0751 hours. Words give me a particular
rush but only when I write them, only on the keyboard and the screen. They can
become an immediate extension of what’s in my mind; it allows me to see what is
in my mind from the detachment or extension mostly within Google and Wikipedia.
I first observed this on my first word processor not long after I learned
self-hypnosis from Dr. Payne at the University of Cincinnati. He provided me a
basic authenticity (authority) to follow. I had used Apple II in the summers
(Carol brought her classroom machine home for Kim to learn on) but having my
own processor allowed me private time between my fingertips and the screen. I
created a symbiotic relationship with an Amstrad PCW8512 monochrome word
processor I bought on sale from Sears for $299.00. It was far cheaper than the
Apple or IBM and it was all I needed at the time.
Amstrad PCW8512 Word Processor
I
began by writing notes on my finger/thumb experiments with the string and
washer that I learned from Dr. Payne. I had found a personal gateway to the
motor control through my index finger and thumb holding the washer and the
string. It changed my life as a writer. It was my threshold, real or imaginary,
to the unconscious mind.
0835
hours. I don’t know why I wrote this this morning. I didn’t even know it was on
my mind. How odd.
You were just reminiscing on how the wonder
was, old man. No harm in that even before breakfast. Post. - Amorella
You had cereal and a banana for breakfast as you read the Saturday
Cincinnati Enquirer and the local Journal while Carol was talking to her sister
Gayle and before that Mary Lou on this dreary rainy morning.
0955
hours. Last night before sleeping and this upon waking this morning I was
thinking on the sun as a yellow or white or blue appearing tunnel gathering the
light from the multi-universes (flowers) on the tree-that-grows-universes. And,
I was thinking of the mass that was at sky’s end as an entanglement as in
quantum mechanics, a creeping slug-like affair, if you will, that separates the
‘top’ of this ‘-now’ from the ‘bottom-to-the-Before’ where the root sprang from
the naturally created ‘seed’.
This
keeps intact what is suggested in the earlier Merlyn books and whether
copyrightable or not this is first seen in print here in the books or the blog.
I bring this up because you are concerned that someone could take this work as
you are putting it together and create their own story from it. – Amorella
1007 hours. It did come to mind. I would think he or she would
have to use it in another context though. I don’t know. You can’t copyright
concepts.
We need to create a name for this ‘Place of
Process’ that expands the ‘environs’ in which higher conscious humanoids
themselves flower or not. How about “The Dimple-Skin-Body”? – Amorella
1012 hours. Why such a name?
The Dimple is the pressing of Before into
the Skin wherein grows the tree of universes, that separates via the slug of ‘entanglement’
from the Body on the other side of the tunnel. – Amorella
Whoa. You are making this an odd string of continual growth
process analogy of a scope I have yet to master. (1018)
String theory adapted fictionalized, eh,
boy? – Amorella
Wow. I’ll have to show this to Doug.
One would hope. Post, and send him a copy. -
Amorella
While
you were doing your forty minutes of exercises Doug responded with two notes
you edited slightly here. This
is in response to your copy of today’s post. - Amorella
** **
Dick,
(1100) Thanks for the
email. I had a small Mac at work until the president of the company announced
no more Macs just IBM’s. We had an early form of email, which we all used in
the office. Was heady stuff at the time.
Strings, i.e. threads can
be woven into fabric. Maybe the fabric here is the fabric of space time. Please
pursue your ideas of dimple skin and string theory and quantum mechanics. I
just watched a program this morning that says that the electron is surrounded
by a quantum vacuum cloud and without this cloud the universe would explode
because the cloud reduces the effective force between charged particles.
Doug
*
You
sent an explanation for sending the post. This is also slightly edited below.
His response is below.
*
On 3/29/2014 10:39 AM,
orndorff wrote:
Good morning!
