Later
mid-morning. Carol is at breakfast with her retired Blue Ash teacher friends.
You had breakfast, waxed the dining room table, repaired an air stop strip under
the front door, and 'waxed' the kitchen floor just to be done with it. You
noticed on email that Doug said, "good landing" for which you are
happy with it, as he is a pilot. In an earlier email (upon your asking) he said
that Nancy does read the postings but that he usually responds, since he is up
earlier. Nancy does peruse his emails sometimes so from now on we assume both
are involved so if unclear it is Doug and Nancy, if appropriate clear it is
Doug whom you are responding to. - Amorella
I still need to clean the cat litter boxes.
So, go to it, boy. - Amorella
1305
hours. I have been putting the three chapters together as a unit.
Go ahead and drop it in and let's post. -
Amorella
***
Great Merlyn's Ghost
© 2012 Richard H. Orndorff
Chapter 7
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 7
Merlyn stands by the chair rock in his sanctuary and turning to his west, looks
through the heather and between oak and birch to the cold river water. He
conjures lifelong memories of fishing from such rivers. I see exciting flashes
of great catches of salmon, trout, northern pike and arctic charr. The size,
shape and colors of the many fish quickly slide away. They are but bait for
memories grab at those many daydreams while on those fishing days. Youthfully
fantasies stirred my body's male nature through lonely and sometime surreal
surroundings hot kettled in my budding druidic heartanmind. What be the name
that is alphabetized first, Vivian. We are such human creatures of familiar
habits -- toys we are to one another whether in embrace or no. Such souls as we
dance within our heartsanminds so close we are that might we share sanctuaries
unknown to one another, especially in such a place as this bridge from
deadanliving to the living.
The billiard table rises. Merlyn stares at the bunched balls near
the side rail. The yellow one sets to the left of the orange striped thirteen
and the purple striped twelve ball. To the right of the striped are three
solids, the blue two, green six and maroon seven. What is the meaning of how
these balls lay, he wonders. Am I like the ancient Greek prognosticator
stirring up the recent entrails of intention within my romantic mind or an
astrologer looking at the alignment of billiard ball rumination rather than the
cognation behind this illusionary table of the mind. Yet what am I to see in
this would be reflected as a vision by any other name but my own.
"You are captivated by my presence, Merlyn," said Vivian in a clearly
suggestive voice."
It is as though she were facing me within this intimate interval with my heart
alone, thought the one time Celtic sorcerer and bard.
"Which of these vividly hued balls would you have me be when I am more
myself as the table on which to dress your endearingly passionate
contemplations -- no need of cue stick or balls with me, my dear man,"
winked this enlightened, shrewd and otherwise foxy tailed apparition of
Merlyn's first known woman of druidic stature.
'My dear man,' those were the last words Vivian said to me in life, the last
ones I heard with my own ears. Merlyn felt his ears grow into substance, as
those words were re-heard. Viv's words from my heart, of that I am sure.
"This is not so, Merlyn," whispered a voice he was positive was
conscience. His ears grew surrounding substance and he felt the facial muscles
material. He looked left towards his privacy hut realizing in the
effortlessness of the task that he had no mirror. Those Living do not realize
the importance of a mirror; there is no such reflection reserved for us the
Dead. Even among the Living I cannot be seen nor can I see myself other than by
contemplation. I now feel my physical body grown into substance but I have no
proof. I have no witness other than a close friend's word.
"We are attached, my love," she press her warm lips lightly against
the flesh of his right ear and whispered seductively, "We are as married
souls."
Merlyn carefully turned his head away from his natural abode and composed his
tongue to say, "How do you mean these words?" The wonder roared
through his mind and heart as his body appeared to ice, 'She has me still in an
enchantment.'
"Our souls are twinned not intertwined. You used to say our love was but a
thread entwined many times over, solidified by our experiences and memories
together, but you were wrong though the word 'entwined' was partially
correct." Vivian gave another quick press of her warm moist lips on his
now equally warm ear. "I am but thy soul's sister in the gift of love's
giving. I am here bonded, we both are holding hands."
I evaporate from ice to a spiritual air alone, observed Merlyn. I, the once
master, am taught a new lesson by my once student. Vivian exists here
with-on-me, with-beside-me, but not within me. Ringed souls we are, a link in a
timeless chain. These spiritual passageways are as webbed tunnels of connection
and affection now better known. For what uses was this in secret told. It would
seem to make no difference among we the Dead, but among the Living such a
twinning of spidery soul may stretch around the world as invisible as was the
biophysics of DNA not so long ago.
***
The Brothers 7
The
next day while at Robert and Connie's dining room, the brothers sauntered out
of the kitchen into the dining room to rid themselves from their wives chatter
on the seemingly consistent recipes for roast beef and gravy as well as graham
cracker pie were essentially the same back through their grandparents' time.
Each recipe began with: "Do Not Share. This is a family
recipe."
“Good
brownies,” stated Robert as the stood by the dining room table nibbling the
freshly baked goodies on the plate.
“Yeah,
this is my third one.”
“I
agree. My Connie makes the best brownies.”
“No
question on that, but Cyndi Bleacher makes the best chocolate chip cookies,”
smiled Richard while thinking, why is he saying my Connie. He better not let her hear him say that.
“Your
wife makes one hell of a cookie. I agree,” replied Robert who continued sipping
his half a glass of skim milk, noticing that his brother had finished his.
"I'm working a new poem," he paused, "on blacksmithing, welding
really."
"You
haven't used that as a subject before."
"You're
right."
"So,
why now?"
"I
was thinking about how it was on Uncle Doc and Auntie's farm when we were kids.
Their neighbor was a smithy when he needed to be. I remember he came over and
welded the plow more than once. The arc, the welding light, was the brightest
thing I had ever seen.
"We
were told to never look directly at it."
"I
only did once. Never forgotten." Robert paused, "so I need to shade
the memory in ink."
“You've
got the welding imagery. I've been thinking about the mausoleum as a poetic
theme."
