Richard H. Orndorff
Mason, Ohio
All rights reserved. No part of this near
final draft ebook
may be copied by any information storage retrieval
system
without the email written permission of the author.
However, readers of my encountersinmind blog
may,
at present, make a
personal copy of Great Merlyn’s Ghost
for their individual selves but not for
distribution.
rhorndorff@gmail.com
Copyright © 2012 by Richard H. Orndorff
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names,
incidents, mythology, culture and dialogue are the products of the author’s
imagination or they are used fictitiously.
GREAT MERLYN’S
GHOST I
A Personal
Exploration In Consciousness
By Richard H. Orndorff
Online Problems:
[No set pages, and line spacing is off sometimes. Sorry.]
i
Dedication
This book is
dedicated to each of my former students and to the many trusted colleagues with
whom I taught for thirty-seven years. The schools are: Magnetic Springs School,
Magnetic Springs, Ohio; Whitehall-Yearling High School, Columbus, Ohio; Escola
Graduada de Såo Paulo (The Graded School), Såo Paulo, Brazil; Indian Hill High
School, Cincinnati, Ohio; and William Mason High School, Mason, Ohio. You know
who you are, which is a good thing because I am not so good at remembering
proper names, including my own sometimes. Nevertheless, with a smile and a tip
of my well-worn black beret, I wish you all well. This is not the beginning of
yet another literary lecture.
***
ii
Acknowledgments
Many
of the legendary historical names, historical settings; the romantic and
neoclassical ideologies; and the scientific concepts and theoretical
plausibility’s entertained amongst the words and page margins can be found
throughout Wikipedia and the web.
I thank my life partner Carol, daughter Kim and son-in-law, Paul for their
diligence and patience. I also thank my good friends and the initial readers of
my original Merlyn’s Mind trilogy: Angie; Bob and Patti; Cathy and Tod;
Craig and Alta; Fritz; Gary; Jeanne and Jim; Laney; and my Aunt Patricia and
Uncle Ernie for their observations and helpful comments.
I
especially thank my dear old friend and literary colleague of forty years, the
late Thomas Robert Pringle, for his continued friendship and for his continued
permission to use a selection of his previously published and unpublished poems
in this novel.
Also, a special thanks to my two mostly unseen Muses; and, to my quite real theoretical
physics advisor with whom I discuss the many plausibility’s presented this
heavily revised self published Braided Dreams into this re-titled, Great
Merlyn’s Ghost, lifelong friend John Douglas Goss, PhD. Physics.
The writer within me is Amorella. During these last twenty-five years Amorella
has continued to self-help, self-advise and self-teach me to better communicate
my intuitive sense of a greater human reality through writing.
My
objective to present myself as a better writer with a more intellectually
stimulating and entertaining human spirit in this venture; mostly, I must say,
for my two young grandsons, Owen and Brennan. It is my hope that these works
will become a good part of their memory of a Papa who still loves them
very much.
Richard H. Orndorff
September 2012
***
iii
Prologue
If you the
reader choose to better understand the present existential circumstance of this
Merlyn’s human spirit, his coordinated and passionate heartansoulanmind since
his life and physical death in AD 670 read on.
Merlyn the Bard
***
Chapter One
The Supervisor has a little
saying:
Ring-a-ring
o'rosies
A
pocket full of posies
"A-tishoo!
A-tishoo!"
We
all fall down!
We
rise from clay
On
Judgment Day
Be
we dead or still alive.
Merlyn
has this little ditty memorized to the point it sits in stemmed reverence from
which the four-leafed chapter dream grows to novel size and beyond. Merlyn
kneads the dreams into words, the music for the heartansoulanmind whose
transcendental spirit shines. The words cast a light for those have no sight
and for those with an imagination that casts no shadow.
The Dead 1
This
Merlyn. The date is 15 December 2009. I have been here entangled between the
living and the dead since the book Merlyn’s Mind was published in May 2008.
This twenty-first century Earth is not the Earth I left in the seventh century.
This is for me how it is being entangled between your heaven and earth.
This
is Merlyn's Supervisor. Merlyn has a green felt
covered flat table-in-mind with six standard billiard pockets but his mind
never knows which is the pocket to the heart and which is the pocket to the
soul. No one knows how or why the secret tunneling exists to heart and to soul.
Here is another nearby spiritual entity.
“Merlyn,
this is your ancestral mother. You are indeed entangled between our ancestors
and descendants. We are all entangled whether we like it or not."
Upon
hearing Mother, Merlyn felt the smoothly rolling and solid black 8 ball in his
billiard table mind whisper, 'Life is armor for the spirit.' The concept too
quickly moves across his green felted table of mind to strike Merlyn's soul’s
pocket in a spin, then it re-cross the table to fall into his heart's side
pocket where it rolls unceremoniously into the darkness.
'I
am sick at heart,' popped at the diamond cue ball mark in Merlyn's mind as a
cautionary yellow 1 ball and was invisibly tapped to the near center of the
table.
Mother,
always the 8 ball, proceeded to sit on the diamond shaped and white cue mark on
green. "Merlyn, it is confusing to be mind-placed in a thinking
table."
A
quiet nearly invisible smirk crossed Merlyn's newly visible burnt orange 5 ball
near the far side pocket.
Mother,
caught his slight reflection on the ball.
Resting
small but human-like on the cue mark, Mother stated, "It has been almost
three years and you are still adjusting to the twenty-first century,
Merlyn."
Such
a direct statement shocked Merlyn's mind into a full table of sixteen scattered
balls. Directly, Merlyn sat on a favorite large rock on a granite slab in the
meadow-of-mind staring at a petite beautiful woman with the darkest eyes. Her
long curly black hair swirled over her magically feminine arms and legs,
fingers and toes and she appeared a legendary Celtic faery without wings or
wand.
With
a natural wizard's re-presence of mind, Merlyn asked, "Are you our once
original ancestral Mother, Glevema, the granddaughter of Panagiotakis, or are
you her later ancient Greek look-alike twin, Sophia?" He continued without
waiting for her response, "Are you Sophia the Greek during the time of the
First Rebellion in HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither?"
"I
am Glevema, your ancestral Mother of the Dead and all those presently born and
living on Earth." She stood slim, dark skinned and royal at her former
living height of five full feet at less than ninety pounds.
Merlyn
stood, bowed slightly and announced as in a whisper to the world of the Living,
"m'Lady."
Amused,
Glevema politely asked, "When did you last see Sophia?"
Merlyn
responded, "She was in charge of constructing a bridge across the River
Styx." It was only hours ago, thought Merlyn, that I witnessed the
beginning of the Rebellion of the first fully conscious ten-thousand human
spirits in Elysium, the Place of the Greek Dead. The First Revolt of the Dead
happened during the earthly time of the great Greek storyteller, Homer who
lived in the ninth century BC
(900-801BC). A brief and passing thought rolled slowly in a solid green
6 ball to the center billiard table of Merlyn’s mind, 'Wait,' he thought,,
'Today's Earth date is Sunday, 19 August 2012. Alas, I am an entrapped spirit
within and without time both at once.’
***
The Brothers 1
Robert
Greystone gave a swift glance at his younger brother and arrogantly said,
“Richie, what the world are you talking about?”
Richard
continued his spiel, “The brain and the mind are separate entities. It is
possible to be in two places at once.
