Afternoon.
Carol has been working on laundry all morning. You played with the cat and did
your exercises. You checked to see if there were any clothes to fold but she
had already brought up what was completed. You put them away, then read Joel
Stein’s column in the newest Time magazine, then played with Jadah the
Cat once again. – Amorella
1300
hours. I am not a captain of industry. Carol is putting up the ironing board so
shortly the dryer will stop – easy wear clothes, iron free or whatever. Carol
always touches them up. I ask her not to do mine but she does anyway. I learned
to iron once. Mom taught me because she said I would never get married, that
I’d be like Uncle Clayton. That never bothered me much. I liked Uncle Clayton.
Once those iron free clothes came out I never used an iron again except to put
iron on patches on casually styled pants once in a while. When teaching I would
have three pair of different colored pants for school. The kids (I came to
understand later) used to make bets on what pair I would wear on Monday and
that would set up the colors for the rest of the week. Two colors would be worn
twice so that was the bet. What would I wear on Tuesday that then would set up
the bet for Wednesday. I could wear the ones I wore on Monday or the other
color I had not worn during that week. They were always interested in seeing me
before first period. I never understood why. I thought they liked me and my class.
You are up to story telling boy. – Amorella
1316
hours. I heard those stories. Maybe they were making them up for something to
talk about. That was the fun of lecturing, I could always find a story to tell
and get off track for a few minutes. They mostly didn’t go to sleep (much) except in
first period. British lit or logic at 7:30 in the morning was too much for
some, especially if they didn’t get to bed before midnight. It didn’t bother me like it should have – I kept thinking on how it would have been if I had
had Advanced Algebra first period every day. I would have had my eyes wide open
but still been asleep that ungodly hour
-- all for series of common letters and numbers and equal signs thrown
in whenever a problem was coming up. I’m done.
Why don’t you get dressed as you are not
going back to bed until tonight; then maybe you’ll find something constructive
to do. – Amorella
Good
idea, Amorella.
Late mid-afternoon. You had a late lunch at Cracker Barrel, your suggestion so you could have their Sunday fried chicken special. Carol had trout, a sweet potato and coleslaw. You added cooked carrots and mash potatoes with white gravy. No desserts. Carol had tea you had water with lemon while you waited and played their peg-in-hole game. Carol won four games out of four. Before you left you did finish correcting Dead 2, and now that you are at Pine Hill Lakes Park facing east windows up you will work on the rest of the chapter. – Amorella
1823 hours. I have completed chapter two.
Add and post.- Amorella
***
Chapter Two
Control
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 2
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, having been born then later dead during 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 Celt, 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 notices, rather unexpectedly, the white cue ball materializing on his nineteenth century billiard table mind. Nearby is his memory stone ruin of a childhood stage in the meadow.
I rather enjoy these Scottish trees and the flowering meadow, thinks Merlyn. He observed the billiard table and ball dissolve in a wispy white cloud of early morning mist. A short thought later in the corner of his mind, Merlyn witnessed the billiard table reappear; this time on 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 tapped the solid burnt orange into the far right pocket.'
Merlyn lightly smile and asks, ''What unconscious thought of mine did you just put away?”
'The Boatman,' evokes the Supervisor.
Merlyn more fully smirked in defensive surprise declaring, 'I don't have to pay the Boatman.'
'You pay, boy,' snapped in Merlyn's tabled mind. 'Everybody pays the Boatman. I, the Supervisor of the Dead, pay the Boatman.'
Merlyn mutters, 'In friend Sophia's ancient Greek day the pearly white Gate of Heaven rested on the far side of her rubescent River Styx.'
'The Styx is where you are,' dryly commented the Supervisor.
Merlyn’s mind registered 'Richard?” in the solid yellow 1 ball resting near the far left corner pocket. Merlyn’s mind grumbles, 'Richard Greystone is where I am.' My heart is not sure. My soul hold my mind table. Merlyn notes an itch near his left fourth finger’s nail; a nail that is no more real than he is.
The tiny heart naked winged faery of a Celt whisked herself from the fourth finger's nail. 'Prick this fingerless finger,' suggested the faery charm as a butterfly’s flutter within Merlyn's ear memory. I am being seduced, thinks Merlyn as he watches his fingerless finger move into a more natural position for this growing faery’s feminine comfort.
