to be continued.....
I got the flat screen on and my spotter demon is beaming live footage of Gabriel venting on the Energizer Bunny Mariachi Band, who just launched into yet another mind wrenching abomination of a song. Gabriel has, over the years, picked up quite a Spanish vocabulary and is practicing on them. The words, from what Spanish I know, are very, very vulgar. My, my he is doubting the manhood of the lead singer, a excessively mustachioed and portly howler. The insult just adds to the sense of dejection that is precisely called for in this croaking screeching, all about the loss of honor and a traitorous woman. "With more emotion, Manuel!" The guys are laughing to my witty jab. Oh, there he goes with the sword! Everyone is pointing at the Demon Slayer as he heaves the flaming sword around to the side and behind him, for a good swipe, staggering Mariachi ward, shouting obscenities, what was that one? Putrid son of a mangy, and is it pusstulating,? oh, yes, lets not forget the flea-ridden. You tell 'em, Gabriel. He misses the Mariachi! Unbelievable! A miss that spun him around and brought him to his knees! We're just hooting and whooping, high fiving and snickering, when I feel a chill tap on my shoulder.
Oh, God , it's him. Crap. My whole body tenses, yet oddly my hand doesn't. The glass falls to the lush carpet. I spin around, apologies ready. The room empties of sound. "Satan. Sir." I try to snap my voice to attention. Satan's face grows a smile. "Having some fun? No harm in that, Mogon, good to get in some relaxing after a hard days' work" He puts his arm around my shoulder and turns me back to the flatscreen, giving me a couple of manly shoulder tugs. I thought I heard him use my name. Did I hear right? Satan steps to the corner of the desk, where Aloran is sitting, throws a glance and a slight jerk of the head. Aloran shoots off the corner and stumbles aside. "Got anything to drink?" We are speechless and frozen. Aloran recovers quickest. "What can I get you, Sir." "How about a gin and tonic. Yes, that sounds good. Hey, is this one of those new Hitachi model 7000s? Damn son, you got some pull around here. Good man to know." He looks over at me and winks. "You want some lime with that, Sir?" Aloran from the back, at the bar. "Got any olives? How about two." Aloran brings the empty glass, stirring it with a clinking spoon. "Enjoy, Sir," handing it to him. "Hope it's to your liking." Suddenly, I don't like him. He's an asskisser, too smooth. Gotta keep an eye on him. Satan lifts the glass and offers "Cheers". Cheers all around and just as sudden as it stopped, the party is back on. We watch the Gabriel epic. He is chasing the last Mariachi up the hill, his lungs ejecting perversities. Satan: "I didn't catch that, Mogon, a needle dick bug, what?" "Fornicater, Sir" "Oh, good one, glad that Gabriel is keeping up on his education." Laughter. Gabriel is hacking the last demon to pieces, hurling obscenities with every heave. He stops, leaning on the sword, looking around furtively, disheveled and deranged. It is quiet. In the room the tension builds. Where are the Mariachis? Gabriel looks around triumphantly. "I've killed you, you-" the rest is in Spanish. "Mogon, Sir, what did he say?" I clear my throat loudly. "To put it delicately, he called them sons of festering dog feces." We all about fall out on that one. Satan is looking at me with something like admiration. I am glowing inside. "Here they come!" All eyes to the flatscreen. "There, up on the hill!" I can see them now, wearing black with pink trim. "Seven of 'em." "What's wrong with their hips?" They are running down hill and gyrating, hands flipping back and dipping down. "Oh my God, they are gay Mariachis." We are stomping and nearly on the floor. The Mariachis stop about fifty feet from Gabriel, who is looking at them in disbelief. Some are blowing kisses, others are suggestively swiveling their hips. The guitar players are frantically untuning their guitars. One of the trumpet players lifts a very suggestive phallus to his lips and blows a horrible crawk out of it. The band starts in on the first song, thrusting their hips in unison to the beat. Gabriel is more than furious. He charges into them like a bowling ball, strike bound. The Mariachis deftly scatter, then reform behind him. "They are quick!" Not missing a beat, they continue the nightmare serenade.
to be continued.....
Saturday, October 13, 2007
A Talk with God
God? Hello? Hell-ooo! We have to have a talk, God. It's about money. Are you there? Silence. The silence of a drawn breath, the deep silence before an explosion of outroarious laughter. "You have money". He's chuckling. Oh, you smarmy bastard, I am so glad to bring some humor into your life. God, I have seven dollars and fifty three cents. No, I had seven dollars and fifty three cents until yesterday. Now I have five dollars and fifty three cents. More silence. I hate this waiting game. "What did you spend your money on?" What did I?--I bought a good cup of coffee! A bad cup of coffee costs a dollar seven. I wanted a good cup of coffee, so I had to pay extra. Silence. Coffee's not cheap, you know. Waiting. "You have plenty of money." I do not have plenty of money. I have--going through my pockets--five ones, a quarter, three dimes, a nickel and four pennies. Let's see that's five dollars and fifty, no---. Oh. I have more than I thought. I have five dollars and sixty four cents. That's all. "Seems like a lot." Seems like a lot? It's. Not. Alot, God. It's a lot of nothing. "You have more money, what about your tin. You have three hundred dollars in your tin. That's a lot." That's rent money! I am outraged. For next month! That's already spent! Waiting. "What did you have for dinner last night? Did you go to bed hungry, again?" The word 'again' is slimed over with sarcasm. You --- bastard. Don't pull this starving kids in Darfur bullshit on me. I went through that with the Ethiopian thing. I am broke. I need money. "What about the other tin?" Those are my laundry quarters. Those. Are. My. Lauuunn-dryy quarters. For doing laundry. That's what they are for. Laundry. I have to have clean clothes. "You have to -- Oh that's a good one--clean clothes. You, the biggest PIG since Porky, actually care about your appearance?" A Pig? Did he just call me a PIG? I'm not a Pig, I'm a damn good writer. I write. I'm busy writing. I write all the time. I get distracted, that's all. Well, OK-- So what if I am a PIG. I'm a damn good writing PIG. I am a broke Pig. I hope you are happy, you -- bastard. Silence. I look around at my pigsty. He's right, you know, maybe if I cleaned this dump up, money would come visit me more often. I need help. I need a helper. Quiet. I look at the missing, the chewing yearning inside of myself. The empty. The need and the deep empty. God, I'm lonely. I'm so, so lonely. Silence. God? Hello?