“And,
you say the Leo Lamar in your mind writes the Merlyn books for you.”
“Yes,
he does. My fanciful Captain Lamar brings me slave stories on his ferry across
the Ohio River in my head. Lamar is a writing persona.” He thought, Lamar is
real too, but he would never say it aloud.
“Right.
Lamar’s small ferry travels from Mason County, Kentucky to Ripley, Ohio in your
head.
“He
does. Captain Lamar follows the famous route of the historic Underground
Railroad.”
“Richie,
why would you conjure up such a literary devise?”
“Captain
Lamar is from the underground in my head. The slaves are long held concepts,
too long held for the modern world.”
Robert
quipped, “So is your fiction, Dickie."
“The
stories are corded from the spine to the brain and then on to the mind,"
responded Richard.
“Why
don’t you just stick to writing the poetry?”
Richard’s
eyes narrowed, “You’re the better poet.”
“True.
I am.”
“Your
poetry is clear, concise and with no nonsense.”
Robert
expressed his amusement with a ‘yes, of course’ chuckle he knew his brother
hated, and said, “That’s because my brain and my mind are in the same place. I
don’t have a cigar chewing, Mickey Spillane loving, ratty old Captain Leo of
the whimsical good ferry, Stardust, bringing me poems hot from the
northern hills in the Kentucky of my mind.”
“Captain
Lamar just delivers the stories, Rob. I’ve told you that a dozen times before.
“It’s
all in your head.”
“Of
course it’s in my head. I know where it’s from, Rob, but the mind is not the
brain.”
“Is
this what floats your boat, Dickie? Because if it is, you as a college
professor should know better.”
“I’m
retired just as you are,” noted Richard, “neurologists argue on the definition
of mind. Here’s the first revised Merlyn chapter, read it over.”
“This
is what I mean, Richie,” said Rob, “you have how many other drafts? Why didn’t
your Captain Leo deliver the final Merlyn goods the first time?”
“I
have a better understanding today,” answered Richard truthfully.
“I
thought you wrote from your imagination.” Robert paused and drew a waggish
smile, “Do you remember when we first went to Ripley to see the Underground
Railroad?”
“Sure,
I was about eight. Grandma and Grandpa took and showed us where John Rankin
lived, the setting in Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Richard chuckled, “I thought
there was going to be a real railroad.”
“So
your stories float up from the underground railroad in your head.”
“Look
Robbie, people still want freedom from slavery.
“We
live in America. We have freedom,” said Robert. “You liberal thinkers are all
alike.”
Richard
retorted, “And you surgeons are really tight fitting bloated conservatives.”
“Too
many years of slave mastering your students is getting to you isn’t it?”
taunted Robert.
“I
wasn’t a slave master. I never had a student do anything I hadn’t done myself.”
“The
way I remember it you enjoyed whipping your freshman expository classes into
order every year."
Richard
scoffed, “They are called first year students today."
Robert skimmed the first half
page of manuscript in the nondescript blue folder and said, “Is this your final
draft?”
“Near
final. One chapter at a time.”
“I’ll
read it,” said Robert abruptly, but who's to say this is any better than your
first self published attempt?"
“You
are. Surely the significant poet in you can understand how writing a novel is.”
“I don’t know why you can’t just
stick with poetry," said brother Robert. “We could publish a good book of
poems together. This is what we were going to do when we retired. We each have
a lifetime of poems. We could set a theme, pull from a batch and have them
published.”
“I thought golf was more
important for retired doctors than getting poetry published.”
“A different vocation.”
Richard smiled nonchalantly,
“Balls and words both cut and slice.”
Robert
looked over his glasses after a quick skim of the chapter. “There are four
sections in each chapter?”
"Old Merlyn
is dreaming four stories simultaneously, one with the Dead, one in the present,
one in the past, and one in the future. The Dead dream like this,” declared
Richard with an air of unconscious authority.
“Where’s
more of “The Brothers” dream segment?”
"Read what you have,
carefully please. I'll get that segment to you. I'm reworking it,” stated
Richard. He left Robert to read more closely while he headed downstairs to see
spouse and sister-in-law. Of all things, he thought, here we are, two at-odds,
lone wolf identical twin brothers each married to the most compatible and
popular of sisters, Connie and Cyndi Bleacher, who were born a year apart but
who are otherwise almost identical twins themselves. Who would have thought?
***
Grandma’s Story 1
This
is Grandma Earth. I am here to show the DNA, the chromosomes, the genetics
lines of the Greystone and Bleacher families. It is not so complicated as one
might think. You may consider this genetic memory if you are not inclined to
accept the fact that human beings have a heartansoulanmind memory.
Grandma
Earth doesn't care what human beings think. She considers all consciousness a
child of herself. You come from the earth and you return to it, that's what my
stories are about. You have a spirit of higher consciousness that moves on
whether you like it or not. I have assembled twenty-one stories for this first
book, one for each chapter. Without the physical ancestors of the Greystone's
and the Bleachers, Robert and Richard and their chosen life partners Connie and
Cyndi wouldn't exist. Grandma’s old dark eyes glanced off the page, “And
without your ancestors you would not exist either.”
*
I have a long ago story for you,
said Grandma. I picked this memory from a direct ancestor of Rob and Richard; one
whose heart is still worldly troubled. Here is the beginning of his and his
granddaughter's unresolved conflict.
It is dawn and my shoulders
shiver. This is the way it is. I hear the crickets and other small creatures
around the swamp. I am in a hole in a wall and there is no way out. This is the
way it is. I cannot get out. Let me out. I am stuck. Let me out.
My
fingers are cold and full of ice. It is winter in spring. The birds sing. I am
no bird. It is cold, and I am ice forming on the river. I am floating and cold.
The river is not what I am. I am continuity, the common ground in icy hands.
I had a dream last night, and it
was a whopper. It was about these people who live way out among the stars, and
how it is when they are stuck too.
I
will tap out my message as people caught in a cave do. I have ice-cold fingers,
the Living listen. I remember time; it is in my own cold dawn. I am almost
eighteen thousand years old. I am stuck frozen and flat in the ice near the
cold stone that surrounds the pond of stars. I am here then and now. I am the
shaman dancing and I am in half a spirit living and half a spirit dead.
The dancing stopped. The shaman,
Panagiotakis, alive on earth in the man's memory looked to his audience,
pointed to a not so bright star in the night and said, “We are from there,”
then he pointed to the soil beneath his feet, “to here.” That is what the now
shivering shaman said. None of the onlookers slept well that night.
One
of those attentive listeners to the shaman, Panagiotakis, is Glevema, his
granddaughter. She tossed and turned and suddenly unexpectedly thought, ‘How
can we be here and there at the same time?’ Later in life, she died and found
herself waiting for members of her group to join her once they died and did not
die too. People had become respecting the Dead in the time of the Shaman who
still felt freezing cold, and people buried the Dead with rites and passages,
thus accommodating both the Living and the Dead at the same time. The Living
had made a conscious decision, to be in two places at once, to be with their
living friends and to be with the memories of their dead friends. Glevema
became the first human consciousness-in-spirit to enter the Place of the Dead.
*
Glevema
knows Grandma Earth with her white teeth gleaning through white paper usually
unsoiled with shadows. She looked out on her listeners young and old alike
staring at these passing shadows.