'Whoa,' whispers Merlyn while flashing an image of his first love, Vivian. This faery suddenly kissed and slowly sucked down Merlyn’s now seemingly fully fleshed and solid boned fourth left finger. I am becoming a body. Merlyn smilingly in pleasure watching the event, understanding full well that I don’t really exist in skulled brain of Richard Greystone in the early twenty-first century.
This is the Nature of we Dead, announces Merlyn. 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 strike this Mother of an Eight Ball off my mind’s center.
The Supervisor, being wise in forethought and likewise twined in SheanHe form, sits in Merlyn’s private sanctuary. SheanHe balances nakedly leafed high, above the now seemingly younger 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’s iron is married to carbon to make steel.”
The Supervisor of the Dead grinned surmising, ‘Merlyn is a wound alarm clock of unalloyed consciousness. Merlyn’s bells will ring when the Boatman demands it, not me.’
This dream then disappears — a thought without entrails to show Merlyn what he has foreseen.
The Brothers 2
“I see we are at your house again today. What are you watching?” asked Robert.
Richard not stirring from his comfortable easy chair, said, “An old National Geographic rerun on DNA. A genetics researcher named Wells is showing that we men are all genetic sons of a man who lived fifty-six thousand years ago in East Africa.”
Rob frowns slightly, “So what else is new?” He sits next to a tall brass stick lamp their parents had bought a year before they died. Turn us males and females upside down anywhere in the world and we look enough alike; I don’t need any DNA evidence.”
“True,” replied Richard. “But it's interesting that by sailing the oceans those early sailors moved the brotherhood around the known world fairly quickly. Our genetic Eve existed about one hundred and fifty-thousand years ago or so. It is almost a hundred thousand years between the genetic parents of we who are now living.” While speaking he glanced out the front window of their old white painted wood frame built for five thousand dollars by their grandfather in 1903. We sit across from College Cemetery; he ruminated, half a block west of the corners of Walnut and Knox. My eyes bridge the dead everyday just as they did when we were kids using the cemetery as a playground whether it was prudent or not.
“Men are faster than women, that’s the difference in the hundred thousand years,” chuckled Rob. “You got anything to read? Where’s your latest Harper’s?”
“I hid it before you got here.”
“I give you my poetry mags in short order.” complained Rob. “By the way, what did you think of my latest poem? You’ve had it for a week.”
“Hey, what’d you think of my first chapter?” snapped Richard. “You’ve had it for almost a day now.”
Restless, Robert headed to the refrigerator, “Where’s the high test Coke?"
“Where it always is,In the back on the right side top shelf.”
“Golf's on ESPN,” commented Rob coming into the room.
“You got it,” said Richard as he pushed the remote.
“Where’s Lady?”
Richard spoke lazily in empathy with his pet cocker, “She’s sleeping on the living room couch. When Cyndi's gone Lady heads for the couch. She can see the driveway and when Cyndi drives in, off she goes.”
While watching a terrific putt by Mark Wilson both snickered imperiously as the golfing crowd clapped rewardingly, Robert says again, “Where's Lady? Wake the old girl up for me.”
“Lady!” shouts Richard, “Come here, girl!” A commercial later, Richard shouts again, “Lady!” Still she slept. “She’s got junk in her ears again,” said Richard brooding on how, Rob’s fox terrier named Jack is always obedient. He adds, "Cockers have ear problems.”
“So do you,” parried Rob.
“Damn dog,” grumbles Richard as he rolled out of the couch.
Robert heard the growl then another “Damn!” He got up to see. “What happened?” he asked impatiently.
“She bit me on the hand. Look at this!” groused Richard.
“I see the marks but she didn’t draw blood. You must have startled her, Dickie. Rob looked down seeing Lady cowered under the coffee table. “Come on out, girl. It’s okay,” coaxes Rob in a soft voice. Lady crept out with her ears down. My Jack would never bite me, thinks Rob. His slight brotherly smirk makes it clear to Richard what Robert is thinking.
Robert pulled up Lady’s right ear. “You’re right. Look at the wax and crude in here. Get some tweezers and swabs,” then he adds, “and scissors, she’s got hair tangles in there. I’ll clean this out.” Rob gently pets her, “It’ll be okay girl. You are such a pretty Lady. Pretty Lady,” he continues stroking the venerable tan and white cocker spaniel until Richard arrives with the small box of ear cleaning material.