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 5)
"I don't know where he is, Satan, this has never happened before. He's simply disappeared."
"How can he disappear, Lucifer, it makes no sense."
"I know. I searched everywhere, minutely, even. No trace of him. He's gone, somehow."
"He has to be somewhere, Lucifer, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Something new, something unusual is happening. Right after our last chat, I started to sense something different about him. I can't explain it. It was a mixture of hope and determination. He was telling me about the Change Agent. Raving about him, about his "suchness". What do you think that means, Satan?"
"I don't know. Whatever, it can't be any worse than what happened before. I wish we could get it right, get him stable. I wish we could find him, for one. Did he say anything else?"
"No, but I sensed something like remorse."
The whole place is in an uproar. God has gone missing. How can God get lost? It's like losing an elephant in a closet. Impossible. I am stunned. I am trying to make notes in my logbook. I can't concentrate. Satan has ordered all surveillance on his Lumpishness suspended. I took all the demons and devils off the case. No one is watching the Lump. Unless, unless Satan is up to something.
Squatting under the cedar. No thought. No thought. No interfering with what is. Careful. Just allow, just observe, open. Ah, yes, he is back. I feel him. He is the fine one, he hides well, is quiet. Doesn't stomp around like the others, flinging themselves about, making a mess. Where is he? Ah, he is good. He hides well. The newness inside is giggling. It points. Ahh, there you are, you sly one. What do you want. Tell me. You'll tell me when you are ready.
Looking, looking for the missing. Walking. Follow the yearning. The yearning is the way. Trust the yearning. There is beauty everywhere, on the ground; bring back the missing. Picking up the pieces, bringing back the missing. Create the gift. Careful! Beauty made from beauty. Under the tree, waiting for the missing.
"Lucifer, I have a plan. Tell me what you think. There is a change, a subtle change in Lannee. I think that maybe God is inside him, hiding. Something about Lannee fascinated God, something that we are not seeing. Perhaps this Human is the key to something God needs, something nothing else can give him. If so, then what is it that Lannee is missing? What is it that all men miss?"
"They miss the "Other"?
"Exactly. He needs a girlfriend. We have to get him a girlfriend."
"How, Satan? How are we going to do that? He doesn't talk, doesn't go dancing, even if we arrange the circumstances, he'll just walk right by. Forget it, it won't work."
"No, no. Listen, we create a girlfriend for him, one that will match him perfectly. She will be drawn to him and he to her."
"Satan, we cannot create like God creates."
"Of course, we cannot create from nothing. We can sing something into changing into something else."
"Still, we need a woman and that would interfere with free will. It is impossible."
"Perhaps, we don't need a woman. We need an empty vessel. I know who would be the perfect candidate. Trust me. I think this will work."
To be continued.......
Satan and Lucifer are playing matchmakers. Will this be the match made in Heaven for Lannee? Will he find his other, finally after so long? And who is that perfect candidate, the empty vessel? Come back, Dearly Beloved, for more.
"How can he disappear, Lucifer, it makes no sense."
"I know. I searched everywhere, minutely, even. No trace of him. He's gone, somehow."
"He has to be somewhere, Lucifer, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Something new, something unusual is happening. Right after our last chat, I started to sense something different about him. I can't explain it. It was a mixture of hope and determination. He was telling me about the Change Agent. Raving about him, about his "suchness". What do you think that means, Satan?"
"I don't know. Whatever, it can't be any worse than what happened before. I wish we could get it right, get him stable. I wish we could find him, for one. Did he say anything else?"
"No, but I sensed something like remorse."
The whole place is in an uproar. God has gone missing. How can God get lost? It's like losing an elephant in a closet. Impossible. I am stunned. I am trying to make notes in my logbook. I can't concentrate. Satan has ordered all surveillance on his Lumpishness suspended. I took all the demons and devils off the case. No one is watching the Lump. Unless, unless Satan is up to something.
Squatting under the cedar. No thought. No thought. No interfering with what is. Careful. Just allow, just observe, open. Ah, yes, he is back. I feel him. He is the fine one, he hides well, is quiet. Doesn't stomp around like the others, flinging themselves about, making a mess. Where is he? Ah, he is good. He hides well. The newness inside is giggling. It points. Ahh, there you are, you sly one. What do you want. Tell me. You'll tell me when you are ready.
Looking, looking for the missing. Walking. Follow the yearning. The yearning is the way. Trust the yearning. There is beauty everywhere, on the ground; bring back the missing. Picking up the pieces, bringing back the missing. Create the gift. Careful! Beauty made from beauty. Under the tree, waiting for the missing.