Amorella came
up with an idea as I need something holistic to deal with in terms of a greater
environment for multiple universes, etc. I am not sure what I think because it
is too new in my head. However, I would hope it evolves somewhat about physics
or even general science in its lay out. What I like about this almost
immediately is that it brings about a greater perspective of 'distance' if you
will between G---D and us. Yet, from an Angel's perspective, let's say, there
is still no distance at all. I find the idea refreshingly humbling so I think
something might be worked from it to construct within the books. I believe the
tree with lights idea is already used - perhaps in the original book four
which I gave up, maybe even alluded to in second or third published Merlyn
books. I appreciate your continuing input - positive or negative. ;-)
Dick
*
Doug’s response:
(1132) Remember if you are
traveling at the speed of light Einstein says the distance in front of you is
zero. So maybe Angels being spirits travel at the speed of light so there is no
distance between them and G--D. I do think our current universe is already a
multiverse given the fact that recently a set of galaxy structures were
discovered that covers 1/4 of the universe as we know it. This structure would
seem to me to be the start of another universe inside our universe. Have fun
with your writing!
Doug
** **
1205
hours. I am getting pumped Amorella. It is like I am getting a handle on how
things are in these books and with this I am developing a broader sense of
understanding. In a sense it is like all the universes are inside a dimple in
someone’s cheek. At least initially it is so in my mind. I find this very
humorous and somewhat darkly too particularly if this head concept is then fractallized. Very funny indeed. 'Very heady' as Doug might say. What a joy to be a part of conjuring up something like this, and to have my old high school chemistry lab
partner be helping to stabilize the reason in it. Ho, ho, ho. Thank you, Doug,
my old friend. And, of course, thank you, Amorella. Oh, the joys of writing fiction!
Good time for a break, boy. Post. - Amorella
You had a good late lunch at Outback, Carol had wood fire
grilled salmon with mixed veggies and you had a wood fired six ounce steak with
wild mushroom sauce and a loaded baked potato. You split a carrot cake dessert.
Once home you completed the Chapter Ten final draft. Add and post. - Amorella
1855 hours. I completed the chapter just moments ago.
***
Chapter Ten
Purpose
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.
I,
Merlyn, have this little ditty above memorized to the point it sets stemmed in
letters out of which each four-leafed chapter dreams grow to clover size. I
knead the dreams into a word stream of music for the heart and soul and mind
with hope that when read, these stories cast a light into those living with an
imagination that casts no shadow.
The
Dead 10
In
the stream of his sanctuary, Merlyn rises wet and naked near the bank, climbed
up and out and began a run from between birch and pine, through the vast field
of bluebells, behind the stage ruins, through the great paddock of white
foxglove and red poppy, and on through the pinkish white saxifrage meadow; then
across the clearing of grassy field until he reached the flowering purple
heather near the sanctuary’s east side, the Oak and Birch forest. Coming to
rest he sat in the tall grass under a grand and tall Oak waiting for either
Vivian or Sophia to appear.
Shortly, or however one judges illusionary time, Sophia peeks from around the
Oak. "Thought I'd find you here, Merlyn," she says, in a coyness
Merlyn surmises, borrowed from Vivian.
A loincloth fitted itself as his right hand padding the imagined ground next to
him. "Have a seat beside me on this fine grass.” Scooting over he adds, "Are
we ready for another talk on how to tell the Living how it was in those early
days of the Rebellion?"
Sophia sighs, "I have been playing a scene between soul and heart. It was
on the evening of the first day of the Rebellion and Mario wanted to talk so he
came over to my stone hut sanctuary. I asked him in and directed him to lie on
the bed with me as I only had one chair. I remember his first words as we lay
facing one another with our heads propped up by stuffed wooly pillows.
Mario comments, “It is pleasant enough here for a nighttime of sleep.”
I
agree. Being dead is indeed a momentary heaven. Then he brings up his concern
on how to know who the Supervisor when you see him.