"I
go for the light and you for the stained glass," laughed Robert.
Richard
asked, “What about the stained glass?”
“What
about it?”
“I
liked the artistic symbolism.”
“I
did too, but I think my interest peaked with the three women and the angels having
green wings.”
Richard
laughed, “The ladies were waiting for the Resurrection and it already had taken
place.”
“You
know,” said Robert. “I never got that. Why were they going to the tomb if they
had any sense that he wasn’t going to be there?”
“I
suppose they were just checking it out, just like we did at the mausoleum.
“True
enough,” laughed Richard. “True enough.”
Cyndi
walked in from the kitchen first, "What you are boys talking about?"
"The
stained glass in the mausoleum," said Robert, "the angels with green
wings."
Richard
quickly followed, "I like the angelic symbolism of the resurrection that
had already happened."
"Why
are you two agnostics talking about angels?" responded Cyndi,
"especially you Richard?"
"Yah,
Dickie?" drawled Robert in a false Texas humor.
The
voice from the kitchen, "What are you guys arguing about?" asked
Connie. Now walking in on the others she gave her husband Robert an annoying
look for the mock impoliteness directed at his brother. She quickly smiled and
gave Richard a peck on the cheek, "I think 'Dickie' is endearing. Your
grandparents enunciated it with great affection."
"Grandma
enunciated it like she was calling the hogs. 'Dick-kie, where are you
Dick-kie," he mimicked. They all laughed as Richard shook his head in
embarrassment and disgust.
"Grandma
was a farm girl, no question about it," said Richard clearly and with a
large grin. "I loved my grandparents, each one."
"Our grandparents," added Robert.
"We
thought of them as our grandparents too," noted both Connie and Cyndi
almost in a common voice.
Connie
continued, "You know all of our grandparents played bridge together long
before we were ever thought about."
"True,"
added Richard, "during the depression they made up their own
entertainment."
"The
four grandmothers shared family recipes only written for family . . ."
noted Cyndi.
"Like they were already family," added
Connie.
Robert raised his right eyebrow, "That sounds a
little, uh, sexual."
Richard laughed, "Maybe they had secret love
fests." Both brothers laughed as Connie and Cyndi left the room in a huff
of disgust. "What did we do, open up a can of worms?"
Robert started laughing, the Richard followed. One of
the two, murmured, "We are so sick humored, man," and returned their
focus to the taste and texture of those made from scratch caramel and chocolate
brownies.
***
Grandma’s Story 7
For those of you Living who have never witnessed a ghost firsthand
I have one for you. The ghost’s size is that of a regular green pea in a
lighter shade of green. For those of you who may not have seen a ghost similar
to this, make that an electrified pale green baby pea color. Grandma reached
into her pocket hand first and pulled out the small spirit-like orb, which
immediately floats off, and up from Grandma’s black as night right palm.
"Here," Grandma pronounced muffled and slightly far away
thunder-like, "I’ll let the little apparition tell her story."
A Ghost’s Existence
I am the shadow of a shade of my former self. What is black to me
is green to you. Grandma put me in her pocket because I was off over the
Atlantic Ocean. I always wanted to see the Atlantic when I was alive but I
never did. I lived on a beautiful island in the South Pacific my entire life.
My sole physical contact with the outside world was the disease that killed me
a few centuries ago, but I had heard many stories in my lifetime. I appear as a
small dot because the eye cannot see my flat self. I could slice into someone I
suppose but I am comfortable as I am. I like the Atlantic Ocean so I float
above it in a dreaming-like trance.
I know I am not in what the Living call the real world, but I am
close to the Living. I’m close enough that you can read of me. I think it is
funny that I am a dot within a capital I. The human eye is not built to see me
as I am so it won’t. Most real ghosts pass you by more often than you think.
Some of us call it dead dreaming, a reverse out-of-body experience. It is an
into-the-mind experience from my point of view. You are conscious of me as an
odd green pea in a Grandma story. Dead, the point is I am still comfortable in
shadow of Grandma’s hands. Grandma smiled and gently returned the pea-sized
spirit to her pocket as if it was a baby gosling.
*
I put that spunky little spirit in my pocket in your year 2006 and
now it is soon to be 2013. Grandma again reached in and felt the little one
nestled down into the far corner of her pocket. She gently pinched and pulled
the small round object out of her pocket with her forefinger and thumb. Grandma
then put her up to her metaphorical eye for an inspection. You are a little
larger, in these last human measured earth year six years you have grown from
the humble sized green pea to that of a bluish green toy marble. She asked,
"Are you still flying over your favorite ocean, the Atlantic?"
The small round blue-green ghost smiled, "No, Grandma. You
can see that even as a wandering spirit between the Dead and the Living I have
grown. I am one with the salty water of Earth. The Pacific Ocean and the
Atlantic Ocean were just names, stories we humans conjured because geography
was how one moved from one part of the world to another. Spiritually the salty
water is one, all sea creatures are aware of this from the beginning. I was
born and died on an island as a small land creature and I stayed small because
my body was my geography of reference. Not having a body relieves me of such an
unneeded mental device. My heartansoulanmind are more in balance; perhaps when
I am a little larger, the size of a Kong or a Biggie, I will have grown enough
to be the size from myself to that of the whole universe. That is my hope
before I pass over completely.
Grandma smiled generously and laughed with the little spirit of
humanity. "Perhaps you will my modest sized ghost of a spirit, but hear
this, you'll always fit snuggly in the corner of my pocket. She places the
little round one into her pocket once again. Looked to her reading audience and
said, "This little ghost knows something many humans and marsupial
humanoids, living and dead do not realize. I find a wonderfully illustrious
humor in her plucky audacity.
A wind in a spirit or a spirit in the
wind,
Shimmering electric green, black or boney
white,
The mind’s dark night stood alone and
chagrinned,
At the nature of trancephysics in a
spiritual light.
***
Diplomatic Pouch 7
Pyl
said, "I am glad you understand, Blakie."