Child,
she said, you ain’t got a clue on what words are. I’m gonna sit on this here
stump and hope it won’t stain my pretty blue and white dress floating along in
a gentle breeze. To look into Grandma you need to search deep down into
yourself. You may not like it but I am your nature inside and out. The kerchief
on my head ain’t nothin' but the stars. You keep that in your head, if you got
a free mind and the will.
Grandma
glanced up beyond the dark sky of her head. The white of her puffy eyes showed
mysteriously dark pupils. I got me a chant to take us from a human story in the
past to a human story in the future. I am the heart on which the shamans dance.
Like other higher consciousnesses, Merlyn, in dreams or not, realizes existing
deadanliving is more than meets the eye. For instance, his lover, sweet Vivian,
who is his friend first wherever she is, meets his eye when it counts most.
From these two
ancient hearts by soul made one
Show these stories
where passions are begun.
Our well-known
druidess and druid will do,
They are in the same
like spirits that make up you.
In a timeless
corridor where musing memories rightly tie
Our Vivien and Merlyn
do consciously lie.
From romance and
Grandma's red, tooth-filled gums
Our narrative in
past, and also it, in future comes.
***
Diplomatic Pouch 1
Pyl
Williams-Burroughs sat straight and narrow upfront, to the left of the pilot,
her brother Blake, The second row seat behind Pyl had been taken out allowing
her thirty-three year old husband, Justin, to comfortably sit stretching his
legs from the third row of cabin seats. With the engine in idle the three
awaited runway departure instructions for take off from Detroit's old city
airport to Burke Lakefront in Cleveland. "On the Road Again" had just
begun playing in the background on the satellite radio with interspersing
interruption from the tower.
Pyl
turned excitedly, "Jus, what'd you think of the auto show?"
"I
liked it. I liked the new Ford Fusion the best."
"I
liked it too. Which one did you like best, Blakey."
"Right
now, I like the weather best. Sunny and mild, not bad for a third of the way
through January 2012."
"Who
would have thought we would fly to this year's show back in October,"
commented Justin.
"Warm
winter, so far," added Pyl somberly while thinking, if we ditch in the
lake we'll have no ice to land on.
Eyeing
his brother-in-law, Justin asked, "Isn't this a pretty old plane?"
"Hey,
the only thing we didn't add was a leather seat. We should have never ordered
these lamb covers. They are over ten years old and I can't stand them."
Pyl
reflected, when this plane was new Daddy had the most comfortable leather
seats, then said aloud, "Daddy loved this plane, didn't he Blakey?"
Sighing
in the upcoming air of redundancy and wondering how many times Justin had heard
about the Cessna, he dryly commented, "Daddy loved this plane, Pyl.” Being
too kind to his sister, he added the roughage, "Dad truly loved this plane
for the business it brought rather than pleasure it gave."
Pyl
cracked back, "We took so many family trips." She grumbled at her
wishful thinking, "No more kind Blakely, the B-butt is back."
Justin
perked at Pyl's fresh defensive tone and musing, ‘never-ending family
squabbles. I don't know how their parents put up with it.’
Talking
deeply and under breath, Blake commented matter-of-factly, "We are a go on
33."
Justin
leaned forward to sit up straight, adjusting so he could watch the instrument
needles fluttering and the worn but solid asphalt runway begin disappearing
beneath the rotating three blade prop as they were underway.
An
hour into their flight Blake and Justin were enjoying the quiet drown of the
engine along with the darker blue above and the gray blue waters of Lake Erie
thousands of feet below. Dusk around five, brooded Blake when the tip of the
left wing lightly tapped an unseen object. Blake quickly adjusted and settled
the flight.
"Was
it a bird?" asked Pyl cautiously.
"Sounded
like a new tire kicking up a stone," said Justin a bit more apprehensive
than his wife.
Blake
picked up the small binoculars for a quick inspection, "There's a crack
near the wing tip light. Damn, I just paid fifteen hundred for those." His
puffed lower lip and grumbling demeanor lead to another round of silence
through the uneventfully and thus satisfactory landing at Burke an hour before
dark.
While
Blake visually inspected the landing light held fiberglass wingtip more closely
he observed a minute gray spongy substance within the slight crack, it was
secondary to the fact that the crack appeared repairable for a lot less money
than he had anticipated.
"What
is that?"
"I
don't know, Justin." Then after a pause, "Probably bled out bird
gut."
"Squeeze
me some," ordered Pyl. "I'll have it analyzed. I want to see what
kind of bird it was."
"What
for?" moaned Justin. "Jeez."
"Not
much thanks Blakey. Justin, get me something to put it in."
A
quiet stranger walked up to the wing and seemingly began inspecting the damage.
Before
her brother spoke, Pyl asked politely, "May I help you?"
"I
saw you coming in. I am interested in buying an old Cessna P210N like this
one," commented the otherwise noncommittal stranger.
The
woman has such an odd dialect, thought Justin as he picked up a small envelope
for Pyl. Noting the stranger’s dark Mediterranean-like eyes, he first gave Pyl
the envelope and then extended his hand and said, "I'm Justin. This is my
wife, Pyl and that's her brother, Blake, on the stool."
The
words echoed through Friendly's marsupial humanoid mind and into her marsupial
humanoid heart. 'I am Justin - this is my wife Pyl and that's my brother Blake
on the stool.' This is my first formal introduction to a primatial humanoid.
This was not our plan. We cannot phantom why Ship allowed the collision.
Blackanot was on. At least there is no physical or mental harm to these
earthlings, but Ship requests we have this plane for deconstruction and
analysis. She quickly gathered herself into a warm smile, "Hello, I'm
Friendly."
"That's
your name?" questioned Pyl.
"Yes,"
Friendly gave her hand to Pyl, "that's my given name, and you are
Pill?"
Pyl
giggled, "My brother couldn't pronounce my real name so I have been stuck
with Pyl ever since."
Friendly
turned slightly and shook Justin's hand, "And you are the brother?"
"No,
he's my husband. Blake is still inspecting the damage."
Blake
commented, "We think a bird hit the wingtip light. A slight crack, but it
appears repairable."
"I
have a trace of the remains," added Pyl. "I'm going to have it
analyzed to see what kind of bird it was."
A
slight crack, thought Friendly. Ship was considerate. He would have been more
so had he not allowed the hit at all. Interrupting her thoughts she said,
"Well, good luck with making the repair. I assume you are not interested
in selling."
"How
much would you give for her?"
"Blake,”
complained Pyl, "Daddy would never want us to sell this plane. She's
family."
Looking
directly up into Blake's face with a renewed confidence for a quick end to the
matter, Friendly said, "Upon a decent inspection and fly about, I’ll give
you up two hundred thousand and not a dime more." She concluded with a
quick hard bargaining smile.
"Give
me your card. I'll contact you tomorrow," responded Blake with a bit more
politeness than he desired.
***
Chapter Two
The Supervisor has a little
saying:
Ring-a-ring
o'rosies
A
pocket full of posies
"A-tishoo!
A-tishoo!"
We
all fall down!
We
rise from clay
On
judgment day
Be
we dead or still alive.
Merlyn
has this little ditty memorized to the point it sits in stemmed reverence from
which the four-leafed chapter dream grows to novel size and beyond. Merlyn
kneads the dreams into words, the music for the heartansoulanmind whose
transcendental spirit shines. The words cast a light for those have no sight
and for those with an imagination that casts no shadow.