Misunderstanding,
I told him that being unseen doesn't mean the Supervisor doesn't exist
no matter what name he responds to or not."
She
looks directly through Merlyn's old dark inky eyes declaring. "The
Supervisor has an interest in us still. Mario is concerned with deception
within our ranks; that we cannot trust our fellow Greeks, and as such how can
we trust any of the Dead in Elysium.”
Smiling broadly,
Merlyn comments, "A wickedly good question old Mario had.”
Sincere or not, Sophia always returns a smile. She continues, "It is
morning of the second day, and I remember what is important to me and may be
important to the Living too.”
Sophia turns slightly to her left to better face Merlyn straight away.
Startled, Sophia sees only herself, her own spirit reflecting, “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
identity, our personalities and our interests. The human center is Mother, our
first who founded in this Place. Mother is our common point. We are equal
citizens through our ancestry. We are a hive of sensibly silhouetted questions
searching for equally reasonable responses. What else can we do? The gods
certainly don’t always help. We don’t know, really, if they ever helped.”
She continues in earnest. "The question among we Dead is still who am I
first, and who are we human beings second. Is this question really more easily
resolved after life? Why am I here, is a question within life, why should it
continue to be a question after physical life? What shall I do here among the
Dead?
Her
spirit, her heartansoulanmind settles in balance; without a word from Merlyn,
she recommences. “This is still
not resolved even though the Supervisor, as a condition of this most
recent twentieth century Rebellion, has regrouped us with other humane
spirits who were once physical Marsupial Humanoids. They have the same basic
philosophical questions we do, and as many are much more seasoned spirits than
ourselves we have quickly come to re-identify our Place of the Dead, our old
Elysium as HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither. We differing spirits were here together
all along, side by side so to speak, and we did not realize our fuller
spiritual nature. Dead we are now of the same consciousness, but what is the
meaning for life and a continued life after physical death? What does this
meaning give us?
Merlyn
sits Buddha-like contemplating his ancient Greek friend, Sophia. He humbly
remarks, "There was much more to Life than we knew; and now we know there
is much more to being Dead."
Merlyn’s words strike Sophia. ‘If we can
now learn more from the ancient Marsupial Humanoids about what it is to be
Dead, then this is what we can give to the Living. Surely they know.’
***
The
Brothers 10
With
Jack contently sitting on his master’s lap Robert got comfortable in the
large easy chair in the TV room
watching an episode of National Geographic about lions and hyenas
sharing their scrubby desert-like territory beneath Mt. Kilimanjaro. Jack
suddenly jumped off Rob’s lap.
“I’m
I interrupting?” says Richard softly as he pets Jack who appears eager for an
added playmate.
“No,
not in the least. Jack and I were just watching the lions about to attack the
hyenas.”
“Sounds
exciting. Who wins?”
“Lions
I assume, unless fifty hyenas jump out and tear them apart.” comments Robert.
“It
all has to do with numbers,” says Richard. “I have that in my book with the
marsupials. They are lucky to have three planets to populate rather than just
one like us.”
“Hyenas
and lions are not fiction, Richie. You’re marsupials aren’t going to be in National
Geographic.”
“I
know, but I am making a point about population. I think we are a little beyond
the lion versus hyena stage.” He looks at the screen. “What’s that? How is the
male with the cubs?”
“That’s
a female. That’s her clitoris, Richie.”
“You’re
kidding!”
“Nope.”
he smiles, “she has more testosterone than the male.”
“Holy
crap!”
Robert
deviously flips the set off. “What’s happening, brother?”
“Nothing.
Cyndi wanted to come over, so I decided to come along.”
Robert
deadpans, “How about a Taco Bell?”
Fifteen
minutes later, they are at the local fast food restaurant with two tacos and
two diet Cokes each. “We didn’t bring any poetry along,” said Richard. “I
wanted to see what you are working on in terms of the cemetery poem, quibbles
Richard.