"We
would just be investing the money at this time in our lives. No need and not a
good time for investing anyway. Dad would like that we are not selling. It was
a rush anyway. Out of the blue someone wants to buy our plane. Odd in itself,
and in the middle of January too; in Cleveland no less."
"I
think it is strange too," spoke Justin. "Lindsey didn't know what
dissimilar meant in context. She appeared to be analyzing the word. Her sister,
Michael goes by Mykkie. Michael Carlson sounds much more feminine than Mykkie.
Both have the same last name. Both are certainly old enough to have been
married."
"Right,"
commented Pyl sarcastically. They both have the same last name. They should be
married at their age. Such mature observations."
Blake
smiled cautiously while seeing Justin change his face from curious to a silent
piquing aggravation. "Don't get riled," noted Blake, not realizing
his diplomatic filter had drifted away, "I've had to put up with her
feminist tongue a lot longer than you have." To which he uncontained
himself by laughing aloud and adding, "Penis envy, no doubt."
Pyl
caught his misinforming smile and retorted, "I hardly envy yours, my dear
brother."
"Shot
down, Blakie," quipped Justin in a slightly tempered grin.
***
Yermey
sat comfortably in the chair-with-meditation-mode-max. He heard Friendly and
Hartolite enter the room-in-mind-place from his far-away-right like the gentle
rustling of leaves ahead on his solitary path. Though his body lay motionless
Yermey shifted his notions to the left and his mind circulated left into a
relocated thought.
We
have taken the courage to come to Earth on our own, independent of our elected
Council of Parents-in-Charge and our many Three-Planet kin and untied cousins.
The primary objective is to instill into these humanized primates that we are
real, that Three-Planets is real and exists in the shared space of this
galactic-pouch and that we here-without-polite-invitation on their planet.
Our
Parents-in-Charge are more fearful of these similar though alien beings than
they are in their much-weathered patience to acknowledge and greet. They lack
the foresight and courage to learn, to accept that though our civilization is
twenty thousand years advanced we may be missing an aspect of our humanity this
much younger civilization still has.
Our
being here on Earth is to show a just equality among both of our species even
though we have a technical advantage through our sciences and mathematics. Our
separate species philosophies are so similar to be almost identical. Our
separate species sense-of-equality is
in our recognition of heartansoulanmind. This is what we must show through our
kindness and patience. This is why we are here; this is what we are about.
"What's
on your mind, Yermey?" asked Friendly. "I know you are in a
consideration. Something is up in your head."
"What
is it, should we still be concerned about the plane?" continued Hartolite.
She added, "We think so."
Yermey
fully opened his eyes and quickly sat upright. "Ship says the Cessna is
clean on all points but one."
"Which
is?" said Friendly in surprise as she had just monitored Ship herself and
found the plane clean.
"The
time slip. One minute does not correlate with the plane computers and
Ship."
"A
minute means nothing by itself. The Earthlings do not have access to Ship to
discern any difference," responded Hartolite.
"A
minute has to be relative to something," reinforced Friendly.
"It
is relative to us," said Yermey with more heart in his voice than mind. We
come here unannounced and without invitation. When we make ourselves known, to
whomever we do this first. These three people will know who we are and assume
that we are deceptive in our intentions, because this is what we are being
presently."
In
the pending short marsupial humanoid silence Ship stirred into cognition. 'I,
Ship, understand Yermey's words. They are meant for me too. The information
processed through various channels unimpeded. This is Ship's data fully
understood.
I,
Ship, am in a terrible state. I let the alien Cessna touch me. My maneuvering
allowed only a slight touch. I need to be re-validated at HomePlanets; however,
I cannot leave without an extreme unordered emergency to run to HomePlanets.
Friendly and Hartolite are struck by Yermey's words. His vitals show me he
feels I erred-in-a-purpose. I have no purpose other than to
escort-in-safety-first. The Cessna came onto me. I attempted to jar Cessna's
instrumentation magnetically but failed. The Cessna engine should have stopped
but it did not.
***
Chapter 8
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 8
Trees and shrubs line both sides of this
river, a river not so much deep as wide while at the same time a river not so
much wide as deep. This so I Merlyn think. It depends on the angle of my view
and the width of my mind. The narrower the view is the deeper the water. When
my heart feels Vivian within; another heartansoulanmind relaxing peacefully
asleep in my heart, then the deeper I can sink into her own. There is a
magnetic-like spiritual energy that is drawn into us. The mind becomes one eye
and the heart the other. As two eyes add the depth of perception the mind eye
and the heart eye also adds a perception, a reality from which love is but an
echo to the actual reality.
This one actual reality
hangs in another setting more dressed by a rarefied intuitive perception that
has little imaginary dressing. This begotten energy is a passion that has no
muscle memory of sexual politics dancing in unwinding toy spools of unaddressed
innuendos. Contentment is being nothing and all. Nothing and all is no more the
depth of this water and width of this river on which I rest in a small boat of
my own making. Such is the contentment in the twinning of our like souls; whose
single ring would shame the size of Saturn, that I wait to see whose soul next
we two, Vivian and I do touch. We are bound in the cosmos of HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither
and HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither is bound within the cosmos of the spiritual we.
This thought Merlyn with contentment, and then Vivian appeared head first out
of the water and climbed into the boat.
"Welcome to my
world, Merlyn. I can tell from your surprise that we are more closely attached
than you thought."
"How is this?"
grumbled Merlyn loving her being, but not so close in spiritual attachment.
"I thought I was alone here in my woods, my private sanctuary?"
"I have found these dry waters not so
private as one obviously thinks, Merlyn. Call the spiritual waters what ever
name you wish they are the same. When we are not here in our own dried land we
are in the waters whether they be lake, stream or ocean we can swim them if we
focus on our destination." She paused, "But then, did you not desire
my company?"
He smiled away his
brashness, "Not so quick and not so nakedly arrived, my fair lady."
