You received some information on UFO’s from a former Indian Hill student, Jay N. this morning, and your feelings/intellect are mixed but also this feeling is punctuated with “I wonder if it is indeed probable.” Normally you would say, “I wonder if it is indeed possible?” Your “probable” leans much more closely to known common reality and “possible”. That is the crux of your thoughts. This feeling comes about when Doug G. sends you some similar information on UFO’s. This, of course, coincides with your intellectual insistence that ‘proof’ is in the DNA. “I want a sample. I want proof alien intelligence (physical proof then I can add the probability of heartansoulanmind) exists.”
Thank you for articulating this, Amorella. I feel much better seeing such thoughts in grammatical context. Earlier this morning I watched a part of a discussion on YouTube about Project Camelot (something I had never heard of). A part of the focus is on the Catholic Church’s view on the plausibility of alien life. This I had read before but not in the context an archbishop being a witness to such an event. I have walked the thin line between reality and fantasy. Reason is a great light but shadows exist within its framework. It is better to step back away from that line. There is no comfort ‘out there on the edge’. And, there is no proof either. The mind can have a razor edge. That is where I am on the subjects of both extraterrestrials with similar minds as ours and angelic-like beings.
UFO's and irony. What a mix. I really don't really get it.
No, you don't; however, your dark humor is better than no humor at all. - Amorella
Mid-afternoon. You are waiting in the lot outside Carter’s not too far from Longhorn Steaks where you had your usually delicious lunches. Another breezy, crisp and sunny afternoon just like yesterday.
I would like to finish scene six tonight.
We can work on that now, orndorff, if you like. – Amorella
Scene 6
Arthur conjured up his first memory of a young naked woman of fourteen who was not a mother or aunt or in any way related. Innocence, he thought, my own and hers. She was bathing in the deeper water of south pond alone. I had never seen her before – slender, long dark hair lightly formed breasts and a puff of hair below her belly modestly shadowing her newly prized womanhood. I drew myself closer still unseen – I was as a young hunter, myself stalking a carefree half-child rather than the fun of fair game. Her body moved with an awkward grace that was mystifying to me. I watched her through the rest of her private swim and bathing. She climbed out of the pond on a shallow of flat rocks and with collected wits – straight to the grass where she lay that warm afternoon away until after a bread baking of sun when she picked up, drew on her grey chemise and casually walked around the border of the pond to the path through a small woods. She never knew I watched. I saw her later that summer in the village and she returned my quick smile with a longer one as if she had known me before; but we had never met as far as I knew. Eleanor was her name, Eleanor of the Railing. Were I not so good a young man I would have lusted after her for several of the next years. She was too casual, too innocent for me to remember her in any other way. What a beautifully natural young woman of the forest. I kept her dressed as freely naked in her movements for years – and even now – but out of self-respect I surrounded her with the clothing of a young Melusine, a feminine sprite, a fae in freshwater, who had not yet grown her wings. Such is my picture of this queen who is my good Merlyn’s Heaven and who was a prerequisite to my once Queen Guenevere. Ah, such is the turnabout, the once reality image of a wee fae now beyond the earthly sky and all the Beyond in Merlyn’s wise eyes.
Such are my thoughts but with glancing up at Merlyn – how is this, surmised Arthur, that we two who are similar in height, find myself shrunk half a head shorter? Mind trickery, no doubt, but is it my trickery or his? This place, Avalon, is not so readily personally experienced without the usual casual cloaking within my heartanmind. Merlyn is finding himself ready to speak on the Beyond that encases the Land of the Dead and I find myself afraid to listen without the imaginative memory of that young beauty – this sorcerer’s voice will be more penetrating and candid without Earth’s missing air to carry his unconstrained cadence to my ears. No doubt there are an enchanter’s experiences that I should not know.
With the flicker of a schoolmaster’s glance Merlyn stated, “Arthur, you are afraid I will speak a truth about our Lady’s navel.”
“A once king is not a sorcerer, Merlyn. I kept royal secrets from you and you should keep certain truths from me.”
“In Avalon you are always king, my lord. It is the common Celtic wish that should be respected.”
“Is this, our last placement, the only navel our Lady of the Common Beyond has?” asked Arthur awkwardly.
“Each human culture believes its culture is the navel of the worlds beyond.”
“Belief is not a truth. We dead believe and it is therefore real?”
“No,” suggested Merlyn, “but common social convictions and behaviors are real enough to comfort we who, Here and Dead, are bodily little more than analogous articles of faith ourselves.”
“I fear I shall not understand your words, Merlyn as we are as mist and no longer subjects becoming passionate predicates.”
“Grammar is a decent fault, even Here among we, the philosophical Dead.”