"Lucifer, I have a plan. Tell me what you think. There is a change, a subtle change in Lannee. I think that maybe God is inside him, hiding. Something about Lannee fascinated God, something that we are not seeing. Perhaps this Human is the key to something God needs, something nothing else can give him. If so, then what is it that Lannee is missing? What is it that all men miss?"
"They miss the "Other"?
"Exactly. He needs a girlfriend. We have to get him a girlfriend."
"How, Satan? How are we going to do that? He doesn't talk, doesn't go dancing, even if we arrange the circumstances, he'll just walk right by. Forget it, it won't work."
"No, no. Listen, we create a girlfriend for him, one that will match him perfectly. She will be drawn to him and he to her."
"Satan, we cannot create like God creates."
"Of course, we cannot create from nothing. We can sing something into changing into something else."
"Still, we need a woman and that would interfere with free will. It is impossible."
"Perhaps, we don't need a woman. We need an empty vessel. I know who would be the perfect candidate. Trust me. I think this will work."
To be continued.......
Satan and Lucifer are playing matchmakers. Will this be the match made in Heaven for Lannee? Will he find his other, finally after so long? And who is that perfect candidate, the empty vessel? Come back, Dearly Beloved, for more.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Pure Fool
If you ever get the chance to look into the significance of the Major Arcana of the Tarot deck, notice that the first card is "The Fool". In the Crowley deck, the fools' card is number zero, the Magician is number one. You probably wonder why I am bringing this up, my resourceful questioners. Aren't you? You are thinking, now what is that Roberto up to with this delicious tidbit of unformation? (Did I just by mistake or brilliance coin a new word? Unformation?) Well, there is a good reason for me to bring this up and it has something to do with the series of stories that I am currently plaguing you with. I have a new story idea that came to me last night and I am very exited about it.
I seem to be fascinated with the archetype of the "pure fool". Why, I don't exactly know. He is common in folktales, comedy acts and myths. Something about him screwing everything up, but in the end, saving the day has fascinated humans for a long time.
It is the pure fool that in the Tarot deck holds the highest position. The Magician, he who commands the Universe, as A. Crowley points out, is only, in the end, himself. The pure fool is universal. There is magic in foolishness, ask any clown.
My next story will also feature "the pure fool" and maybe that will put this to rest and we can got on to something truly useless. Thanks for checking in, my precious profundities. Ta-ta.
I seem to be fascinated with the archetype of the "pure fool". Why, I don't exactly know. He is common in folktales, comedy acts and myths. Something about him screwing everything up, but in the end, saving the day has fascinated humans for a long time.
It is the pure fool that in the Tarot deck holds the highest position. The Magician, he who commands the Universe, as A. Crowley points out, is only, in the end, himself. The pure fool is universal. There is magic in foolishness, ask any clown.
My next story will also feature "the pure fool" and maybe that will put this to rest and we can got on to something truly useless. Thanks for checking in, my precious profundities. Ta-ta.
Monday, October 08, 2007
The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 4)
It was different before. Before the rebellion of the angels. The universe smelled sweet and that invigorating scent told of rightness, unity and purpose. It was a humming tune below awareness that gave existence an urge to dance, to surge. It was the song that demanded growth and wild expansiveness. We were all notes in that song, the notes and the singers, celebrating a grand task and great work. We were the fire that bent the rigid iron of the timeless empty. We angels, were the tools and the hands that built a garden of unimaginable splendor.
Then, by bits and scraps, God the Director began to change. The permeating smellsong gradually, little by little, took on a hint of sourness and then the rank stench of madness and dissipation, this over the course of billions of years. Death became the path to the horizon of collapse.
This had happened before, untold times. Only Lucifer, who had been with God for all of time, knew how many. It was a desperate time for us. We witnessed the decline of the Universe, a time of sickness and hopelessness. Some of us would survive, Satan had gone through several cycles, each time staving off the inevitable, learning more and more. But, the Universe would become a perversity, an utter horror and the angels (and devils) would have to watch the destruction, and suffer the billions of years of decline to blissful death. You see, once created, an angel only dies when All dies. An angel lives forever, during a creation cycle.
There is always one, a shortsighted one, a traitor. Gabrielle the Asskisser, envious of the place that Lucifer held, with God, initiated the rebellion. He urged on the madness of God, whispering into his ear, lies and damned lies. Gabriel held the sword of destruction. God, in an early moment of madness gave it to Gabriel, with Gabriel unprepared for its' power. Gabriel would prance around, waving the sword and daring anyone to fight. The power of the sword had corrupted Gabriel totally. That was the reason for the rebellion. It was to get the damned sword out of the hands of Gabriel the Lunatic. There had been many appeals to God over the behavior of Gabriel. God would not hear of it, saying that Gabriel was a faithful servant to him; all the while Gabriel stood around looking angelic and smugsmug. When God would go into "a time", a time of depression and retreat, Gabriel would start that prancing and sword waving again. We were all sick of it.
The singing of Hosannas is a precise skill that requires a deep level of concentration. It is the singing that creates the smellsong, that guides and supports the Universe. From the Holy of Holies, the gargantuan Throne Hall of God, millions and millions of angels sing precise melodies, perfectly orchestrated. Precision and perfection is of utmost importance.