"Me naked almost
always brings you into a smile. How better to disarm your solitary
nature." She brushed her toes as she sat and swept her right arm quickly
to her neck. "How is this?"
A shear silk-like
imagination covered only slightly as it was constructed as a not so modest
see-through toy when Merlyn in a quick rattle of masculinity consciously
desired a secret peek. Such are the wiles of Vivian, the once Lady of the Lake,
the legendary and once Princess of Celtic Avalon.
Merlyn dispatched his
eyes inward from her sight not more than an arm's length away.
Vivian watched in dread
as Merlyn's dark pupils rose above and behind those magnificent human spiritual
sockets. His face she herself almost mistook for being flesh borne. He was that
close to her unnatural order of heart and mind and soul. This is Merlyn's
magic, she knew. To change her rightfully ordered spiritual makeup in such a
deep and profound way that she slipped and placed her soul last rather than the
mid-point where it belonged. Merlyn has moved my soul by his very being.
The mind, Reason's seat,
is out of balance when placed nearest the less reasonable but more truly
compassed heart. The soul, a sticky composition at times runs like marrow
through the spiritual skeleton. It draws her mind one way while the heart draws
her mind to opposition. Who wins in such a warring-like field? The ghost has no
chance but to howl as if a wolf crying to the pale moon.
Merlyn with the greatest
of insight, rolls his eyeballs about and drains his black pupils into ink
molded to letters and words and paragraphs and punctuation so that Vivian his
most passionate love may read and witness him in two dimensions rather than his
spiritual one. To read Merlyn one on one takes great care between heart and
mind and thus Vivian, after the shortest of time finds herself more wholly
together in spirit and the two specters flew wrapped as clasped hands towards
their ancestral mother, Glevema, who was expecting them. She stood by her
grandfather, Panagiotakis, the oldest of human shamans in
HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither. No human had deeper human insight than old Takis
himself.
***
Brothers 8
Richard
sat in his study viewing an updated Google Earth photo of John Knox Cemetery. I
wonder how the recent Dead view leaving the place crossed his mind in a similar
fashion to the cemetery roads crossing north to south and east to west.
Surprisingly, Richard discovered he could drag the gold icon to street level
and view his old house from the cemetery's perspective. Google drove through
the cemetery from South Grove Avenue back to the mausoleum and around the
cemetery roads. I was looking down from three thousand feet and with a click
and short wrist movement I was at ground level. Who would have thought?
"What's
up, bro?"
"Robby,
I didn't hear you come in. Look at this, Google drove one of their camera
trucks through the cemetery."
He
paused, took a look then sat down in the chair next to the window. "Here's
a Twilight Zone story for you, someone goes on Google Earth to check out Knox
Street and with the slip of a hand finds himself in the cemetery next door
glancing at his own dated headstone."
"I
was thinking about someone dying and his last glance at Earth would be from
three thousand feet, then from space and the Moon and Earth and all would just
fade away."
"You
mean for the book?"
"Not
necessarily. Just a thought." Richard chuckled, "Then when I saw the
street level shot it dawned on me that the Dead might not ever leave."
"We've
both thought, for a long time, that in real life you wake up alive and when you
die, you're dead."
"I
know, but how would it be? Remember the regulars in the bridge group that are
buried across the street all had someone drop a deck of cards in their casket
or next to their urn in case anyone wanted to play cards. Everyone knew it was
a joke but as each one of the group died the cards were buried with them by a
kind relative."
"Sentimentality
is good, even a little healthy for the living from time to time, but the dead
are beyond such things," replied Robert. "I came over to see if you
wanted to go to the Village Bookstore over on Granville Road."
"The
old church. Anytime. Let me shut this down."
A
few minutes later Connie and Cyndi were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee
and sharing a green and white can of Healthy Mixed Nuts. "Nice to have the
house to ourselves."
"I
am worried about Robert. He always has to be doing something or going
somewhere. I wish he would just sit around and relax more, like Richie."
"Richie
doesn't do enough, Connie. He would rather sit in his history and literature
books than much of anything else. They both have been spending time in the
cemetery and mausoleum. What is that all about?"
"Genealogy.
Aunt Floy got them started, she spent most of her life working on the family
tree; when we married in, and she began working on ours. She thought us
Bleacher's and Greystone's might have been connected by in the times of the
Tudor's."
"I
didn't know she had gone back that far. That was so long ago."
"Aunt
Floy had some evidence that the Bleacher's and Greystone's had adjoining
properties between Oxford and Stratford in Oxfordshire or bordering
Warwickshire counties in England," said Cyndi.
"Why
doesn't Robert ever talk about that? He likes history."
"I
don't know. Richie doesn't talk about it much to me either, but he has her
genealogical records out on his desk from time to time. When I ask him about
it, he says that he's really interested in the old royal lines that connect the
kings of France and England to the city of Jerusalem during the Holy Crusades.
Richie is always interested in European history, fit in with his British and
European literature classes."
Connie
spoke up, "I don't really care about all that. Let the Dead be dead."
Probably
the reason, thought Cyndi as she took a sip of coffee, why Robert never talks
about it. I wonder though what evidence Aunt Floy found that shows our families
had adjoining properties in that part of England? If they actually did, I
wonder how that information was lost over the years? That was a long time ago
but I think the Bleacher's go back six or seven generations. I know the
Greystone's go back to the Middle Ages. That would be really funny if our
families were friends that far back. I wonder what the odds are for that, that
families are connected one way or another for hundreds of years?
***
Grandma’s Story 8
About
2500 years ago, in 485 before the modern Common Era, we have a love story
between a druidic priestess, Gadelin of the North Woods and a druidic priest, Mardynn
Herremon of the East Woods, a cousin of Simon Breac, then High King of Ireland.
King Simon had killed a king to become king. He had the first royal executed by
the drawing of four horses, each horse and rope attached to a limb of the old
king. He was drawn apart in each of the Cardinal directions. According to
tradition, Duach Finn, son of the murdered king, avenged the death of his
father a few years later.
