Notes - one of those days / (final) Dead 2 /

         With breakfast and the paper and a little of the Today Show it has been a good wake-up-and-meet-the-day. Spooky goes to the vet at eleven-fifteen for her overeating. Tomorrow you are to Dr. Bajaj. Thursday you and Carol head to Westerville and beyond. You are dropping Carol off at Kim and Paul’s then you are to lunch with Fritz and after a stop to see Aunt Patsy and Uncle Ernie, then Cathy and Tod before supper at the class gathering. Then up to Kim and Paul’s for the night. These are the plans as of now.

         On another note you have been thinking about sharing your final chapters with your original group of friends and I advise that you do not for the time being.

         You just returned from a walk through the shade of the north woods at Pine Hill Lakes Park. Yesterday you were back with your exercises also. Check your email, boy, then we’ll talk. – Amorella

         Yesterday Carol M. said on Linked-In that you excelled in ghostwriting. Shortly thereafter Linked-In asked who else worked on Great Merlyn’s Ghost. First, you thought, I am the only one who has written Great Merlyn’s Ghost then you thought the better of it and wrote “Amorella”. Now you are thinking of the help Doug and Nancy have been giving you along the way and how you should have included them too. 

         Mid-afternoon. You had your usual late lunch at Panera/Chipotle because Carol likes the veggie soup on Monday to go with her salad. You are sitting in the shade at the center area of Rose Hill Cemetery. It is a warm almost tropical breeze blowing. Carol is on page twenty-two of a new book (to her), a legal thriller, Look Again, by Lisa Scottoline, and you are ready to work on Dead Two. – Amorella

         Dusk. You and Carol mowed the lawn. This took time, as did taking the cats to the vet during midday. A stool test was positive for roundworm so both had to be taken in for checks and meds. You are tired not from mowing but from the heat while mowing. We can work tomorrow after your doctor’s appointment. Tomorrow, dude. Post. - Amorella

         2042 hours. I really don't have anything to say other than I was hoping to complete Dead 2. It did not happen, but I may work on it before bed. 

         2203 hours. I have completed this (final) draft of Dead 2,

         Add and post, boy. – Amorella

***

The Dead 2 ©2013, rho (final)

            Merlyn sat in his heartansoulanmind’s self-created sanctuary on a large stone north of his rustic hut. The flower-strewed Scottish meadow sits north of the stone. The inner sanctuary is surrounded by mysteriously dark forest. I witnessed much, surmised Merlyn, in having been first born then dead during Anno Domini 670. This was the seventh century according to the Church. AD 670 appears to be either my birth or death date. I do not really care. Dates, being artificial to begin with, are of little importance to the Dead.

            As a Druid I learned Celtic, Greek and Latin. I memorized vast tracks of folklore and wisdom. This is what the Celtic society expected, and this is what I 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, continued Merlyn to no one in particular. He observed the billiard table and ball dissolve as a wispy white cloud in an early morning mist. A short thought later in the corner of his mind's sense, Merlyn witnessed another billiard table appear; this time in the meadow near the giant Oak.

            ‘You did not hear the cue ball tap one of your solids?’ asked the Supervisor of the Dead.

            This is coming from heart or soul or mind, which? thought Merlyn who immediately responded into himself, 'I did not. I thought I was alone.'

            'I, your Supervisor, tapped the solid burnt orange into the far right pocket.'

            Merlyn smirked a smile and asked, ''What unconscious thought of mine did you just put away?'

            'The Boatman,' evoked the Supervisor.

            Merlyn smirked in defensive surprise and declared, 'I don't have to pay the Boatman.'

            'You pay, boy,' snapped at Merlyn's tabled mind. 'Everybody pays the Boatman. I, the Supervisor of the Dead pay the Boatman.'

            Merlyn muttered, 'In friend Sophia's ancient 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.

            Merlyn’s mind registered 'Richard?” in the solid yellow 1 ball resting near the far left corner pocket. Merlyn’s mind grumbled, 'Richard Greystone is where I am.' His heart was not sure where he was. His soul held the billiard table. Merlyn noted an itch near his left fourth finger’s nail; a nail no more real than he was.

            The tiny heart naked winged faery of a Celt whisked herself from Merlyn’s left fourth finger's nail. 'Prick this fingerless finger,' suggested the faery charm as a buzzing insect within Merlyn's ear memory. I am being seduced, thought Merlyn as he watched his fingerless finger move into a more natural position for this growing faery’s feminine comfort.           

            'Whoa,' whispered Merlyn while flashing an image of his first love, Vivian. This faery she suddenly kissed and slowly sucked down Merlyn’s now seemingly fully fleshed and bone solid fourth left finger. Merlyn smilingly in pleasure watched, understanding full well that he doesn't really exist in skulled brain of Richard Greystone in the very real world of the early twenty-first century.

            This is the Nature of the Dead, announced Merlyn, again to no one in particular. I am borne into continually envisioning the Earth’s genetic mother of an eight ball setting alone on the very center of this, my green-felted mind-slate-on-a-Victorian-table. I have no other balls, shuttered Merlyn, not even a cue ball to knock this, our Mother of an Eight Ball off my mind’s billiard’s center.

            The seemingly ever-observing Supervisor, being wise in forethought and likewise twined as a SheanHe, sits twice in Merlyn’s private sanctuary. He balances nakedly leafed high, above the now young-spirited Merlyn.

            Merlyn looks up naturally, points his forefinger aggressively, and dictates, “This, my human spirit, runs on a deeper gravitational energy than what you, the Supervisor, take for love. I am hot in unrealized passion and here, among the Dead, I am as fully married to Vivian the Druidess as Earth iron is married to carbon to make steel.”

            The Supervisor of the Dead grinned and quietly surmise, ‘Merlyn is as wound as any alarm clock of unalloyed consciousness. Merlyn’s bells will ring only when the Boatman demands it, not me.’

***