So, you can just imagine what happens if a freaked-out lunatic, running loose, wildly swinging a flaming sword in the crowd of deep-trance singers---Chaos. Then, Rebellion. It wasn't a third of the angels that rebelled. Nearly all rose in outrage. Oh, Gabriel had a few hoodwinked, but that a mere handful. It was then that Satan, got his title. He accused Gabriel of High Crimes against God and banished him to a place where he could be watched and constrained. Satan then sung into existence a special kind of demon that follow Gabriel and that damn sword, keeping him planet bound and out of heaven and the Holy Hall. Some of us feel a little sorry for Gabriel. The demons wear gaudy outfits with lots of buttons and big, wide brimmed, upturned hats and strum out of tune guitars and sing horrible songs in Spanich. I mean Spanish, sorry. Yes, it is a cruel fate to be followed around by Mariachis, but he had it coming. At least it keeps him busy; trying to slay the source of his irritation. You gotta hand it to Satan, what a stroke of genius; those Mariachi demons.
So that is the story of the rebellion and also how Mariachi music came about. For which I apologize, but you have to understand the context and the importance of the difficulties we are facing. To be continued......
Then, by bits and scraps, God the Director began to change. The permeating smellsong gradually, little by little, took on a hint of sourness and then the rank stench of madness and dissipation, this over the course of billions of years. Death became the path to the horizon of collapse.
This had happened before, untold times. Only Lucifer, who had been with God for all of time, knew how many. It was a desperate time for us. We witnessed the decline of the Universe, a time of sickness and hopelessness. Some of us would survive, Satan had gone through several cycles, each time staving off the inevitable, learning more and more. But, the Universe would become a perversity, an utter horror and the angels (and devils) would have to watch the destruction, and suffer the billions of years of decline to blissful death. You see, once created, an angel only dies when All dies. An angel lives forever, during a creation cycle.
There is always one, a shortsighted one, a traitor. Gabrielle the Asskisser, envious of the place that Lucifer held, with God, initiated the rebellion. He urged on the madness of God, whispering into his ear, lies and damned lies. Gabriel held the sword of destruction. God, in an early moment of madness gave it to Gabriel, with Gabriel unprepared for its' power. Gabriel would prance around, waving the sword and daring anyone to fight. The power of the sword had corrupted Gabriel totally. That was the reason for the rebellion. It was to get the damned sword out of the hands of Gabriel the Lunatic. There had been many appeals to God over the behavior of Gabriel. God would not hear of it, saying that Gabriel was a faithful servant to him; all the while Gabriel stood around looking angelic and smugsmug. When God would go into "a time", a time of depression and retreat, Gabriel would start that prancing and sword waving again. We were all sick of it.
The singing of Hosannas is a precise skill that requires a deep level of concentration. It is the singing that creates the smellsong, that guides and supports the Universe. From the Holy of Holies, the gargantuan Throne Hall of God, millions and millions of angels sing precise melodies, perfectly orchestrated. Precision and perfection is of utmost importance.
So, you can just imagine what happens if a freaked-out lunatic, running loose, wildly swinging a flaming sword in the crowd of deep-trance singers---Chaos. Then, Rebellion. It wasn't a third of the angels that rebelled. Nearly all rose in outrage. Oh, Gabriel had a few hoodwinked, but that a mere handful. It was then that Satan, got his title. He accused Gabriel of High Crimes against God and banished him to a place where he could be watched and constrained. Satan then sung into existence a special kind of demon that follow Gabriel and that damn sword, keeping him planet bound and out of heaven and the Holy Hall. Some of us feel a little sorry for Gabriel. The demons wear gaudy outfits with lots of buttons and big, wide brimmed, upturned hats and strum out of tune guitars and sing horrible songs in Spanich. I mean Spanish, sorry. Yes, it is a cruel fate to be followed around by Mariachis, but he had it coming. At least it keeps him busy; trying to slay the source of his irritation. You gotta hand it to Satan, what a stroke of genius; those Mariachi demons.
So that is the story of the rebellion and also how Mariachi music came about. For which I apologize, but you have to understand the context and the importance of the difficulties we are facing. To be continued......
The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 3)
If there was any doubt, after the first week, it evaporated. This guy, Lannee, is a moron. An imbecile. A dummy. A retard. We got it totally wrong, about him. No need to worry, he is no threat. I have never been so bored,as doing surveillance on him. It is like watching rocks being rocks. He sleeps, eats, spends his time doing nothing and then does it again, the next day. Nothing going on in his head. No thoughts, except the basics; keep the heart beating, lungs breathing, check core temperature, make adjustments. No higher thought, period, at all. Even plants do more thinking than him. What does he do all day, let me bore the ways. He squats under a cedar tree, expressionless and unthinking. Then he goes for a walk. He collects trash. Brings it back by the armload. Carefully arranges it in a neat pile, with other trash collected days before and then, back under the cedar tree. Then another walk, more trash. More arranging. Squatting, walking, collecting, arranging. Oh, goes inside at night, eats and goes to bed. Wakes up in the morning, same time, eats breakfast and it is off to the cedar. Day after day after day, on and on and on. Rain or shine. Oh, once a week the town maintenance guys get the trash and he seems not to notice. He starts over on the pile.
I told this to Satan, who just left, agitated. I am making a note of the meeting right now, got to keep the dots and slashes in the proper place. "That is the most dangerous man alive." Auugh, Satan is behind me. I spin around. "Sir, you just left!" He is livid, eyes blazing. "Don't be a fool, time is not a limit. We are in terrible danger of a catastrophe of monumental proportions, if we don't act with the utmost care." He crooked his finger against his lips and squinted. Must be thinking, I was thinking. He disappeared again. I was getting dizzy. Just as I reach for the logbook, he reappears. That devil gets around. "I just conferred with Lucifer, he thinks this is him." I didn't know what to say. Finally I was able to squeeze out a short question: "Sir?" Profound, yes? Lannee the Lump some kind of threat? Impossible, I thought. Satans' head snapped in my direction. "Impossible?"