Arthur uneasily enabled Merlyn with the question, “You are not being literal?”
“Where do you see the literal, Arthur? Here, self-begotten forms of heartansoulanmind dance fantastical – it is so with your and my words too. We present but a novel reality and can do no more.”
“I am reminded of this Rebellion, Merlyn. Is this too a Berserker’s imagination.”
“The Rebellion is real enough, more real than ourselves. That is the crux of our circumstance. A body of wonton disease fires the mind and cools the heart which in turn fires the heart and cools the mind.”
Arthur’s immediate comment, “The Beyond is not well.”
“Well put, my king,” smiled Merlyn as he thinks I am not fully well either. I am at points undetermined. My centeredness, is but one anchor chained here with Arthur with many other anchors attached elsewhere. I have no need of ship or sails. Distance, like time, does not exist. Alive, I was a point within a great circle, Here, I am the circle corked and fully determined to float as heartansoulanmind – a centeredness that can ever expand or contract with only the instance of circumstance within an illusion of location. Who with a heartanmind would not be unwell? Intuition without so much as a blink – I, Merlyn, am bound in soul alone.
“More on the beautiful body of Beyond, more on being in two places at once, Merlyn.”
“Let’s sit.”
Arthur chuckled, “We are seated, Lord Merlyn.”
“Yes, of course. To you we are seated – I float.”
“We are ghost. That is what you say. We have no substance on which to seat ourselves yet I feel seated and you feel yourself less than a feather.”
Merlyn tacked him with a teacher’s drawn eye, “Who is more realistic?”
Again, Arthur chuckled, “I would say you Merlyn as I do not think myself a ghost.”
“Why not.”
“I am more comfortable a body first.”
“You say I forgetting you are a displacement, a pronoun.” Merlyn paused. “That is how it is being in two places at once, being two pronouns unaware of an antecedent. It is much like being alive without connection to one’s ancestors.”
Arthur sat dumbfounded. His eventual response was as the displacement Merlyn had just spoken of. Arthur asked, “And, what of the feminine beauty, Beyond?”
“The Beyond, the navel as it were, as exquisite a navel that could ever exist, is a connection to the womb, the reality of nature and substance – a surrounding embryo of circumstance. Artery and vein are blood, nourishment and waste. Self-discovery is but the nicked skin of Beyond.”
“I am not following, Merlyn.”
“No one follows self-discovery, Arthur. I say navel and you think breast and a bun as harbor for an unworn ship for your warm comfort when it is the beach, the round top of harbor where the real action is. You stay outside in the moment while I am inside the same moment and outside the moment too, both at once. Realization is both not and known. Realization is the noun, the heartanmind; but the verb, the soul, is what one must be.”
Arthur stood crossed, “The soul is a noun. You have told me such.”
Merlyn’s voice twinkled in tone, “I was wrong, Arthur. It is not.”
***
I am surprised, a scene with 1174 + words. I thought Merlyn was going to give a lecture-story analogy but he did no such thing.
He is not teaching Arthur, son, he is showing Arthur the landmark within is a verb. The heartanmind are turned within and the soul moves, it is not a movement. The soul is as the water in the River Styx. That’s how it is in here, orndorff. – Amorella
This is not my position on reality and philosophy. Your position cannot move. That is the reason I do the writing. When you are home from the Macy’s lot in Kenwood, where you find yourself now. You can post this at ease with the notion that for the time being scene six of chapter eight in book four, is complete. – Amorella
Why did I need to go through all the preliminaries, the notes?
Those were your heartanmind at work, boy. The scene however, is from your soul – that’s the way I see it. – Amorella
I am no different than Arthur in this.
Some time ago as this Arthur and Merlyn business was set up, you intuitively said that you would be as Arthur and your old friend Bob Pringle would play Merlyn. I have seen to it that you keep the bargain.
This is true, but it is not as I expected.
None of these Merlyn books or even this blog are as you expected, but then many of your friends and family think you are intelligent because they don’t know any better. Now, they know better. What irony, a teacher who is nothing more than a student, and not a very good one at that. – Amorella
Such stays my humor, but you are right – a hangman’s humor is better than none at all.
Irony jangles, orndorff, but you cannot hear the chimes.
The rope is taut and silent, Amorella.
So be it, boy. It is at that. Post the scaffolding. – Amorella
It is easy to see I will be working on this series and blog into my last days.
Everybody has a last day, just like sheorhe had a first. No prophecy in that, young man. There is a profit though, at least for those in the business. – Now, post. – Amorella
By the time we drove home and watched a few DVRed shows it is almost 2200 hours. I just remembered I hadn’t posted. That and we have to pack and lose an hour during the night because of the time change. Fortunately we are leaving tomorrow at eleven so it shouldn’t be so bad.
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