***
The Dead 2
Merlyn
sat alone on his heartansoulanmind-made stone on a fine Spring-like
heartansoulanmind-made meadow just this side of the mysteriously dark forest. I
witnessed much, he surmised, in having been living and dead in Anno Domini 670.
That is the seventh century according to what we were taught by the Church. I
suppose AD 670 was somewhere around my birth or death. I do not really care to
remember as dates are of little importance.
As
Druids we learned Celtic, Greek and Latin. We memorized vast tracks of folklore
and wisdom. This is what the Celtic society expected, and this is what we did.
He noticed, rather unexpectedly, the white cue ball materializes on his
nineteenth century mind created billiard table on the heartansoulanmind built
stone ruin of a stage in the meadow.
I
would rather enjoy these Scottish trees and the flowering meadow. He observed
the table and ball dissolve as a wispy white cloud’s in an early morning mist.
Out
of the corner of mind's eye Merlyn witnessed another once appear from behind
the nearby giant oak.
You
did not hear the cue ball tap one of your solids, asked the Supervisor
of the Dead.
'I
did not. I thought I was alone.'
'I
put the solid burnt orange in the far right pocket.'
''What
unconscious thought of mine did you just put away?'
'The
Boatman,' evoked the Supervisor.
Merlyn
smiled in surprise and with more childhood energy than he realized, he
responded, 'I don't have to pay the Boatman?'
'You
pay, boy,' snapped at Merlyn's tabled mind. 'Everybody pays the Boatman, even
me, the Supervisor of the Dead.'
Merlyn
muttered, 'In Sophia's ancient Greek day the pearly white Gate of Heaven rested
on the far side of her rubescent River Styx.'
'The
Styx is where you are,' commented the Supervisor dryly. 'This River you
speak of has many cultural names.'
Another
ferry, another boatman flashed in Merlyn. Captain Lamar. I can return to Earth
by the ferry once I find the real Captain Lamar? The Lamar in question whispered to Merlyn’s heart. Merlyn’s
mind registered 'Richard?” in the solid yellow 1 ball resting near the far left
corner pocket. Merlyn’s mind grumbled, 'Who is this Richard Greystone?'
Glevema
whisked herself out from his left fourth finger's nail and this time as a tiny
naked winged faery princess. 'Prick this fingerless finger,' Glevema suggested
to Merlyn's ear which he had not as she caressingly seduced his at once to him
a flesh covered finger into a position for her more feminine comfort.
'Whoa,'
whispered Merlyn suddenly thinking of his first love, Vivian. She suddenly
kissed and then slowly sucking down his now solidly fleshed fourth left finger,
that Merlyn smilingly knows doesn't really exist, even as skeletal bone in the
very real world of the early twenty-first century.
This
is the Nature of the Dead. Merlyn in a brighter awareness noticed the eight
ball now setting alone on the very center of the green-felted mind-slate. I
have no other balls, shuttered Merlyn, not even a cue ball to knock this
mother-in-the-meadow of an eight ball off center.
The
Supervisor being wise in forethought, dimpled as SheanHe sat on the fully
leafed gigantic oak limb hanging taut and strong, high above a young-spirited
Merlyn fully meadowed in his now vibrant passionate engine charging heartansoulanmind.
Merlyn said, “This, my human spirit, runs on a deeper gravitational energy than
love. I am hot in substance and now fully married as iron was to make steel.”
The
Supervisor of the Dead surmised, ‘Merlyn is as wound as any alarm clock in the
world of consciousness. Let him ring only when Necessity or the Boatman
demands it.’
***
The Brothers 2
“I
see we are at your house again today. What are you watching?” asked Robert.
Richard not stirring from his
comfortable easy chair, said, “An old National Geographic rerun on DNA.
A genetics researcher named Wells is showing that we men are all genetic sons
of a man who lived fifty-six thousand years ago in East Africa.”
Rob frowned slightly, “So what
else is new?” He sat next to a tall brass stick lamp their parents had bought a
year before they died. Turn us males and females upside down anywhere in the
world and we look enough alike; I don’t need DNA evidence to show me that.”
“That’s true,” replied Richard. “But
it's interesting that by sailing the oceans those early sailors moved the
brotherhood around the known world fairly quickly. Our genetic Eve existed
about one hundred and fifty thousand years ago or so. It is almost a hundred
thousand years between the genetic parents of everyone who is now alive.” While
speaking he glanced out the front window of their old white painted wood frame
built for five thousand dollars by their grandfather in 1903. We sit across
from College Cemetery; he ruminated, half a block west of the corners of Walnut
and Knox. My eyes bridge the dead everyday just as they did when we were kids
using the cemetery as a playground whenever it was prudent.
“Men are faster than women,
that’s the difference in the hundred thousand years,” chuckled Rob. “You got
anything to read? Where’s your latest Harper’s?”
“I hid it before you got here.”
What did he say first, thought Richard. "I pay for the subscription so
you'll get the new Harper’s when I'm done."
“I give you my poetry mags in
short order.” complained Rob. “By the way, what did you think of my latest
poem? You’ve had it for a week.”
“Hey, what’d you think of my
first chapter?” snapped Richard. “You’ve had it for almost a day now.”
Restless, Robert headed to the
refrigerator, “Where’s the high test Coke?"
“In the back on the right side
second shelf from the top.” Where it always is.
“Golf's on ESPN,” said Rob coming
into the room.
“You got it,” said Richard as he
pushed the remote.
“Where’s Lady?”
Richard spoke lazily in empathy
with their pet, “She’s sleeping on the living room couch. When Cyndi's gone
Lady heads for the couch. She can see the driveway and when Cyndi drives in,
off she goes.”
While watching a terrific putt by
Mark Wilson both snickered imperiously as the golfing crowd clapped
rewardingly, Robert said, “Where's Lady? Wake the old girl up for me.”
“Lady!”
shouted Richard, “Come here, girl!” A commercial later, Richard shouted again,
“Lady!” Still she slept. “She’s got junk in her ears again,” said Richard
brooding on how, Rob’s fox terrier named Jack is always obedient. He added,
"Cockers have ear problems.”
“So
do you,” parried Rob.
“Damn
dog,” grumbled Richard as he rolled out of the couch.
Robert
heard the growl then another “Damn!” He got up to see the comedy. “What
happened?” he asked impatiently waiting for an echo of humor.
“She
bit me on the hand. Look at this!”
“I
see the marks but she didn’t draw blood. You must have startled her, Dickie. He
looked down seeing Lady cowered under the coffee table. “Come on out, girl.
It’s okay,” coaxed Rob in a soft voice. Lady crept out with her ears down. My
Jack would never bite me, thought Rob. His slight smirk made it clear to
Richard what his brother was thinking.
Robert
pulled up Lady’s right ear. “You’re right. Look at the wax and crude in here.
Get some tweezers and swabs,” then he added, “and scissors, she’s got hair
tangles in there. I’ll clean this out.” Rob gently petted her, “It’ll be okay
girl. You are such a pretty Lady. Pretty Lady,” he continued, stroking the
venerable tan and white cocker spaniel until Richard arrived with the small box
of ear cleaning material.