“I
don’t see it in your poetry.” Robert pulls a tightly folded piece of paper from
his back pocket saying, “Here is a poem you once wrote that I think can be used
in juxtaposition with the one I wrote and you read the other day.” He gives it
to Richard to read.
A Sunrise
The beauty of a clear
and Spring-like sunrise
lies in the quiet
separation of light and dark
causing the crossbar atop a telephone pole
To shadow down and stretch melancholy out,
to hold a grounded and
subtle shape,
A shape a Nazarene once nailed to a cause;
waiting enough, the moving shadows of a solar ritual
pull on the gravity of the eye
weighted soul,
Tugging the soul to settle and set at sundown,
To be overcome by power,
a power resting on the edge of the universe
And hovering deep in the outback of the observing mind;
It saddles up a god more ancient than Apollo
And makes
him ready to ride a new thought through the cosmos.
*
“I
had forgotten about this one.”
“A
couple of days ago when Ferlinghetti came up, I thought of this poem. It has a
sense of Coney Island of the Mind, ‘Number Five’ in it.”
“The
gravity of the eye-weighted soul, is a good line, but why did you follow with ‘the
eye-weighted rather than ‘an eye-weighted soul’ Richie?”
“I
don’t know, Rob. I wrote this more than twenty-five years ago.”
“Then
you go on talking about a power resting at the edge of the universe and you say
it is hovering deep in the outback of your mind. Is that your unconscious --
the power of your unconsciousness coming out?”
Richard
sighs and finishes his taco. “The mind is not the same as the brain. It is not
physical. The brain is a shadow of the mind.” Then he considers it may be the
other way around.
With
a quick confident smile, Robert dickers, “In your mind it appears the
other way around, your mind is more real than your brain, so the brain is in
the mind’s shadow. The unconscious is in your mind. Isn’t that the way you see
it? You put someone under on the OR and they are out like a light. That’s the
brain not the mind.”
Richard
considers the use of the unconscious in his Merlyn books, “I don’t know,” then
he responded, "I don’t know where the words come from. As a writer I am
the pregnant pause."
From
the kitchen doorway Cyndi asks, ”We're going for an ice cream, you boys want to
come along?"
"I'm
game," asserts Richard who glad to have a diversion.
"I
think I'll stay," remarks Robert calmly. "I have some work to
do."
Connie
comes into the room, smiles her dear warm-hearted smile and coerces Robert,
"Let's go, big boy. You need to be more social."
With
Connie’s comment, lines from poem “5” in the eleventh edition of Ferlinghetti’s
“Coney Island of the Mind” come to Richard’s mind:
“. .
. They stretch him on the Tree to cool, And everybody after that, is always
making models, of this Tree, with him hung up, and always crooning His name,
and calling Him to come down, and sit in on their combo . . .” he differs with
his sister-in-law, “The world needs to be more social.”
Grandma’s
Story 10
Some
aspects of human society are invisible
gravity waves, as you will
see in this little story that takes place about three thousand years ago on the
coast of East Africa in what is now Kenya.
Brooding,
Rumbasant stands at the edge of the forest inspecting the horizon beyond the
great water thinking. The horizon is not the end of things, as I am not
standing at the beginning of things. Our men leave this place by boats. Most do
not return. Always the sons of the chief or sons of his brothers leave on
quests. It has been that way for as many stars as there are in the night sky.
I
want to leave on a boat with one of my brothers, but I will never leave for
fear of losing my blackened walking stick. The fire from the sky struck the
tree I used for shelter. This stick is from that tree. God's fire hit my left
shoulder and went down my right leg and into the ground. The fire is still in
the ground where I left it. I know what it is to have been touched by Sky
Father’s fire.
At
the time this is a great shock for the remaining tribe. Older people say the
Sky Father struck me for being born to our Grand Chief first. I argued that if
this was so, Sky Father is an abusive father. We do not strike each other or our children anymore. We are
a peaceful people.