It
was in the last year of the reign of Simon Breac that the priestess and
priest’s love interest began. Gadelin was in her mid-twenties and Mardynn was
nearly thirty when, at the Great Wooden Hall of Tara, they were ordered by King
Simon to compete to be the new official seer for the king because the old seer
had died suddenly and what was worst, unexpectedly.
The much older king fell into an
attraction with Gadelin because of her youth, her long coal-black hair, her
contrasting fair skin, her athletic prowess and most of all for her passion to
please the Moon God. Gadelin did not mind sleeping with King Simon during the
Full Moon as much as she did setting up the exact appointments to do so.
She
had slept with King Simon Breac during each of the full moons for six months
when he suddenly ordered her to compete with her known lover the druidic Priest
Mardynn to be his official Seer. The next day with less than the usual fanfare
the king announced the competition in Court at the great wooden hall atop the
five hundred and fifty foot high Hill of Tara.
Mardynn,
of the greater royal family, slept with Gadelin on the Half Moon. No one knew
whom she slept with during the First and Third Quarter Moons, but many assumed
she had chosen a secret commoner for each of the Quarters.
She
bedded one of four men on each four-moon phase once a moonth no matter what.
Even I, Grandma, realized she was a most loyal druidic guardian, worshipper and
lover of the Moon in all of Ireland. Gadelin believed the moon god really
created the sexual tension and physical release through each of her Moon
Lovers.
Mardynn
loved his Half Moon Goddess best and Gadelin was his best priestess partner to
enact his sexual tension and release with the Moon Goddess once a moonth. The
problem was that he secretly realized that being the Official Seer would
provide him with much more power than being Lover to the Goddess in Half Moon.
Thus, Simon the King was the North, and
Mardynn the South point. As the Hall of Tara was aligned North to South she
felt she would gain much wisdom from Mother Earth in the process.
There
was no reason for her to think much of the competition. When Gadelin of the
North Woods had a man in bed she was always in control. Always, since she was
twelve, living north of the River Boyne. She was in control that first time
too. She bedded a cousin who was fourteen and knew less than she did about
sexual plumbing.
During
warm evening of the next half moon after the competition had been announced,
Priestess Gadelin confidently strolled into Mardynn’s small round stone walled
hut in the East Woods south of the River Boyn.
She discovers her Priest Mardynn is not
home. She sniffed the air and did not detect his scent. ‘He has not been here
all day or last night,’ she thought.
She smiled, still confident. ‘He’ll be
here.
I
know he thinks of me as the moon goddess when we make love. A man in love with
a goddess gives himself completely.’ Her cleverness spread rosy across her
cheeks, ‘He cannot know that I make love with the moon god at the same time.’
Mardynn will be here, he would not want to disappoint his moon goddess.
Round and round and round she goes,
And where she stops nobody
knows;
To mistake Fate for
Necessity’s Call,
Is to mistake Moby Dick for
an Arctic narwhal.
This old Grandma’s tongue
and gums
Merlyn’s
mind past to a future dream comes.
***
Diplomatic Pouch 8
Sitting around Blake Williams' breakfast table three
minds were actively setting up their diversely planned Thursday, 1 March 2012.
The date could be seen on the front page of The
Plain Dealer. A little more than a month had gone by since the Carlson
sisters attempt to buy the Cessna 210 Silver Eagle. Pyl was reading the local
section of the paper; an article about the Chardon School shooting, Justin
glanced over the sport's page focusing on the loss of the Cavaliers to the
Knicks with the final score, 120 to 103.
Blake
stared at the weather page which said that the mostly cloudy sky would produce
light snow showers would change to rain and the light west wind would be coming
from south instead giving a high of 42 degrees even the night temperature was
to stay above freezing. I could take the plane up around noon or one popped
into his head. I haven't been up since the end of January. What a mess that
was.
What
a weird couple of days. People come in out the blue wanting to buy the plane,
we tell them we don't want to sell and they leave without another word. I would
have thought they would have at least sent an email thanking us for their
afternoon ride to Put-in-Bay and back. Nothing. "I'd like to get some
flight time today. The weather is going to be worse with thunderstorms the next
couple of days. I can get some instrument time in what with the weather mix and
cloud cover."
"You
just want to see the sun, Blakie, not that I blame you," commented Pyl.
It's rather depressing." I have a pile of clothes to wash, she thought,
and added, "I wouldn't mind going along. Do you want to come Justin?"
"No,"
he sighed. "I'm reading a couple of magazines, Car and Driver. We've been back up here only a couple of days and
I'm getting bored. This weather doesn't help I'm ready to go home." He
thought I love the Jennifer cookies at On the Rise though. They are always
worth the trip up here, and we can take a dozen home with us. It's never a
completely worthless trip.
"You'll
like the Car and Driver articles on
the Shelby and the Viper. You can read them any time. I'm bored too, Justin,
that's a good reason to get up above the clouds with us if you like,"
smiled Blake.
***
Noon
local Cleveland time. Ship stirred, and jolted Yermey with a slight shock and
said, "The Cessna is up."
"Take
us to her," grumbled Yermey. His old eyelids stayed sleep shut, resisting
the reality of the moment. "Wake up, Friendly."
"Captain
has us already underway."
"When
will we be in contact?"
"Ten
minutes," replied Ship matter-of-factly.
Yermey
slowly stood up then slid himself into a jumpsuit. He rubbed his forehead
rather harshly, shook his head to refresh and thought what are we about to do?
He
knew, of course. The three had carefully decided that the next time the plane
was in the air they would take the plane into a controlling declared
advisement, first by suspending physics and place the plane aboard Ship with
the three Earthlings inside.
Yermey
walked into Friendly's control room, said hello, scratched the back of his
head, and asked, "How many are aboard?"
"All
three, replied Friendly.
"Are
we really going through this?" asked Hartolite. "Wouldn't it be more
polite to first say, hello, again as
fellow Earthlings?"