The
aging cocker soon found herself with cleaned ears and quickly leaped up on Rob
for a wonderland of a belly scratch.
Richard hit the remote during the next commercial and caught the tail
end of a broadcast asking for donations."
“Everyone
wants a donation,” said Robert.
“I
agree,” responded Richard as he flipped the channel back to ESPN. “I'm tired of
all of it, charity, religion, politics - all of it."
Rob
added, “Our two dogs have a better life than either of us.”
“True,”
said Richard as he reached and stroked Lady, “but she cares for us as only a
mother might.”
Rob
responded on cue, “We have to take care of ourselves. Nothing's free.” He
groused, “It's a miracle our species has survived this long.”
That’s
true, considered Richard. The fifties and sixties, how did we survive that? No
one our age thought we would live to be thirty and here we are seventy this
year. “And, the world is worse now than it was then.”
“No,”
argued Robert, “it was worse with the arsenal the Soviets and Americans had
pointed at one another.”
“One
day some crazy group will explode a nuclear weapon somewhere in the remote
Pacific and then say they have another, that's all it would take, even if they
didn't have another.”
“Why
didn’t Truman do that?” said Robert. “Why couldn’t we have dropped the bomb
near Japan so the power would not be hidden from the general population?”
“War
is not humane,” commented Richard.
Robert
countered, “But it’s human enough.”
“War dogs take care of their
own,” noted Richard.
“War dogs hardly ever bite the
hand that feeds them,” snickered Robert.
“Remember
Rob," jibed Richard as he stuck his right forefinger in the air, "a
bone in the hand is worth more meat in the bush. Cheer up decrepitly like
me." Both laughed.
***
Grandma’s Story 2
Grandma traces Homo sapiens’
genetic Eve’s DNA through various shamans or storytellers because they
understand Merlyn's use trancephysics, though not by that name. Trancephysics
is a vehicle Merlyn uses to slide his spirit through the heart of Captain
Lamar, the heart that is in reality the heart of Richard Greystone, the younger
brother of Robert.
One might consider trancephysics
a retro-quantum entanglement in modern times because a quantum meadow of
reality coupled with a heavy mist of Chaos theory presents a thin faery-like
wall of separation when both exist in a natural embrace or so it seems. Quantum
and Chaos theories graduated like everyone else living from the last century to
the present one where the Living exists. There are earlier time-tested
qualities of heart and soul and mind than the one Merlyn livingandead is
presenting. Sir Phillip Sydney, a tolerable Elizabethan poet from a few hundred
years back created a quiet two philosophical lines about it in his poem,
"Arcadia”.
My
truelove hath my heart, and I have his,
By
just exchange one for the other given:
Merlyn
deadanliving intuitively sides with the poet though he appreciates the modern
sciences. Anyone who has ever been deeply in love like Merlyn has experienced
nearly the same inwardly event as the poet Sir Phillip Sydney so eloquently
describes in those two lines above. One doesn't need a degree in physics to
understand how one’s humanity may snare one human being into the entanglement
of another. Merlyn feels however that his trancephysics is beyond the deepest
love’s qualities. This is Merlyn’s heartansoulanmind that slides annoyingly
within the human spirit of Richard Greystone.
Define
the human heart, the soul, and the human mind. Is the human heart and soul and
mind science or philosophy? What is the entanglement within a single human
spirit? How and why does it work? How do any two human spirits come to share an
intangible bond without being conscious of this experience as it happens? This
unconsciously connected ‘invisible bond’ is an undeniable human experience that
may remain forever wordless but nevertheless mutually understood between two
people who may rarely meet when living. This is how it is between Merlyn the
seventh century Bard and Richard Graystone.
Stranger
experiences than this happen within the broader human experience. People have
family stories hesitantly told because the stories are beyond belief. Below is
one of those stories, noted Grandma with the flashing wink of her darkly
piercing left eye. This story is told by a descendent of the cave man caught in
the ice in Merlyn’s first chapter installment.
The shaman, Panagiotakis, from
the ancient middle eastern region of the world once told his audience they
could be among the Stars and here on Earth at the same time. His favorite
grandchild, Glevema, asked the pertinent question, “How can this be,
Grandfather, that a person can be here on Earth and out among the Stars at the
same time?” Ironically enough, Glevema had to physically die before she could
more fully began to understand her grandfather’s earlier response to the only
real question she ever asked of him. After finding herself consciously both
deadanliving at the same time she discovered other heartsansoulsanminds at the
Place of the Dead.
Glevema soon realized these other
human-like spirits with heartsansoulsanminds appeared as she did deadanliving,
had been physically similar to human beings on Earth. One of the most noticeable
differences between her and the other women was the spiritualization or manifestation,
if you will, of a pouch in the lower belly. As Glevema was the first of
humankind to find a way to the Place of the Dead she was allowed to stay, but
once a few human spirits made their way to this Place she was allowed to form
an Earth oriented Place of the Dead. She and the few other human spirits moved
on, as it were across a divide that may have been miniscule or huge. No one
knew. In those times the human spirit worked within the engine of passion for
acceptance and for learning how to better balance the appearance of separation
between heart and soul and mind. On Earth out of necessity of physical survival
each groveled with the other on how it is to behave in an orderly way for the
species to survive better, so that each generation might grow better, behave
better, learn more, and live more comfortably within the framework of Earth’s nature,
which they assumed was not that much different from their own nature. That’s
how it was in those early days in the Place of the Dead.
A direct female descendant of the
drowned granddaughter, Glevema, traveled from what is now northern Italy to
Spain. This was about ten thousand years ago, and within the next thousand
years of generations, she had found herself on the British Isles with a trading
people from the Continent now called Basques. A few had settled on in lower
western Scotland. As the families grew, some moved on to Ireland. Others
drifted to Wales and England. More than five thousand years later, a shaman
appeared who had some tall tales centered on Mother Earth, the Sun, the Moon,
the Stars, and the Nature of human beings.
This particular shaman spent much
of his time walking the woods and daydreaming north of England’s Salisbury
Plain. The shaman dreamed a new story. He was five when he first had the dream
but when he awoke, it wasn’t there. The next night he dreamed the event again
and thought about it for the next fifteen years. The vision settled in on a
rebellion in the Place of the Dead. This is what he told the tribe:
“The cold, icy fingers of the
Dead feel their way back to our Mother Earth. The Dead do not have to go all
the way to the Stars in Heaven or even to the Moon. The Dead are within us.
He related this to others and
said, “If you cremate the Dead, their bones will be blackened like the night.
They will not have to see their bodies rotting and the animals won’t dig them
up, and the quicker they will be a part of Mother again, and best of all, they
will have no icy cold fingers reaching out to us the Living.” He continued,
“You can close the gate to burial place with stones. Stones don’t move so
easily as the spirits do.”
The stones never move themselves,
but some people claimed that they could sense the stone moving within, as if
something living was trapped in the stone. People have a spirit and so do
stones. Stones can appear dead on the outside but be living on the inside. People
can appear living on the outside and be dead on the inside. Stone and people
have that in common.
*
Grandma snickered. “Stones, a few of them, are like
bones,” she said, “line them up just right and they lie right in front of you,
that’s the truth of it.”
Grandma glanced beyond the gloomy
sky above. “I got me a chant, she added, to take us from a past to a future.