*
In
Grandma's the last story, Abbatoot and part of her clan had survived a terrible
storm, and I am brewing a typhoon not far from where Rumbasant is standing.
Rumbasant has been struck down once, what more can the Sky Father do? To be
struck by sky fire twice would be unprecedented.
*
The
sunset appears as a yellow tunnel, a tube by which she might cross to the other
side of the world. A huge storm roars onto the beach during the night. The
winds grow steadily from fifty to over seventy miles per hour. Rumbasant holds
her sacred stick high as lightning strikes a nearby tree. Wind-driven and
stinging, sticky bleached sand hit Rumbasant’s face. Continuous thunderous
roars, ominous booms, green tinged sky, blue, and low purple bands of the
massively dark storm cloud.
She
shouts to the storm, “By Mother Earth and by her sacred marriage to Father Sky,
I command the winds and rain to cease!”
This
grew into a magical chant, a spontaneous ritual dance and a shout at the
up-heaved ocean. Only to be responded to by wind, rain, lightning and thunder.
Rumbasant unconsciously shortens the oath.
“By
Mother and Father, I command this water and wind to cease!”
The
night storm roars on and so does Rumbasant shouting another spontaneously
created chant.
Arumba.
Arumba. Arumba.
Foam
of the mad dog.
Arumba.
Arumba. Arumba.
Foam
of a mad sea.
Arumba.
Arumba. Arumba.
Foam
to the mad wind.
Arumba.
Arumba. Arumba.
Mimicking
the storm Rumbasant howls and raises and lowers her Stick, “Arumba. Arumba.
Arumba.” She shouts the word with every other beat of her terrified and defiant
heart. “Arumba. Arumba. Arumba.”
Lightning
strikes the Stick. Fire burst forth and the Boom abruptly slams into tribal
memory.
Rumbasant
lies stirring and twitching. The smoking Stick lies nearby. Living is not
enough, thinks Rumbasant, but I am enough alive.
Rumbasant
clutches Stick pulling herself up. Rumbasant stands once again and raises Stick
in her defiant right hand. A wall of lightning snaps at the bank of palms.
Again what seems to be the Voice of God rumble in earth and sky.
“Stick
is what it is,” shouts Rumbasant to her tribe in the distance. "I am
hammered twice by Sky Father’s fire and I am alive!" The people come
closer, staring at Rumbasant’s face in disbelief. Her right eye socket is
empty. The tribal people begin a search for Rumbasant’s burnt eye. It was never
found.
Early
one morning not long after this horrendous weather event Rumbasant discovers a
perfectly white and slightly oval shell in the water near the beach. She puts
the shell up to her empty eye socket, pulls open the lids and slides the shell
in adjusting in a welcome fit.
*
Rumbasant
is called Shell Eye in stories along the Kenya coast of East Africa
still. In fact, the name Shell Eye was forged into a secret mythical
language of all the regions of Africa’s east coast.
Taking an eye for an
eye or so it’s been said
Is not quite the same
as taking wine with bread.
To see what story
time remains to be seen,
One needs the depth
of a one eye threaded quite lean.
Diplomatic
Pouch 10
Friendly first speaks to Pyl, re-introducing Hartolite and
then to Yermey, who the Earthlings have not met. Friendly then says, "We
are not who we say we are. Please give us time to explain." Pause. "Are you willing to give us the time?"
Blake
interrupts, "First we need to make sure the plane is safe to fly. We have
a problem with vapor lock."
With
polite reserve Pyl comments, "We need to get off this road."
Justin
opens with, "Where is your transportation? How did you know we would be
here?"
"Did
you see us attempt a landing at the airport?" declares Blake with his eyes
on the engine.
"We
are foreigners,” repliex Yermey. "We do not have U.S. citizenship."
"There
is no need to check for vapor lock," says Hartolite. "We forced your
plane down so we could talk on the ground."