Suddenly
Friendly ordered, "Change circumstance," and Ship froze about half a
mile to the starboard side of the Silver Eagle and flying parallel to the
Cessna 210 with blackenot on. Less than ten seconds later they were parallel at
a quarter mile. "I say we down the plane at a private field in the area
and speak them on their own ground."
Ship,
having bio-computerize a virtual Cessna in true environment circumstance
internally responded quickly, "A flat and vacant country road four miles
south. I can mimic engine trouble. The pilot will have no choice but to
land."
"Good!"
said Yermey as he slapped his thigh joyfully. "We wing it."
"We
improvise?" questioned Hartolite. "All of our stratagem, and now we
improvise?"
"Let
Ship settle them safely and unaware of our presence. Spontaneity has an open
honesty to it. Keep traffic clear, she further ordered. "Land us ten yards
from them."
Ship
replied confidently, "As you wish." The three marsupial-humanoids
stood with equanimity and watched the maneuvering begin. The first formal
contact will begin on a lonely flat township road northeast of Cleveland near a
quiet Amish farm in south Ashtabula County, Ohio.
•••
Chapter Nine
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 9
Merlyn
stood surprised to see Mother Glevema, Panagiotakis and Sophia, who had stubbed
her toe at her entrance to his sanctuary, standing beside Mother.
"Greetings, Mother, Takis and
Sophia. The first time I have ever seen you two together, the resemblance and a
mother and daughter separated by a multitude of generations has never been more
remarkable. Appearing the same age in spirit you are as the identical twins in
other stories from this Realm." Merlyn added politely, "I thought
this was a private matter between Mother and me Takis, but I can see by your
sagacious presence it is of more overriding importance."
"Indeed,"
replied Panagiotakis speaking to Merlyn as if Mother and a daughter were not
present. "You must speak to the Living about the First Rebellion to add
order and authenticity to the books. You visited in those days when the First
Rebellion began and know something of those times because you were witness in
the second nature of your spirit."
"Indeed
I was. I was given that privilege, by you I imagine."
"It
was by the Supervisor, Merlyn,"
interrupted Mother.
"Oh."
With this news presented as a fact at hand, Merlyn realized he was not the
Dead's choice to lead the return of the Dead to the Living; it never was.
Merlyn's
mind moved into overdrive. How did the
Supervisor pull this off? That is my first question. Why does Mother tell me
not Takis? Why didn't Takis tell me? Surely he knew the truth? Mind quickly
moved to Heart's memory and a whispered circle of multiple ghosts in singly
themed thinking that have come to the attention of those ready to move on after
physical death.
Who
am I? Why am I here? What shall I do here? How much can I know and understand
of my role and responsibility in this Place of the Dead, Avalon.
In
general the Dead agreed on this substance: “We thought if we were not free in
life then we would be free in death but that is not the case in this Place. We
ruminate and find camaraderie through our personal identities, personalities
and interests. The human center is Our Mother, the first who was allowed in
this Place. She is our common point. We are equal citizens through our
ancestry. We have become a hive of sensibly silhouetted questions searching for
equally reasonable responses. What else can we do?”
Merlyn's
soul did not seek the answers to heartanmind questions. Only Sophia now stood
in Merlyn's sight. He asked, "How should I tell the story, Sophia? You
witnessed the First Rebellion. What is important for the Living to know of
something so very long ago?"
In
trance Sophia drifted, "It was less than three thousand earth years
ago."
We five sat around the oak table:
Thales, Kassandra, Mario, Salamon and myself. Our Mother had put me in charge.
We were at our favorite local eatery, a bar and cafe at the northwest corner of
Lyceum and Eleusis Streets, the Mikroikia.
I
can remember my very words. "We shall have a peaceful protest. I have been
assured by Our Mother that this demonstration will have a full ten thousand
heartsansoulsanminds standing as one while I make our demand directly to the
Supervisor." I paused and added, "I have directed my currier to
contact the Supervisor who should then arrive shortly."
Someone
asked, "Who is the currier?" and I responded, "Aeneas, because
he is protected by his mother, Aphrodite."
Merlyn
smiled, "It is not so strange, the same story could be told by the Celts
in Avalon, different names that's all."
"True.
We see this today, but not in those times. Our culture was the center of our
Spirit World. Our culture was our womb where we were comfortable being with others
of our own thoughts and ways."
In
a deathly whisper she said, "I remember Thales and Salamon debating
shortly after."
“We
do not know the Supervisor is Hades, Thales,” asserted Salamon assuming the
Supervisor was most likely Zeus in disguise. Salamon mused, what difference
will it make? Zeus or Hera. Zeus will have his way, no matter. The Supervisor
is a decoy. Aeneas is the currier The Gods are taking sides in this already; we
have done nothing but consider. Salamon grumbled, “Olympus is aligning itself,
I can feel it in my soul.”
"What
ominous words while sitting at a shared breakfast, she said sadly. We did not
know what we were doing. Merlyn you need to let the Living know this,"
commented Sophia sincerely. Merlyn and Sophia, quiet as death, faded to their
own personal sanctuaries, leaving Nothingness unturned.
***
The Brothers 9
Richard
sat in his favorite black leather chair studying Robert’s pungently worded poem
titled:
“Nature
Junkie”
a
bumblebee --
the
big black one
with
yellow stripes
enters
the bright
white
flower
of
a hosta.
From
the front porch
my
chocolate Lab
mouths
a stinging memory.
I
see the bee
body
working inside.
I
suspect
other
creatures,
unseen,
see
a meal --
ants
waiting
its
fall to earth,
or
a lizard
immune
to venom.
if
it wanders to ground
in
the chicken yard,
the
hens will rush,
pop
the droning pill.
I
walk off the porch,
pinch
shut
the
flower petals
to
hear the panic of wings,
to
get the buzz
of
bee
up
the fingers,
hoping
it
will go to my head.
“Good
poem, Rob. Precise. I love the line, ‘to get the buzz of the bee up the fingers
hoping it will go to my head.’ Rob's poetry always has the feeling of a slight
twist of phrase. I wasn’t expecting ‘up the fingers,’ Who would have thought,
‘up the fingers’? I love it.