Grandma rushes from past to future, just like lovers young and old are about to
embrace.
From two venerable human hearts
created to sing
Return this story to where other
passions ring
The well-known druidess and druid
will do
In a similar spirit body that
dresses you.
Within a corridor where stirring
memories show
Vivien and Merlyn on Charon’s
ferry flow
This time when Grandma chants and
hums,
A marching future stage this way
drums.
***
Diplomatic Pouch 2
The
next morning Blake rambled down the stairs to find Pyl and Justin sitting at
the table with toast and a cup of coffee and the Cleveland Plain Dealer.
"Morning," he murmured. Glancing out the large back kitchen window
and added, "Looks like quite a few dog walkers out at the park."
"Joggers
were out earlier," commented Justin, and with the slightest of sarcasm he
continued, "Just another wonderful day in the neighborhood."
"Right."
Pym
put down the editorial page and said, "Are you really willing to sell the
plane?"
"The
offer is thirty-thousand more than its worth."
"Why
is that?" said Justin. "Pyl and I were talking about this
earlier."
Blake
walked to the cupboard for a mug, the refrigerator for skim milk, and the
pantry from instant cocoa mix. "The woman said, ‘tops at two
hundred,’" He quickly tore the package open and added "Odd that she
brought up her top price rather than low-balling. I will say that." He
nuked the mixed milk and powdered cocoa.
Pyl
commented, "Justin thinks the woman has a mixed Boston and Brooklyn
accent. I agree that it's unusual, maybe English is a second language."
Blake
laughed, "Or she's from down in the hills and worked to rid herself of
that hill twang. Business people don't like that slow Appalachian tone even if
the grammar is correct." He surprised himself by siding with the woman but
he hated the injustice that sometimes comes from not speaking correctly."
He sat facing the window in his chair at the kitchen table.
His
sister tweaked, "You've taken a liking to her sudden friendliness, huh,
Blakey."
Justin
quickly added, "Sell the plane and gain a businessman’s wife, is that the
plan, old man."
"Then
we'd have the plane back," joked Pyl; afterwards thinking that wouldn't be
a bad idea.
"Don't
you too have to go to work today?"
"We
took the day off."
"If
you stayed in Daddy's business like I did you wouldn't have to be going into
working at all," said Blake dryly, while hopefully wishing they would help
run the company. 'We live in the
family house together. We might as well all be working at the same place mostly
from here,' is what he wanted to say, but didn’t have the heart to.
***
Midmorning.
Ship hovers well above the air traffic and well below any orbiting satellites.
Lake Erie is straight down. Friendly sits around a handsomely dark p2wooded
table-from-the-floor with Hartolite and Yermey. They are drinking a
good-for-you yummy twistanshake and nibbling on p1green-forest-nuttleberry
treats. All three sit bare breasted in colorful boxershort loungers relaxed on
comfortchairs down so their clean bare feet with well trimmed toe nails are
firmly snuggled in the greenest plushest living blades of grass this side of
HomePlanetsThree. Ship's floor is a living piece of bio-diverse machinery from
his outer hull to his antigravobars pulse that allows these three perspicacious
marsupial humanoids to serve as Ship's heart, Ship's humanity heart, but not
Ship's mind which mostly is his own.
The
worst that can happen is Ship will run naked to HomePlanetsThree with for his
living bioheart crew attached. When it comes to fight-or-flight the marsupial
humanoids have always had some place to run for their own survival and safety.
They have not had to stand-an-fight event for over twenty thousand earth years.
Cultural social consciousness is the necessity that sees to that.
"Do
you think he'll take your offer?" asked the fit and ready-for-another-swim
Hartolite.
Yermey
stated, "I'm more interested in why Ship allowed the Cessna wingtip's
touch. Ship had to know the plane was close and he chose to do little about
it."
With
gazed eyes narrowing Captain Friendly commented, "Ship allowed a touch not
a collision. I too wonder about this. For now though we need to go with what
is. Unknowingly this woman named Pill has scientific evidence of our existence,
and there may be microscopic evidence attached the plane, traces of blackenot
tissue for instance. I think it would be easier to buy the plane and allow them
to make a healthy profit in the process. Besides, an electromagnetic anomaly
may have allowed the plane to tap Ship. Godofamily only knows stranger things
have happened in this galaxy.
"What
do we do?" questioned Hartolite. "Ship is autonomous as we came here
on our own orders, not from ParentsinCharge."
"We
came to save this species of primates from a most abominably deathly
plague," whispered Friendly in her an unconventionally commanding tone.
"We
cannot know this plague is for certain," calmed Yermey in an impish smile.
"It is highly probable though, highly probable." This he quietly
reasoned is because otherwise I would not have volunteered for this
surreptitious expedition.
***
Chapter
Three
The Supervisor has a little
saying:
Ring-a-ring
o'rosies
A
pocket full of posies
"A-tishoo!
A-tishoo!"
We
all fall down!
We
rise from clay
On
judgment day
Be
we dead or still alive.
Merlyn
has this little ditty memorized to the point it sits in stemmed reverence from
which the four-leafed chapter dream grows to novel size and beyond. Merlyn
kneads the dreams into words, the music for the heartansoulanmind whose
transcendental spirit shines. The words cast a light for those have no sight
and for those with an imagination that casts no shadow.
***
The Dead 3
The
livingandead Merlyn stepped onto the slab of non-granite where he stationed his
non-sitting stone, or throne, as he likes to call it; the esoteric mind-home he
created for the etherial domain of his earthly spirit.
*
In
HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither each spirit is allowed a private sanctuary of
herorhis own rightful choosing. This is the primary reason the
marsupial-humanoids chose to call this Place of the Dead, where Merlyn
eventually found himself after physical death, HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither.
The
Dead are not so empirical with the naming-of-things; at least one is no more
empirical than one's own heartansoulanmind is. The spirit, the humanity,
attempts to keep a balance of the once (while living) unconsciousness and
which, while dead, is consciousness. The human spirit decides and judges the
just worthiness of herorhis otherwise fragile and unearthly habitat. The
gravity, the passion by which one's self-worth and dignity holds the spiritual
track, of the two rail tracks on which one’s human spirit rides one is the
recent unconscious mind made conscious and the other the conscious mind one had
in life.
Knowing
one's self never has a deeper meaning when deadanliving. Balancing one's real
self with who one was in life is not an easy matter. Many of the Dead,
marsupial humanoids or earthlings remain silent for a long time for good
reason; learning who one is before learning who the other Dead are. These are a
few of the rules that apply. The similarity with the Living, the real world is
that nothing is free. Each pays the Boatman, no matter who she and/or he
was in life.
*
To
the North of Merlyn's roughshod though comfortable wooden hut Merlyn sits on
his smoothed stone chair. This throne rests on a well-laid granite slab to the
immediate right of the large tall and stately oak. Merlyn glances north into
the spiritual configuration of a securely woven cloth-like matrix to better
dress the energetic and passionate cocoon of Merlyn's heartansoulanmind.
To
the northeast of his throne lie the moss-blotched two-foot high flagstone front
stage ruins on which he had first magically danced as a child. Around and
beyond the stage are a continuation of Scottish meadow grass and flowers.
Flower of color, a brush of bluebells and ox eyed white daisies to the left and
a caress of white foxglove and red poppies to the stage ruin's right. To the
further north a large stand of Scottish Pine grows grandly tall on a higher
rising sloop.
