Notes - (final) Dead 12 /

        You had a late lunch at Potbelly’s and are now at Macy’s waiting for Carol. The Honda is getting a workout for a couple of days while the streets are messy with ice and salt and water. – Amorella

        1408 hours. It is cold and the metal frame on the MacAir is downright freezing. I might as well be working on Dead 12.

      Are you too cheap to use a little gas? If you are cold, then turn on the engine. – Amorella

         It is wasting fuel; however it does also feels better.

        1643 hours. We are home and I have re-completed Dead 12.

       You have. Add and post. – Amorella

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The Dead 12 ©2014, rho (final) GMG.One

            My unreal eyes see what no one else is really blind to. If differences do not exist then all are as a common one, number or word, it makes not an iota. The recent Dead have no choice but to give up the physical world nor does it look that they had any choice in entering that same world. I am free to become most common and it that I am one in many and not alone for who is living is truly alone and thus definable any more than any one of the Dead? I need no punctuation and am free to fly onward from my first innate cultural heritage. It is only a moment ago, thought Merlyn, I began soaring eagle-like within these nebulae surroundings, mountainous gas bubbles, places undeterminable in or out of time and space.

            Behind me, my early refuge, Avalon, is of large cumulus in form. The pleasing reddish hues of such a cloud reminds me of the Malus domestica, the pleasant apple-like pigment for which our Celtic Realm of the Dead is named. As I further distance myself, Avalon appears a well-weathering giant Cumulonimbus, ever so majestically shaped as a broad-winged eagle in angular flight.

            Merlyn loosed his heartanmind eye forward to more closely observe the prodigious distance between him and his target, a small cloud hanging like a prolonged thin fissure of horizontal sanguine mist engulfing a speck of well-centered diamond-like sparkle in sun-yellow. This small-pictured center setting hinges above the large moonlike white light at the far end of this dark cavern of the Dead spirits in a mass promoting a kind of gravitational hold. This far targeted object is the edge of Elysium, reckons Merlyn while contemplating the myths of Hercules and, fancies Merlyn, I am as Hercules on his travel to the Garden of Hesperides, I fly on to stand in the Classical Greek Approach on immortality. I slowly close in on the golden speck, the most popular of ghostly tales in the apple in my own eye.

            Further in thought and closer to his goal, Merlyn wanders into a nebulous cloud of his own making. Within the Eleventh Labor of Hercules the Hero had to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders and but for only a trick in foresight Hercules would still be there in Atlas' place. What does it mean to hold the weight of the world on one's shoulders, wonders Merlyn in the moment. Dead, I weigh nothing. This vast Place of the Dead weighs nothing. What then is the weight of the Earth and Sun and innumerable other Stars and their surrounding worldly planes? From Here to There is but a grammarless thought. Yet time exists in human reasoning, in this spiritual flight from one culture’s Dead to another’s.

            What good will our primal Mother’s blessing is in this newfound enterprise? I feel no burden, even though elected to tell the tale. Living or Dead, ears have to hear; eyes have to read; the brain has to reason. That is not my part as teller of how it is to be human. The Living ultimately are self-aware and alive in the whole of each individual one’s heartansoulanmind. Holding one's heartansoulanmind with bone and muscle is one thing, without such weight and physics it is quite another. Living or Dead one is free to remember. I hold on, flying. One such as I cannot fly with the slightest burden of regret. One must let loose and give all away for such a free spiritual flight. I am Merlyn and what I encompass is nothing but a definition of being, as in being the world’s consciousness, the universe’s consciousness, the consciousness of anything that is parted from common letters to the capital language of G---D.

            This flight shows me there is seemingly no end to the Dead no matter where I stand or fly. Being timeless and without regret is to stand on the height of what humanity is. To be weightlessly free is to follow our greater nature's course – to grow and mature into what being is, first and foremost – humane. Merlyn's volatilized spirit condensed into the Shroud of Elysium.

            Consciousness re-fixed. I stare, determines Merlyn, at the seemingly natural stone roadway, two-cart wide. I know this alley; it leads to our Common Mother's House. I am fully self-aware within this collective classical consciousness named Elysium.

            Unrealized by Merlyn, Mother awaits his arrival as all mothers since knowingly wait for their own children, every last child to be home and ethereally reunited.

***