1009 hours. I have majorly reworked Grandma 14 into
725 words. And, now, looking back at my recent notes, I see a delight, a humor
that did not exist before. What a twist. (Who would have thought.)
***
Grandma’s Story 14
© 2001-2013 rho - draft
I
am standing here posted on one of the stone walls of a small hut on a rounded,
but ridged mountain summit about a thousand feet high. This is an austere place
where three people are spending their summer.
Shushu
is a pleasant woman who has her own way or else. Her summer love is Ch’ang. Her
great aunt, Lili, shaman of both local tribes, is also on the summit. The stone
hut is Lili’s for the summer months, and she invited Shushu and Ch’ang. Neither
Shushu nor Ch’ang, are related except by love.
Lili
knew a story on a different level of love to which both were connected. Here is
Lili to tell it to you herself.
I
am Lili of the mountains. I dance the mountain air to walk cloud tops when I
dream of life now long ago to you, but not to me. It has been as twenty years
of life, these two thousand of yours, that is how I sense it.
The two I am telling a
story about were dancers as I am. The particular summer of your long ago, I had
begun an embroidery project with an emerald green backdrop. Something
unpronounceable was in the air when I stared into the green silk cloth. My left
foot touched something unseen, a stone I immediately dug up. The stone is unpronounceable
in the summit air but it is Plenty and Bountiful, at least on its sharp edge.
Understanding is a sense, like smell.
Shushu
loves Ch’ang, and she though can do something about it she chooses to do
nothing. Likewise, Ch’ang chooses to do nothing. Together the two become as a
single room, like this stone hut Grandma and I, Lili, presently stand on. To
exert their separate personalities Shushu becomes a doorframe in the west wall
while Ch’ang becomes a doorframe centered in the east wall. The river, a
thousand feet below, runs from west to east. A thousand feet above the river,
love attempts to construct a bridge between the two doorframes.
Love
is a condition and cannot build the bridge between the two friends. Hearts
build bridges. The stone walls, the west wall and the east wall of this hut,
are the rigidity of their hearts. The centered doorframes are the souls of Shushu
and Ch’ang.
Lili
took a moment to smile in the moment as she suddenly transported herself to the
center of the stone hut where in her line of sight she can see through the two
opposite doorframes at once. So centered in life one cannot see through both
doorframes at once due to the Nature of Things. In death one can see the soul
line.
Each
doorway is a Dragon of Plenty and Bounty. Each soul-framed doorway is equal.
Each doorway is invisible in the Nature of Things. Each doorframe is invisible
in the Nature of Things. Each wall is invisible in the Nature of Things. I, Lili
am also invisible in the Nature of Things. Yet, as I am writing in Grandma
Earth she is visible in the Nature of Things.
This
is what I, Lili, thought those many years ago and this is what I think today. I
made my embroidery that summer. I am the
small centered red dot. Shushu is the west dragon. Ch’ang is the east
dragon. When a living human being stares at the red dot long enough sheorhe
sees not a red dot, but the tip of the tail of me, Lili, the Red Dragon.
It
is then that the mirror image dragons, Shushu and Ch’ang, immediately form into
one dragon. Shushu and Ch’ang become an illusion in one.
Grandma carefully steps down off
the stone walled hut of heartansoul and begins a little mountain jig. For a
time and not, those old black feet move like a river dance. Standing straight
and tall those feet dance. Grandma's hands ridged on her hips as Grandma sings,
“I move in human feet stomping. I dance in a Nature seen and unseen.” With
that, Grandma jumps to a cloud top and Lili re-appeared. Both dance side by
side until they are out of sight.
Cloud
dancing with Grandma in the sorcerer’s dreams
Have a
past and a future, without the difference.
Words
dancing in stories with schematics on themes
Of balance
and cadence and conscience and prudence
725 words
***
1223 hours. Exercises are done.
Changed into public clothes and am ready to go, if we are indeed going anywhere
today. I have chapter 7 ready to audio and am looking forward to Pouch 14. What
was the surprise in Grandma 14 was that when I glanced at it earlier, I thought
it was a different story altogether. Anyway, personally, the story developed a
wickedly funny twist as I got my concept of a straight lined soul. What makes
it so wicked is that I don't believe in a straight lined soul anymore than I do
a walnut-shell like soul. Actually, that's not true. I don't know what a soul
is any more than I did before, except that it exists in some form and its real
name may not be 'soul' or any other word human beings can dream up.
How refreshing. Sometimes you can be
completely honest with yourself. - Amorella
Perhaps
it can only be a soul when it is used to protect a heartanmind. The 1942 poem
"The Naming of Parts" comes to mind here. How I am connecting a poem
about the naming of parts of a rifle to the soul I am not sure. Harry Reed is
the poet, I think. Just checked, Henry Reed not Harry.
** **
Naming of
Parts
Today we
have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily
cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall
have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we
have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens
likecoral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we
have naming of parts.
This is the
lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper
sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are
given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in
your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the
gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our
case we have not got.
This is the
safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy
flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone
using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have
any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile
and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them
using their finger.