On
Merlyn's nearer right as he views north is a great bald granite dome. Skirting
the granite mountain is a fence of purple heather. Watching the yellow sunrise
over such a large and handsome dome of graveyard created stone is a continual
reminder to Merlyn of how close in thought the physical universe lies. Merlyn
thinks, 'this was once an unscalable scene by human and marsupial humanoid
alike.'
The
southern aspect of Merlyn's domain lies in a valley of thick oak forest
scattered with hazel bushes and stands of birch. Further into southwest of
Merlyn's druidic domain are two wild apple trees with red melancholy thistles
scattered about, both a delight to Merlyn’s heart and mind.
To
the West not far from the hut and nearby granite slab on which Merlyn sits, he
can see the slowly moving river slightly camouflaged by well-leafed young trees
and bushes. Merlyn has one-man tanned leather and stick framed Celtic boat, a
curragh, resting on the bank. On the other side of the fishable stream tall and
more majestic oak stand.
Quite
satisfied with his ancient earthy projected surroundings, Merlyn glanced up
beyond the blue and sun to see the faint outline of his basic chess-squared
spirit threaded his imagination and reasoning. It is here where Merlyn flashed
on the reality of his entangled presence in the heartansoulanmind of present
day Richard Greystone.
Glancing
down at the seeming reality of the stage ruins, Merlyn smirked slightly and
thought of the Boatman who ultimately held his holistic awareness of
metaphysics and physics at bay. He grumbled, "My life will continue in
chapters." An astute Voice breathed into Merlyn's ghostly ear, "You
pay the Boatman just like everyone else, boy. No exceptions."
With
that a fellow spirit appeared in his staged ruins. "Hello, Merlyn,"
said this human spirit who was once raised ancient Greek, "this is Sophia
your friend and leader of the First Rebellion of the Dead."
Sophia
begins to walk towards Merlyn and stubs her right big toe on a stone nearly buried in the meadow
grass. She bends down to see what it is, and puzzled, she picks up a black
marble ball from beneath the rotted board side of the stage ruin.
Surprised
at this uncalled-for scene Merlyn noted, ‘Sophia just stumbled onto that mother
of an 8 ball in my mind.’ In a second thought he concludes, ‘No need of mirrors
in this Place of the Dead, no need at all.’
***
The
ever-learning Dead live in a transparent setting; a visitor can glean
information from their heartansoulanmind wrappings of what is important in the deadanliving
spirit in the existential moments of the visit.
The Dead 1.2.3 in Synopsis
The Brothers 3
The
next day Richard walked up the steps and down the hall to Robert’s present
study.
“This
room is like our old club house as kids. No women allowed,” announced Richard.
Both
laughed, and Robert added, “And to think, we both had girls.”
“Just
as well,” responded his brother.
“I
got rid of the ragged flowers on Mom and Dad’s graves this morning?”
Robert
replied, “I'll tell Connie as Memorial Day is coming up.”
“I
still like walking Lady through the cemetery in the morning.”
“Just
like Papa used to do,” chuckled Robert. “And, Dad too. I sometimes walk Jack
down to the cemetery but we usually go to the park and along the river below
the cemetery instead."
Smiling
with restored energy Richard sat across from his father's old work desk. “We
used to explored the cemetery, its mausoleum and the river valley as kids.”
“Fun
times,” declared Robert.
“You
know," asserted Richard, "People still say it's haunted on the west
side of the Mausoleum where the old trail leads to the woods down the hill.”
Robert
sighed, “Dad never said, but Mom thought it was haunted too. It was an old
story about seeing people walking who weren’t there. I have a poem about it
somewhere."
"Published?"
"It was, some years ago in
our own Riverton Historical Society bulletin," responded Robert.
"Mom always believed in
ghosts but Dad never did."
In a sadder than expected tone,
Richard said, "I don't think Dad ever believed in anything."
"Not in our lifetime anyway.
What are the girls up to?"
"They are getting ready to
go shopping."
"Why did I even ask?"
moaned Robert.
"I got the car if you want
to head over to the used book store."
Perked, he asked, "The one
that used to be a church?"
"Why not, we haven't been
over there for a while."
"You know I'm looking for an
old copy of Ferlinghetti’s "Coney Island of the Mind".
"When Cyndi and I were in
Frisco last year we stopped at Ferlinghetti’s City Lights bookstore. They had a
republication his classic Coney Island of the Mind."
Robert comment ranked with
caustic tone, "I used to have a signed first edition, but I can't find
it.”
"Julie probably borrowed it
to show her classes. Her favorite Ferlinghetti’s "Coney Island of the Mind
# 5", the same as me."
"I can't believe she has a
popular unit on fifties Beat poetry," Robert paused, "she didn't have
to take my signed copy though."
"Maybe she didn’t. Give her
a call. Do you want to go to books or not?"
Robert mumbled, "Old books
are one of the few things we have in common these days. Let's go."
A few minutes later the house was
quieter by two and Connie and Cyndi were still sitting at the kitchen table
drinking tea with an opened recent House and Garden and a like themed iPad app
or two.
"It
is hard to believe the boys just turned seventy," whispered Cyndi.
"We're
not far behind."
"They
been going to that used bookstore for at least forty years."
"Was
it ever a church in our lifetime?"
"I
imagine it was. That’s the closest place the boys will go to a church setting.
They always seem to come back with an old book or two."
"Julie
usually borrows the poetry to show her classes."
Connie,
still whispering, commented, "Robbie always wanted Julie to go into
medicine, to be a surgeon like himself."
"You
wanted her to be a cardiovascular nurse like we are."
"She
didn't want either so we directed her into case management nursing and she
didn't want that either."
"Julie
always wanted to be a teacher like Richard."
"Does
she still call him Uncle Dickie?" giggled Cyndi.
"That
was always Robbie's doing." Both laughed.
"What
kind of countertop do you really want?"
Exasperated,
Cyndi snapped, "Richard says he doesn't care. He says that, but whatever
we end up with he won't like it."
"They
are both stubborn and single-minded. We knew that when we married them. Both
hide themselves in each other -- personality quirk of identicals, I
suppose."
“How
in the world did we ever decide who was going to marry whom?”
“I
think we flipped for it,” said Cyndi. Both laughed independently, one never
knew who was going to stop first. This is one of the small differences in being
close sisters and not being identical twins like Robert and Richard. At least
this is what they always believed to be true.
***
The Brothers 1.2.3 in Synopsis
Grandma’s Story 3
A young woman by the name of
Qwinta stands staring at a multi-shaded orange maple leaf. The orange hue is
the complex of the photosynthesis of carbohydrates using the energy of
sunlight. Qwinta is within sight of a body of water that some eight thousand
years from her time on Earth will be identified as Lake Champlain in the
supposedly united state of Vermont.
Eight
thousand years ago Qwinta imagines the orange hue of the beautiful autumn maple
leaf to be that of the ghostly kneeling Princess, a royal canoeist in an
artfully decorated regal dugout. To touch this enchanting maple leaf Princess
Qwinta more earnestly imagines . . .
.
. . The maple wood paddle the Princess is using and I, the Quinta, become as one-in-mind
. . . I am the paddle’s head, its grip. I am the head; the shaft-and-blade
become two . . .