Before I could say "zip", we were standing about twenty feet from Lannee, just outside the overhanging limbs of the cedar. " Watch him carefully." Satan whispered, overly dramatic, I thought. Uh, then I remembered the mind reading. Sorry, Sir. I apologized silently. I looked at The Lump--- same same. "You see his left foot? He is turning it slowly towards us. He knows we are here." What? "Yes, that's clever. He is not afraid of us. He is letting us know." What? What? I was still whating when he whisked us back to my office. "It is good that you question, it shows you are beginning to grasp the severity of the situation. However, you must trust Lucifer's feeling on this matter. And mine too, I might add. Let's talk this over."
I suppose I should tell you some things about Lucifer and Satan. But that is for another day----
I told this to Satan, who just left, agitated. I am making a note of the meeting right now, got to keep the dots and slashes in the proper place. "That is the most dangerous man alive." Auugh, Satan is behind me. I spin around. "Sir, you just left!" He is livid, eyes blazing. "Don't be a fool, time is not a limit. We are in terrible danger of a catastrophe of monumental proportions, if we don't act with the utmost care." He crooked his finger against his lips and squinted. Must be thinking, I was thinking. He disappeared again. I was getting dizzy. Just as I reach for the logbook, he reappears. That devil gets around. "I just conferred with Lucifer, he thinks this is him." I didn't know what to say. Finally I was able to squeeze out a short question: "Sir?" Profound, yes? Lannee the Lump some kind of threat? Impossible, I thought. Satans' head snapped in my direction. "Impossible?"
Before I could say "zip", we were standing about twenty feet from Lannee, just outside the overhanging limbs of the cedar. " Watch him carefully." Satan whispered, overly dramatic, I thought. Uh, then I remembered the mind reading. Sorry, Sir. I apologized silently. I looked at The Lump--- same same. "You see his left foot? He is turning it slowly towards us. He knows we are here." What? "Yes, that's clever. He is not afraid of us. He is letting us know." What? What? I was still whating when he whisked us back to my office. "It is good that you question, it shows you are beginning to grasp the severity of the situation. However, you must trust Lucifer's feeling on this matter. And mine too, I might add. Let's talk this over."
I suppose I should tell you some things about Lucifer and Satan. But that is for another day----
The Various Permutations of the Trickster
Important things are happening. They appear slight, but that is the nature of this world. Saturday my friend,Pat, bless his heart, brought me coffee. We sat, drinking coffee and talked about the week we had. I read him my poem about many regrets. He had written a poem, a poem about me. It talked of beautiful flowers and a dark room under the staircase. What is the thing about the dark room, Patrick? It is you, you know how you are.
NO. I. Don't. know. how I am. I am a mystery to myself. That has been a life long task, trying to understand myself. I am mostly baffled, that I know. What we have here is a failure to understand, beyond that comes acceptance. I can't even get to the starting point, much less run the race. You tell me what the dark room is, Patrick. Don't pop a trick on me and walk away.
Speaking of tricks, another friend is doing something. I speak metaphor, gentle reader. Gave me a flower seed to plant. The ground is hard and rocky. Not enough sunlight. Needs a special fertilizer. Difficult to care for, needs ingenuity, tons of patience and the right attitude. Slim chance of of survival, much less thriving. However, the flower is exotic and absolutely stunning. Its' perfume, exquisite. A rare, precious delight. The problem, once again is the gardener. I am the ground, hard and rocky. I am the sunlight, lacking. I am the fertilizer and the various limitations. I am the flower, dear reader. What a tricky friend I have. This was done to me before. It seems I am always getting tricked into growing. I have been marvelously tricked so many times, it makes me believe in the reality of the Magical, Mysterious Tendency.
For me to speak of this, indicates one thing. It is Reform Day! Yeay, Reform Day. I have started out right. I got plenty of sleep (perhaps too much). I got up and made oatmeal, which I plan to eat shortly. Made coffee for the jumpstart. And I made a list of tasks that I need to accomplish today. It's Reform Day and I'm going to do it right, this time.
First on the list is writing. Gotta work on that story. I have been slacking on the story, but it is cooking and Oh, what a marvelous mindfruck it will be.
NO. I. Don't. know. how I am. I am a mystery to myself. That has been a life long task, trying to understand myself. I am mostly baffled, that I know. What we have here is a failure to understand, beyond that comes acceptance. I can't even get to the starting point, much less run the race. You tell me what the dark room is, Patrick. Don't pop a trick on me and walk away.
Speaking of tricks, another friend is doing something. I speak metaphor, gentle reader. Gave me a flower seed to plant. The ground is hard and rocky. Not enough sunlight. Needs a special fertilizer. Difficult to care for, needs ingenuity, tons of patience and the right attitude. Slim chance of of survival, much less thriving. However, the flower is exotic and absolutely stunning. Its' perfume, exquisite. A rare, precious delight. The problem, once again is the gardener. I am the ground, hard and rocky. I am the sunlight, lacking. I am the fertilizer and the various limitations. I am the flower, dear reader. What a tricky friend I have. This was done to me before. It seems I am always getting tricked into growing. I have been marvelously tricked so many times, it makes me believe in the reality of the Magical, Mysterious Tendency.
For me to speak of this, indicates one thing. It is Reform Day! Yeay, Reform Day. I have started out right. I got plenty of sleep (perhaps too much). I got up and made oatmeal, which I plan to eat shortly. Made coffee for the jumpstart. And I made a list of tasks that I need to accomplish today. It's Reform Day and I'm going to do it right, this time.