And this you
can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open
the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly
backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the
spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early
bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call is
easing the Spring.
They call is
easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have
any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the
breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our
case we have not got; and the almond blossom
Silent in
all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we
have the naming of parts.
Henry Reed
From:
PoemHunters.com
** **
The
poem doesn't fit with soul, but it does relate to love as in my metaphysical
conceit, 'Love is a bullet.' I like this poem. Bob and I first heard this work
in Dr. Coulter's class, which one I am not sure. I had some sixty-semester
hours of English classes at Otterbein and many of them were with Dr. John
Coulter and Bob Pringle. How we loved that man's ability to teach. Still do.
Thus, you can see where the memory resides,
boy, not in your mind alone. - Amorella
That's true. The heart is the drawing architect of this
discombobulated memory. Interestingly, to me, this is circumstantial evidence
that the heart (or something like it) exists.
It is also interesting that heart [and] soul
are not the 'true' word of what each definition actually is, at least this is
the way it is in your mind. - Amorella
This has to be from internally poor wiring, a learning
disability, a dysfunction of my brain to absorb words for what they are,
especially nouns. Words, to me, can be more alive than some people I see
walking on the street. One cannot do justice to words such as heart and soul
and even mind when I see them having nor needing any physical substance. They
do not exist and exist both at once. They need a hyphen or something of that
sort, like when a rabbi writes G-d. It is the only decent to do, such a
construction to show a meaning that it is of the world and not of this world
both at the same time.
What would you do? - Amorella
I would spell heart, soul and mind like this: he^art, so^ul and m^ind.
It's your book. Spell it this way when it is
used in this context in your final draft, and from now on in the blog if you
wish. - Amorella
This is not very orthodox in spelling.
You are not very orthodox either. Post. -
Amorella
I like it because up the upward flourish. Why not?- rho
2107
hours. I finished Audio Ch. 7 but it is not yet on a CD.
***
Audio Chapter 7 © 2013 rho - draft
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 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 memory bait 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 otherwise 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," revealed 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 equal 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. Vivian's words are from my own 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
materialize. 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 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."
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 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 in 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 as from 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 noticing that his
brother had finished his continued sipping his half a glass of skim milk,
"I'm working a new poem," he paused, "on blacksmithing, welding
really."
"You
haven't used welding 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 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,” chuckled 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?"
"Yes,
Dickie, why?" 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-eee, where are you Dick-eee,"
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 recipes only written for family . . ." noted
Cyndi.
"Like they were already family," added
Connie.
Robert raised his right eyebrow, "That sounds a
little, uh, promiscuous."
Richard chuckled, "Maybe they had secret love
fests." Both brothers laughed as Connie and Cyndi left the room in a huff
of disgust. Richard continued, "What did we do, open up a can of
worms?"
Robert snickered, 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."
I am the shadow, 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, outside of maps, 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. 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.
Grandma again reached in and felt the little one nestled down into
the far corner of her pocket. I put that spunky little spirit in my pocket in
your year 2006 and now it is soon to be 2013. 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 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 maps were
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. Looking at her reading audience
Grandma 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 the 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. Not a good time
for investing. 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,
Michal goes by Mykkie. Michal 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 Pyl's
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-in-meditation-mode-max. He heard Friendly and
Hartolite enter the room-in-mind-place from far-away, like the gentle rustling
of leaves ahead on his solitary path. Though his body lay motionless Yermey
shifted his notions and his mind circulated 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
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 as 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 is
being processed through my various channels unimpeded. I am more fully
understanding the situation.
I,
Ship, allowed the maneuvering that caused a slight touch with the Cessna.
Friendly and Hartolite are struck by Yermey's words. His vitals show me he
feels I erred-in-a-purpose. I have no known purpose other than to
escort-in-safety-first. The Cessna came onto me. I attempted to jar Cessna's
instrumentation but failed and this allowed the touch.
***
You checked your email and had a pleasant Facebook chat
with Kay tonight. You are wondering about Pouch 14. - Amorella
Yes, I still have material on Asimov's three laws of
robotics but I don't know how to introduce it.
Erase all those notes on the laws but the
essentials. - Amorella
That took away about twenty pages.
People already know that material if they
are interested. We want readers to see what other science fiction stories don't
have. - Amorella
For example?
Evolution of society from a
marsupial-humanoid culture. How the pouch made a difference even more important
than having three planets rather than one with a large moon.
Who will tell this story in a nutshell?
Yermey.
Do I know what he is going to say?
You have no idea. We are going to write
Pouch 14 on the Notes page rather than as a separate document because I want to
instill in you that I am doing the writing and not waiting for you to add until
the story is complete. Then we can go back and you can make changes if you
wish. - Amorella
I am going to have to be 'free-minded' here.
Yes, you are. Almost eleven, time for bed,
boy. Carol will be up after her program. Post. - Amorella
Yermey tells the story in his way.
Pyl will bring up the question, so he slants
his response at her in particular. - Amorella
Does he want to seduce her?
Heavens no, boy. What with? You need to
think before you ask questions. Now, post. - Amorella
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