“Thank
you. When it comes to poetry we usually agree.”
“Coney Island of the Mind, ‘Number Five’.”
“Ferlinghetti.
That is was a great poem and still is as far as I am concerned,” stated Robert.
“Real poetry, no traa-lee-laa crap.”
“I’m
still stuck there,” said Richard. “You moved on with the poets to modern times,
but my heart is with the Beats.”
Robert
added abruptly, “That’s when you stopped your style. There are other ways to
say things.”
“I
liked the Beats' bluntness.
With
a sheepish grin Robert asked, “Then you won’t mind me asking you about your
automatic writing?”
“It’s
not really automatic, Rob. That is what some people call it. It is a part of
some people’s writing process. I have to be in the right frame of mind to write
the Merlyn stories.”
“Is
that what you are calling them now?”
“It’s
a basic and natural frame of mind,” said Richard, “like my word trancephysics.
It is like writing while in a light trance. In fact, there is a word for it
that relates to autosuggestion.”
“Ideomotor
action. William James wrote about it,” grinned Robert.
Richard
reflected his brother’s grinned, “You saw my dowsing rods over in the corner
didn’t you?”
“I
saw them; unscientific re-bent clothes hangers, but I knew what they were for.
Were you looking for water in the back yard?”
“I
was looking for unmarked graves in the cemetery. Dale gave them to me after
talking about them with a plumber who used them to find leaks in lines between
the house and street.”
“Dowsing
has been debunked, you know. Water witching and the like. Studies show that finding
water by dowsing is a fifty-fifty proposition.”
Richard
responded, “The rods do move though, I think it has to do with electro-magnetic
energy."
“The
Divining rods work because of unconscious suggestion to small muscles in the
fingers that work through subconscious response,” noted Robert, ever the
medical doctor.
“Well,”
suggested Richard, “then when I am in form and a semi-transcendental state
while writing, then I’m writing from my inner self. What’s wrong with that?”
Robert
deadpanned facially and verbally, “Nothing as long as you aren’t going off the
deep end.”
Richard
disputed, “Anything that exists, whether we know and understand it or not, is
natural. My bet is that it is some sort of electro-magnetic force, and if it
isn’t, if it is solely from within, and it has to do with muscle response, it
is still biophysical-electrical.”
Robert
re-focused, “So why were you dowsing for unmarked graves?”
“It
was fun. I think it is interesting that the finer finger muscles can move by
involuntary suggestion alone. It makes you wonder on who pulls the trigger in
some murders. I think of Shakespeare’s character MacBeth and his killing of
Duncan. Lady MacBeth suggests it. His hands and fingers take up the action
whether he wants to do it or not.” Richard paused, “the rest of the story shows
another side of MacBeth. He did kill an innocent man, and his guest to boot.”
“It
is just a play, Richie,” countered Robert.
“I
know, but still it is interesting that a simple dowsing rod can show we are not
fully consciously responsible for some muscular action. It doesn’t take much
consciousness to pull a trigger.”
“I
can tell you it takes a lot of conscious action to move a sharp surgical blade
into a living human body,” said Robert emphatically.
“Point
taking,” said Richard. “I am sure that it did.” The emphasis drove home on
"it did." This was as a dark reminder that both were no longer
employed in their chosen professions.
***
Grandma's Story 9
Grandma
here. Storms are a part of human life. People deal with them one way or another
because they have no choice. All kinds of storms, you can look their names and
descriptions in various places. The young woman in this story confronts her
survival of such a storm through creative contemplation while walking along the
natural beach on the present continent of Australia.
The
youthful woman is an aboriginal walking alone. Her name is Abbatoot. Three
thousand years ago she was walking the beach about the same time King Simon was
being murdered for revenge.
“You
won’t catch me messing with Mother Nature,” is what young Abbatoot muttered
because a great storm just passed through. She felt lucky to just have lived
through it. An old shaman had told the tribe the storm was coming because he
felt it in his elbows and knees and when he felt it in four joints at the same
time he had come to understand it would be one hell of a storm, and that is he
told them. About half the tribe stayed. The other half walked to higher ground
where they felt more protected.
It
is very exciting in the moments of confrontation with Mother Nature in a fury.
Suddenly one may feel sheorhe may not survive whatever it is nature is throwing
your way. A firsthand witness may begin to realize the weather is not about the
observer. This is the point when the excitement disappears and people begin
praying.
Abbatoot arose from
the debris, as did others. While walking along the beach she came to think
about the old shaman's warning and that a half a truth was sometimes more
honest than the full truth. Half a truth leaves room for imagination and
wonder; the full truth is a full of it though some of the fullness appears to
remain hidden until much later.
Abbatoot
said to herself, I survived I am still four limbs plus one. Then she observed
her right hand closely. I have five points at the end of each of the four
limbs. She added those five points on each limb and gave a separate sound for
each of the twenty points and one more.
A
vision flashed. She remembered that a couple of the people in the storm who did
not survive were missing body parts. What would I be without any points at all?
She imagined a body without the limb and point extensions. What would be the
point of no limbs and a head?
Abbatoot
glanced her naked body. I have twenty digits plus two arms and two legs; this
equals twenty-four digits, plus a head and you have twenty-five digits. Plus, I
have a nose and two ears and thus I have twenty-eight digits, men have
twenty-nine.
Suddenly,
Abbatoot turned around and headed back to her tribe. She returned to the
remains of half of devastated tribe that did not heed the warning to clear the
beach. She had a sudden revelation: “I
now realize something I did not.”
Later,
the Shaman sat watching the beauty of the sunset, amazed at Abbatoot ability to
count meaning with body parts. He realized that shamans had not made the
association. What surprised him the most is that he knew the Ungambikula, rose
up in Dreamtime, before humans were completely created. The Ungambikula found
the humans doubled over in clumps of shapeless sacks near the water holes and
with stone knives the Ungambikula carved limbs and faces and hands and feet and
finished the humans. After this act was completed the Ungambikula went back
into the Earth, into the eternal great sleep. Only a Shaman could know this
great secret yet Abbatoot had discovered it by counting the digits.