First on the list is writing. Gotta work on that story. I have been slacking on the story, but it is cooking and Oh, what a marvelous mindfruck it will be.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Windy Sunday Morning
It is warm outside. My kitchen window is open, letting in the active air and the grumpy sound of the creaking fence. The wind is pushing the fence back and forth. I think of kids on a swing, pushed by their mothers. The tall fir tree that stands next to my little trailer is vigorously waving its' branches, getting my attention. It tells me to go outside. Go outside, Roberto, go. I feel a wave of sleepy sadness. The years' last maple leaves shiver in the wind. Every so often the tree lets one go. A fat snowflake falling past my window. It is falling time. Leaves are falling down, a blanket for the ground, a promise of food for roots next year and the one after. Another sip of coffee with a gust of wind. This gust was frantic, like a terrier shaking a stuffed toy. Tousled that trees' hair but good. It is falling time. Summer is going underground, waiting it out, the cold season to come. Somehow, I too, must go underground. I don't know how.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
They Wander Lost
They wander lost, my old lovers
In the misty streets of my memories.
Bleached bones of the skeleton
That is my love life.
When I walk at night
By the side of a lonely street
They stand, wet and shivering
A cold look in their hard eyes.
I have failed so often
That failure has become
My eternal and only lover.
In the misty streets of my memories.
Bleached bones of the skeleton
That is my love life.
When I walk at night
By the side of a lonely street
They stand, wet and shivering
A cold look in their hard eyes.
I have failed so often
That failure has become
My eternal and only lover.
Friday, October 05, 2007
the Suchness of Lannee Prochaine {part 2)
Lannee Prochaine was born Annee Prochaine and within three months suffered a conversion. A member began to grow and a couple of Christmas ornaments, so to say, under the branch. On her birth certificate an "L" was added to her name and the "F", denoting gender, was replaced with an "M". She became a he and this was perhaps the first of a long run of confusions.
Satan was absorbing the meager file. "It doesn't make sense." I couldn't agree more. In all aspects Lannee Prochaine was more (or less) than unsuitable as a Change Agent. Jesus had received extensive Essene training as a child and in his twenties studied under Tibetan Monks. Siddartha was extremely well educated and with that nimble mind had caused us nothing but problems. Muhammed, the last of the Change Agents was the exception. I pointed this out to Satan, happy to add something to the brain storming. "Muhammed started out as an illiterate camel driver. An average Human at best." I noted. Satan looked at me thoughtfully. He was nodding his head slightly. "Perhaps we are seeing a trend." He closed his eyes in thought, steepling his manicured fingers before him. My head bobbed eagerly in agreement and I nearly began babbling about trends. Thankfully I was able to catch myself in time and composed my features to look as thoughtful as Satan. "We can't afford to make the same mistakes as with Mohammed. Still---" He paused. "This is either brilliance or utter madness." Satan arched his back and looking up, exhaled forcefully. I straightened my back in turn. "I tend to think madness, considering what we have witnessed this past eon. However, just in case, we must be vigilant. I will confer with Lucifer and you--" Satan looked at me gravely, placing his left hand on my shoulder, "You are my devil on the ground. Keep me fully informed." With that he rose abruptly and vanished.
I'm sure the promotion helped, but it was the memory of his hand on my shoulder that put the swagger into my step. My case load dropped from 1500 to one. Lannee Prochaine, the sleeper Change Agent would get my full scrutiny. I had been given a staff with three demons at my command. One was a high level mind reader, another a space bender. The third a spotter that would send me visual updates on Lannees' comings and goings.
Within a week, I was bored nearly to tears.
Satan was absorbing the meager file. "It doesn't make sense." I couldn't agree more. In all aspects Lannee Prochaine was more (or less) than unsuitable as a Change Agent. Jesus had received extensive Essene training as a child and in his twenties studied under Tibetan Monks. Siddartha was extremely well educated and with that nimble mind had caused us nothing but problems. Muhammed, the last of the Change Agents was the exception. I pointed this out to Satan, happy to add something to the brain storming. "Muhammed started out as an illiterate camel driver. An average Human at best." I noted. Satan looked at me thoughtfully. He was nodding his head slightly. "Perhaps we are seeing a trend." He closed his eyes in thought, steepling his manicured fingers before him. My head bobbed eagerly in agreement and I nearly began babbling about trends. Thankfully I was able to catch myself in time and composed my features to look as thoughtful as Satan. "We can't afford to make the same mistakes as with Mohammed. Still---" He paused. "This is either brilliance or utter madness." Satan arched his back and looking up, exhaled forcefully. I straightened my back in turn. "I tend to think madness, considering what we have witnessed this past eon. However, just in case, we must be vigilant. I will confer with Lucifer and you--" Satan looked at me gravely, placing his left hand on my shoulder, "You are my devil on the ground. Keep me fully informed." With that he rose abruptly and vanished.
I'm sure the promotion helped, but it was the memory of his hand on my shoulder that put the swagger into my step. My case load dropped from 1500 to one. Lannee Prochaine, the sleeper Change Agent would get my full scrutiny. I had been given a staff with three demons at my command. One was a high level mind reader, another a space bender. The third a spotter that would send me visual updates on Lannees' comings and goings.