Blake
turns, "Pardon. What?"
"Are
you terrorists?"
“No,
we are not,” comments Friendly directly and emphatically.
"What
do you want with us?"
"We
wish to be friends," says Yermey.
"Why
did you say you forced us down?"
"Because
we did," states Yermey with commitment.
"How?"
queries Pyl.
Hartolite
replies, "We caused the vapor lock accidently."
Yermey
reasons, "It is physics."
Friendly
adds, "Ship caused your plane to slide at the runway,"
"We
did seem to slide," remarks Blake. "It felt like the wheels were on
ice while we were in the air."
Yermey,
again in a reasonable tone, declared, "It is caused by blackenot. This is
the reason no one saw you, why you couldn't contact by radio,”
"What
do you mean?" questioned Blake. "The engine restarted."
"It
was an unknown," comments Friendly.
Immediately Blake responds, "It
stopped again."
Yermey
smiles politely and with less reserve saying, "You were in no
danger."
Friendly
steadies the pace in a deliberate cadence, "Your plane touched Ship. It
was not a bird that cracked the Cessna wingtip light. Ship did. You touched
Ship who had blackenot on. You could not see us.”
Hartolite
also slacks her voice and lightens her tone, "We did not wish to show
ourselves at that time."
Justin
questions, "Because you are not citizens?"
"No.
We are not from here.”
Out
of curiosity Pyl asks, "You
are aliens? What country are you from?"
In
an attempt to focus the conversation Yermey declares, "We are cousins.” He
continues, “First, you are concerned about your plane. Get in and start the
engine.”
“May
we help you check out the plane for take off?” solicits Friendly.
Yermey
quietly comments, "I will see to your safety."
"With
what?"
Yermey
points up. “Ship.”
Pyl
commented, "I don't really see anything up there but clouds."
Blake
is in the plane. The engine starts normally. He says, "Let’s go Justin.
Your wife wants her seat.”
"You
are good to go," smiles Friendly warmly as if she were a close
neighbor.
Blake
comments, ”I'll feel better once we are in the air. There is not a trace of
problem with the engine." Everyone strapped in? Blake glances about. No
cars. No people. He rolls the plane down the township road, rives the engine
with the flaps down and in place. Slowly and surely speed picks up and the
plane lifts just before they see the house on the right after the stand of
trees. Airborne. They hear the familiar clunk of the wheels drawn and locked
into the fuselage. The plane flies normally. Blake banks the left and heads north through the clouds
towards Lake Erie for a quick return to Burke Lakefront along the northern
shore of the United States.
As
they push through the clouds, Pyl thinks all is well.
Suddenly
a cloud drops over the Cessna and the Rolls-Royce turboprop engine stops cold.
Blake worked the controls in the silence.
At
the same moment Friendly, unknowing to the Earthlings, draws the Cessna into
Ship’s annex, a recently modified, human friendly first floor basement.
*
Pyl
thinks, we're dead. We are on the ground, dead.
Blake
and Pyl continue to the instruments.
Justin
mumbles, “I don’t think we are moving.”
Outside
Pyl’s door and in the thick cloud Friendly knocks on the window saying,
"You have landed safely. Open the door."
Pyl
stares at her incredulously. “What? Blake, she is down right outside my window.
We are on the ground.” In the moment she forgot to ask how they got to the
airport before they did.
"You
are perfectly safe," assures Friendly in an ever-broadening and relaxed
smile, "Come ahead, climb out; all of you. You are safe.”
“Let’s
get out,” says Justin eagerly. “Come on, Pyl. Open the door.”
“We’re on the ground somewhere,” declares Blake. I don’t know what
happened because we were not on auto pilot, at least I don’t think we were. I
can see out the side window that we are on the ground, but this is not the
airport. At least we’re safe. Let’s secure the plane and see where we are.” He
suddenly thinks, what the hell just happened? I did not land this plane and
neither did Pyl.
***