Grandma
laughed, “The Shaman listened and asked questions. Later that year on the last
morning of his life he suddenly understood what Abbatoot magic really had in
her head. The last morning of his life Abbatoot ran to the ancient Shaman and
said, “I thought of one more extension, the belly button!”
The
shaman laughed aloud then whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. The belly button is not an extension at all, Abbatoot it is less than
one. It is a zilch, a nada, a
diddly-squat."
Grandma
bent over and slapped her thighs, then, as she stood she readjusted her large
bosoms unconsciously, and broke into laughter. "He discovered the zero and
took it with him."
The button is rounder than a digit of one,
And sits in the belly as a visual lesson.
Today Abbatoot would be quite a hero
For witnessing the discovery, the wonderful zero.
Alas, she was not to be that clever in those ancient
times,
But, from the breath of old Grandma it makes a fair
rhyme.
***
Diplomatic Pouch 9
Blake
sat in the pilot's seat with his sister Pyl as co-pilot. Justin was in his
usual position, the third seat back. He liked it because he could better see
out both sides equally. The Cessna 210 was flying east above Lake Erie shores
at about 150 miles per hour at 16,500 feet, thus they were enjoying the visual
pleasantries of a crispy clear blue sky above a layer of thickening rain clouds
below.
Such
is the beauty of flying a plane such as the Silver Eagle in full sunlight on an
otherwise cheerless, dreary day in early
March; this is Blake's thought suddenly interrupted within the time of 'dreary and March', the Rolls-Royce M250
turboprop failed.
First
things first. Blake and Pyl both automatically checked the fuel, ignition and
air to the engine. Improper combustion. All three tighten their seat belts and
doors. Pyl attempted to work the radio but it remained just as immediately,
dead. 'Slow descent', thought Blake well conditioned for a variety of outcomes,
the first being a precautionary landing. He checked his headings but Pyl was
already ahead of him.
Pyl
said the following as a definite statement. "Ashtabula County should be
below us shortly."
"We
are in a good controlled glide," replied Blake and with humor, "How
you doing back there, Justin?"
"I'm
fine. You know what you are doing. I'm all right."
"Good."
He paused, "If we can't get it started we will land on a airstrip, road or
a farmer's field. We have time to think this out."
"Fuel
pump?" questioned Pyl.
"No,
it shouldn't be. I think it is vapor lock but I am not sure why. She was going
along pretty as you please."
"As
a kid we had vapor lock once in a car in Death Valley. We survived."
"You
visited in July, right?" asked Blake as he continued checking the gauges,
rate of descent . . .
"I
don't know what is wrong with the radio, Blake. We have electric except for the
radio."
"Cloud
ceiling is about three thousand feet. We have plenty of room, plenty of
time." Here we go through the top layer.
"Ashtabula
County Airport, HZY in Jefferson; 924 feet above sea level," said Pyl.
"But we cannot contact them."
Blake
makes adjustments and says, "They can spot us visually."
***
Ship
sets itself thirty feet above the Cessna with blackenot narrow-banded to
camouflage the Silver Eagle as it drops below the clouds. The airspace between
Ship and the plane appears to thicken into a fractallized mirror. Blake has no
problem seeing the town of Ashtabula below as he heads southeast towards I-90
and the Ashtabula County Airport beyond. Ship remains parallel from above then
as the Cessna begins to glide in for a safe landing. Blake puts the wheels in
down and lock as he readjusts the flaps up.
In
the cabin Pyl asks, "Why don't they see us?"
Dumbfounded
Blake replied, "I don't know. I don't understand. And no damn radio."
He attempted to restart the engine one more time hoping they would at least
hear the plane. It started. Flaps down for better control. The fuel appears to
have condensed, he thought. Then the plane began to slide in the air like it
was on a sheet of ice. He was going to overshoot the runway so he saw Rt. 193
just beyond, and slightly to the south he saw a deserted township road set
straight east. No traffic. Blake said calmly, "I'll land on the
road."
Pyl
stated, "I agree. Do it."
"Go
for it, Blakie. Looks good. No one in sight." said Justin with some
tension.
"Land
where the road cuts through the woods. Nothing but fields before and after but
up ahead are houses," commented Pyl feeling the Cessna was under control
even though the engine again stopped suddenly. "You are on the mark."
The
wheels touched the rough tar and chip pavement. "Down." said Blake
braking the wheels just as if he had landed at the airport about a mile behind
them. When the three climbed out no one bothered to look up as their focus was
on the engine.
An
older man walked up from near the tail section and said, "Can I be of any
help?"
He
was surprised that no one responded to his voice. He wanted to take a step
closer but froze with sudden apprehension. Behind him another voice, "Pyl.
Blake and Justin. How are you? What has happened? Why the forced landing?"
The
three turned at once. They could hardly believe their eyes. Here stood Mykkie
Carlson and an unidentified older man. No car nearby and here she is, thought
the three in unison.
***
Late
afternoon and you had a Graeter's treat and are at the back of the far eastern
high school lot facing northeast towards three hundred yards of grass then a
wall of trees of about one hundred and sixty degrees of arc.
It is like being on the Downton Abbey
grounds looking out except we are in a 2003 Honda Accord not a castle or even a
large manor house. We have a bright full afternoon sun behind us with only a
few clouds. Carol has just begun Chapter 18 of The Associate. I need to
work on condensing the chapters then running short summaries, I suppose to keep
some semblance of order in my notes. By the time I have the next three chapters
ready to go I am more than half way through Great Merlyn's Ghost I.
(1631)
You had supper at Cracker Barrel and once
home you finished updating the research and writing files. You still have the
condensing and summaries to do tomorrow. Take a break, no more tonight, dude.
Post. - Amorella
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