Within a week, I was bored nearly to tears.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
the Suchness of Lannee Prochaine
I had never been to a meeting this size. The Great Hall was completely full and even Beelzubub was there, way up in front with the other archdevils. He was in high demand,business here and there, spreading pestilence. I heard of a big cholera job he did somewhere in Africa. As a little sideline, sprinkled in some ebola. Wiped about haf the population. Beautiful. Dedication to the cause, I tell you. That tells you something about theimportance of this meeting. Of course he had his everpresent horde of dominions with him. Those flies were thick, as was the stench. I was glad to be in the back. I don't know how the poor devils in the front were breathing.
We were packed in there shoulder to shoulder, paunch to back. Long, orderly lines, row after row. I looked around. Must have been 100,000 case managers jammed in. Something big was brewing. A fly landed on my cheek. It was scurrying around at the end of my nose. I could strongly smell the stench of Beelzy on it. Yeah, that's what we call him. Beelzy.
I forgot about the fly when the commotion started. Something going on at the back by the great doorway. I craned my neck to get a look. A VIP procession slowly making their way to the stage. Some wayuppy, gotta be, I thought. Then I heard the whispers around me.Satan. It's Satan himself. You could feel the excitement. It rose to a roar as the Great Adversary, Lucifers' Lawyer, mounted the stage. He strode to the podium and held up his arm, commanding silence. Quiet came quickly, all you heard was the frenzied murmur of the fog of flies clouding Beelzy. Without a doubt, Satan endeared himself to all of us when he gazed on Beelzy and ordered him to go forth and spread Pestilece. He added that Beelzy had done great work and his presence was direly needed elsewhere. Everyone nodded heads in collective agreement. Those up front nodding with more enthusiasm. With much robe swishing and grandeur, Beelzebub slowly trundled to the great doorway, devils thankfully making way, a lot of way, for him and his retinue.
Yes, smell is important to us, to angels also. It was smell that started the whole thing, the rebellion of the angels. But I am getting ahead of myself. There he was on stage, the mighty Satan, he who debated so effectively and still does, with God. What an inspiration to me and so many others. As his glowing and penetrating eyes swept across the great hall, light moans escaped the mouths of the gathered. Satan the All Seeing, truly each one of us felt his eyes touch all and every one, collectively and singly. When he began speaking, he spoke slow and low. Our shivering bodies leaned forward to catch the nuances of his words, drinking the richness of his voice, swaying in rythm to his cadence. Truthfully, I remember nothing of what he said until I heard this short and cutting sentence: "There is a problem."
He paused, long and uncomfortably. We were looking around, to spot the problem, to seize it and render it done. We looked at each other in suspicion, then inside, at own selves. I didn't know what I had done, but I was profoundly sorry, nearly anguished. "Does anyone know who Lannee Prochaine is?" The sense of relief I felt was shortlived. I was grateful that it was someone else, not I, who was the problem. Lannee Prochaine, Lanee, no, I didn't know...
It was as if Satan was looking directly at me, accusatory. Doubt flashed in my mind. Lannee Prochaine, I couldn't think. A sinking feeling burned down to my gut as my trembling right arm raised itself, hesitantly and deaf to my protesting denials. Satan was looking directly at me. "Are you his case manager?" I mumbled and stuttered, confused. I was angry with my traitorous right arm, that rose to single me out, out of anonymity, to expose me to the glare of the Accuser. "Please come to see me directly after this meeting." Satan said 'please' to me. The shot of joy that went through me was more than elating. I was ecstatic. Then I remember Lannee Prochaine. Yes, he was my charge, but I was puzzled. Lannee was less than a nobody. How? Could ? HE? Be a problem?
We were packed in there shoulder to shoulder, paunch to back. Long, orderly lines, row after row. I looked around. Must have been 100,000 case managers jammed in. Something big was brewing. A fly landed on my cheek. It was scurrying around at the end of my nose. I could strongly smell the stench of Beelzy on it. Yeah, that's what we call him. Beelzy.
I forgot about the fly when the commotion started. Something going on at the back by the great doorway. I craned my neck to get a look. A VIP procession slowly making their way to the stage. Some wayuppy, gotta be, I thought. Then I heard the whispers around me.Satan. It's Satan himself. You could feel the excitement. It rose to a roar as the Great Adversary, Lucifers' Lawyer, mounted the stage. He strode to the podium and held up his arm, commanding silence. Quiet came quickly, all you heard was the frenzied murmur of the fog of flies clouding Beelzy. Without a doubt, Satan endeared himself to all of us when he gazed on Beelzy and ordered him to go forth and spread Pestilece. He added that Beelzy had done great work and his presence was direly needed elsewhere. Everyone nodded heads in collective agreement. Those up front nodding with more enthusiasm. With much robe swishing and grandeur, Beelzebub slowly trundled to the great doorway, devils thankfully making way, a lot of way, for him and his retinue.
Yes, smell is important to us, to angels also. It was smell that started the whole thing, the rebellion of the angels. But I am getting ahead of myself. There he was on stage, the mighty Satan, he who debated so effectively and still does, with God. What an inspiration to me and so many others. As his glowing and penetrating eyes swept across the great hall, light moans escaped the mouths of the gathered. Satan the All Seeing, truly each one of us felt his eyes touch all and every one, collectively and singly. When he began speaking, he spoke slow and low. Our shivering bodies leaned forward to catch the nuances of his words, drinking the richness of his voice, swaying in rythm to his cadence. Truthfully, I remember nothing of what he said until I heard this short and cutting sentence: "There is a problem."