. . . The royal hand on the grip, my
head, becomes one with the drop and swirl movement of the paddle through the
water. When the paddle is lifted from the water, a ripple ensues. The ripple is
a wave with a reflected orange in the Maple leaf . . .
.
. . The very spirit of the one
whose hand dips like a paddle into the River of the Dead also lifts up and
leaves a ripple as it passes from one side of the profound and ethereal current
to the other side. The swirling spirit, the sculling spirit also manifests itself
into the maple tree reflected water is swirled into this lone maple leaf as the
paddle rises . . .
.
. . I, Qwinta, a Princess spirit and mind, am the causal connection between the
Living and the Dead just as the maple tree, paddle and canoe, are the one; the
only causal connection between the sun, the color and this fallen maple leaf.
Grandma all wonderfully black,
full bosomed, and full hipped, is colorfully costumed in Caribbean Island dress
sashays around, and she says, “There isn’t a reason on this Earth for people to
be touched by Perfection. Since I dance in the physical sciences of the
universe, I don’t see any reason to be touched. Matter and the spirit each have
their own interests.”
Grandma matter sometimes settles
in earthquakes as a reminder of what she is when there is an immediate
connection with the Living and the Dead. Get in Grandma's way and pay. That is
a rule. Human species, be they marsupial or primate, have the imagination and
the reason to do good if they wish, but it is a human equation. I operate by
Necessity and you have the necessity to operate.
Grandma
beamed and redressed in dark-bottomed clouds with sunlight and she rained big
drops, “Physics has a framework and the interior of human and marsupial skulls
will shine quite nicely within it."
Muddy waters may run full and fast
And show a future from this woman's
past,
This story of light leafs from
orange and sun
Allowed by Nature's
photosynthesized mask.
Thus from old Grandma’s waves of
rain
A maple leaf and another
imagination sprang.
***
Grandma's Story 1.2.3 in Synopsis
Story 1
Like
other higher consciousnesses, Merlyn, in dreams or not, realizes existing
deadanliving is more than meets the eye.
Story 2
In those
times the human spirit worked within the engine of passion for acceptance and
for learning how to better balance the appearance of separation between heart
and soul and mind.
Story 3
Get in Grandma's way and pay.
This story of light leafs from orange and sun;
A
maple leaf and another imagination sprang.
***
Diplomatic Pouch 3
After
the three had a lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches with a side of chips Pyl
took leave to check the yard for sticks blown from trees, as it is another
pleasant Cleveland day in January. "How is the company, Blake?" asked
Justin as they headed to the comfortable couch and two high back chairs in the
Bose media room. Once Blake adjusted the smooth jazz to play in the background
and they were comfortably relaxed. Blake talked as the CEO of Electronic Communication
Software.
"You
know Dad started in a small empty office space that had been a used book store
downtown near Fenn College with an electrical and software engineer."
Justin
smiled, "Who would have thought Fenn Engineering would become Cleveland
State."
"Dad
took some classes there in the early sixties but moved to Case Western-Reserve.
We've lived in this area for fifty years. Pyl and I grew up in the three-story
off West Fairmount in Cleveland Heights."
"Pyl
asks me to drive by every time we come up. I love that big screened in side
porch."
"Dad
had it screened. He reconditioned the old electric motors himself. We used it
full time most of the summer. Anyway, in the late seventies he thought about
putting chips into the radar detector business following the tenets of
Cincinnati Microwave, but he moved into more heavily into software and built
the electronics around it.”
Justin
shook his head positively and both sat chilling on a George Benson's guitar
piece.
Pyl
strolled in from the back yard. "I love that big old sugar maple, look,
it’s January and I found a beautiful orange leaf, except for the edges, down in
the bushes." She gave it to Justin and sat down beside him.
"I'm
thinking about getting that maple cut down, Pyl, it's getting old; and, it’s
the highest tree out back. If we get a terrible wind it could fall on the
house," said Blake too perfectly serious.
Justin
glanced at the rising anger in Pyl’s face and turned up the Walter Beasley sax
rendition of "Do You Wanna Dance," as he took a slow sip of his Coke
thinking on how Blake throws the bait and Pyl almost always picks it up. It's no wonder we don't live this close
to home.
***
On
Ship, after a shared communial lunch the three continued sharing. Hartolite
whispered, “Do you need a little more action, Yermey? She noted his typically
quiet smile as his right hand slowly slid into her silky smooth and warm pouch.
She sighed in the companionship.
His
words stumbled, "It's been five years since I've this dressed this far
down." Probably be five more years after this little meetanmatch, he
thought. Whenever the women have big decisions to make a hot itch comes over
them and there is not a man alive who can satisfy it. My right hand rests in
dreamland. Such is a male’s only real pleasure.
Friendly
leaned up from his stomach and giggled, "It's been ten years if it's been
a day since we’ve seen you in this position." Hartolite echoed the
snicker.
Yermey
unslid his hand-in-pouch and abruptly sat and climbed out of bedfromthewall. He
grumbled as he walked to the wall, pulled out fresh overalls from the chute and
one at a time he lazily dropped his legs into them, pulled them up and felt the
cloth quickly adjusted to his size and unwrinkled. A general distain arose from
his mind, 'the women pop us in those pouches when we are tiny crawlers and
never let us go. We men grow up expected to put a hand in a pouch at soon we
see a woman's seductive glance. Alas, when little crawlers we cannot survive
without a crawl-shinny into a pouch. Hi heart murmured, ‘Such is biological
fate.’ Yermey turned to the bedfromthewall; His soul adjusted with, ‘the women
are gone and without even a polite word of thanks. It is just as well.’ He
gathered his three positions and conferenced them for deeper introspection
later.
In
such a moment Yermey turned too moody philosophizing on the ancient marsupial
humanoid children’s stories. I don’t believe the myths of our clergy, he
thought - ancient fableizing hint at untellable truths. There is a close
connection between our two species’ Concept-of-Godofamily; such as our Fall-from-Grace
before creation of the galaxy. These HighPrimates have their similar story.
Less
sombering matters. Friendly is always upbeat and positive. I would never move
her to gloom. Hartolite is one good handsome cuddlanbabe. When I imagine
resting my hand in her pouch almost every night I go right to sleep.
Imagination is so much easier than the complications of inanout experience. We
would just as soon do our life’s series of services-for-the-species: imagining
more comfortable educational and entertaining settings for our-family-of-selves
and the safest, most efficient and easily manipulative devices possible to
obtain and sustain our species’ goals for living full consciously, humanely and
well for ourselves, our immediate families-in-time and our
ThreePlanetCommunity.
Meanwhile,
Hartolite and Friendly had come to a mutual conclusion. Captain Friendly softly
declared, “We buy the Williams’ plane tomorrow or leave them two hundred
thousand and take it. I want done with this. Then we must create the best, most
efficiently way to directly contact this HighPrimate species. The shock will do
them well," concluded Friendly, but Hartolite’s facial expression made
Friendly quickly ask, “Is it ‘do them well’ or ‘do them good’”?
***
This
existential story is the observation of two alien species (marsupial and
primate); who since the second rebellion of the Dead, are consciously sharing
HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither. The Living alien species are becoming acquainted.
Pouch is an introductory costume ball, mixed species only.
Diplomatic Pouch 1.2.3 in Synopsis
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