He paused, long and uncomfortably. We were looking around, to spot the problem, to seize it and render it done. We looked at each other in suspicion, then inside, at own selves. I didn't know what I had done, but I was profoundly sorry, nearly anguished. "Does anyone know who Lannee Prochaine is?" The sense of relief I felt was shortlived. I was grateful that it was someone else, not I, who was the problem. Lannee Prochaine, Lanee, no, I didn't know...
It was as if Satan was looking directly at me, accusatory. Doubt flashed in my mind. Lannee Prochaine, I couldn't think. A sinking feeling burned down to my gut as my trembling right arm raised itself, hesitantly and deaf to my protesting denials. Satan was looking directly at me. "Are you his case manager?" I mumbled and stuttered, confused. I was angry with my traitorous right arm, that rose to single me out, out of anonymity, to expose me to the glare of the Accuser. "Please come to see me directly after this meeting." Satan said 'please' to me. The shot of joy that went through me was more than elating. I was ecstatic. Then I remember Lannee Prochaine. Yes, he was my charge, but I was puzzled. Lannee was less than a nobody. How? Could ? HE? Be a problem?
Rolling Thunder
We had a doosey of a storm yesterday evening. I counted twelve thunderclaps. That is a record for around here. Normally we get less than about six. And this was rolling thunder. I haven't heard that in ages, maybe never. I hate to admit this, I was a bit frightened. I was making all kinds of stuff up in my head. I saw a lightning bolt slash through my trailer, punching a big hole in the roof and another in the floor. I thought about lightning rods and about when I used to live in Oklahoma, where lightning was common. There would be tornado warnings and we would have to crawl under the house, spend the night in the crawl space. My mother was very frightened by tornadoes. After a few years of that hiding, I refused to go into the bombshelter she insisted on having built, to take refuge.
I spent the time of the thunderstorm on my couch. It rained hard, but not much. The drops were fat and heavy. I think there was some hail. I listened to the rain and the thunder, made stuff up in my head and smelled the fresh, storm-charged air. It was cozy. The light was fantastic, as the evening light can be. With all that banging going on outside, inside of myself, I was at peace.
The writers' block threat level has been lowered to normal. I am working on a delicious little story. Whacky as ever, yours truly, grateful for your checking in; Roberto
I spent the time of the thunderstorm on my couch. It rained hard, but not much. The drops were fat and heavy. I think there was some hail. I listened to the rain and the thunder, made stuff up in my head and smelled the fresh, storm-charged air. It was cozy. The light was fantastic, as the evening light can be. With all that banging going on outside, inside of myself, I was at peace.
The writers' block threat level has been lowered to normal. I am working on a delicious little story. Whacky as ever, yours truly, grateful for your checking in; Roberto
Monday, October 01, 2007
It's Monday, Hurray!
Already Monday, reform day. Why don't we cut to the chase and admit that some things are better left alone. He's never gonna reform, we all know that. Who is he kidding. Only himself. He is an old dog and old dogs don't learn new tricks.
Woof woof, said the old dog in a toothless way. If I could just get up, I would give you a good gumming, you young whippersnapper.
In all truth, I have to put off reforming for at least a couple of hours, as I have a date, of sorts. My friend Ju Ju is taking me out for breakfast. I'm having hashbrowns and link sausage and toast and eggs. Yumm. Oh, fun. I'm wearing my new jacket and my dirty brown carharts, with the pink paint stains, with the rope belt. I will at least look like I am reformed. Hope they have good coffee.
I did manage to get some work done last week. Two hours, enough to buy tobacco for nearly a month. Mostly though, I assuaged the guilt. I'll do better this week. After all, it is the first of October and I lost my job, so I have to find some work to make the rent. I can't run a deficit for very long without having to sell one of my vast estates, you know.
Just back from breakfast with Ju Ju. I got sucked in by the propaganda at the Farmhouse. German sausage with potato cakes and fried apples. Sounds good don't it? It was in fact one of those cheap, overly salted and colored polish sausages that I couldn't even finish. The apples were from a can that they use for making crappy apple pie. What a disappointment. Ju Ju was the best part of the morning, bless her heart. I don't learn, except by repeated disappointment. Only then does it sink in. Oh, the coffee was on par with the meal.
Anyway, I better get to reforming. Ta ta, Lovies, thanks for stopping by. Get you a story soon, I promise.
Woof woof, said the old dog in a toothless way. If I could just get up, I would give you a good gumming, you young whippersnapper.
In all truth, I have to put off reforming for at least a couple of hours, as I have a date, of sorts. My friend Ju Ju is taking me out for breakfast. I'm having hashbrowns and link sausage and toast and eggs. Yumm. Oh, fun. I'm wearing my new jacket and my dirty brown carharts, with the pink paint stains, with the rope belt. I will at least look like I am reformed. Hope they have good coffee.
I did manage to get some work done last week. Two hours, enough to buy tobacco for nearly a month. Mostly though, I assuaged the guilt. I'll do better this week. After all, it is the first of October and I lost my job, so I have to find some work to make the rent. I can't run a deficit for very long without having to sell one of my vast estates, you know.
Just back from breakfast with Ju Ju. I got sucked in by the propaganda at the Farmhouse. German sausage with potato cakes and fried apples. Sounds good don't it? It was in fact one of those cheap, overly salted and colored polish sausages that I couldn't even finish. The apples were from a can that they use for making crappy apple pie. What a disappointment. Ju Ju was the best part of the morning, bless her heart. I don't learn, except by repeated disappointment. Only then does it sink in. Oh, the coffee was on par with the meal.
Anyway, I better get to reforming. Ta ta, Lovies, thanks for stopping by. Get you a story soon, I promise.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.