The aging cocker soon found herself with cleaned ears and quickly leaped up on Rob for a wonderland of a belly scratch. Richard hit the remote during the next commercial and caught the tail end of a broadcast asking for donations."
“Everyone wants a donation,” said Robert.
“I agree,” responds Richard as he flipped the channel back to ESPN. “I'm tired of all of it, charity, religion, politics - all of it."
Rob counters, “Our two dogs have a better life than either of us.”
“True,” says Richard as he reached and stroked Lady, “but she cares for us as only a mother might.”
Rob responds on cue, “We have to take care of ourselves. Nothing's free.” He groused, “It's a miracle our species has survived this long.”
“The fifties and sixties,” comments Richard, “how did we survive that? No one our age thought we would live to be thirty and here we are seventy this year. “And, the world is worse now than it was then.”
“No,” argued Robert, “it was worse with the arsenal the Soviets and Americans had pointed at one another.”
“One day some crazy group will explode a nuclear weapon somewhere in the remote Pacific and then say they have another, that's all it will take, even if they don’t have another.”
“Why didn’t Truman do that?” questioned Robert. “Why couldn’t we have dropped the bomb near Japan so the power would not be hidden from the general population?”
“War is not humane,” comments Richard.
Robert counters, “But it is human enough.”
“War dogs take care of their own,” noted Richard.
“War dogs hardly ever bite the hand that feeds them,” snickered Robert.
“Remember Rob," jibed Richard as he stuck his right forefinger in the air, "a bone in the hand is worth two in the bush." Both laughed at their by now stained adolescent joke.
Grandma’s Story 2
“Grandma traces Homo sapiens’ genetic Eve’s DNA through various storytellers known as shamans because they understand Merlyn's use of trancephysics. Trancephysics is a vehicle Merlyn uses to slide his human spirit into the essence of Captain Lamar, which is, in reality, the human spirit, the heartansoulanmind of Richard Greystone, the younger twin.”
She continues, “One might consider trancephysics a retro version of quantum entanglement in modern times. For example, Sir Phillip Sydney, a tolerable Elizabethan poet of a few hundred years back created two quiet philosophical lines about this trancephysics in his poem, ‘Arcadia’."
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given . . .
“Merlyn intuitively sides with the poet,” winked Grandma, “though he appreciates the modern sciences, particularly those of Quantum Mechanics and Chaos Theory. Anyone who has ever been deeply in love like Merlyn is with Vivian better understands the intimate event Sir Phillip Sydney so eloquently describes.
This unconsciously connected ‘invisible bond’ is an undeniable human experience beyond the “I love you’s” mutually understood between two or a family. This trancephysical bond also extends those who may rarely if ever meet while living, and this is somewhat how it is between Merlyn and Richard Greystone and all other humans living or having lived, who share Mother.” Grandma pauses to reshape herself without consciousness.
“When Glevema physically died in an accidental drowning,” declares Grandma, “she came to more fully understand her grandfather’s earlier story of humans being both out among the stars and on Earth at the same time. She also discovered other heartsansoulsanminds who already occupied a region within the Place of the Dead.” Here is a selection from Glevema herself.”
Glevema quickly realizes these otherworldly human-like spirits with heartsansoulsanminds, have a facsimile of a physical body, but noticeable differences — the nearly naked women have the manifestation of a pouch on the lower belly and no breasts. The men have nipples below the belly and a small earthworm-thin curlicue of a penis. As Glevema was the first representative of Homo sapiens to find her way to the Place of the Dead she was politely allowed to stay, but once a few other primate oriented spirits followed their mother, Glevema was allowed, if she wished, to form an original Homo sapiens region to more easily comfort her descendants. Once freely removed the re-focused the Homo sapiens spirit adventure continues.
“Generations flourish,” continues Grandma, “and spread flower-like until some ten thousand years ago when one of the many descendants of Glevema found herself on the British Isles mixing with a trading group from Europe called Basques. A few traveling Basques settle in lower western Scotland. As the families mix and grow, some move to Ireland while others drift to Wales and England.” Five thousand years later still in the Isles, another shaman of the same direct line appeared. He had some tall tales centered on Mother Earth, the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, and the Nature of human beings. The shaman told such stories in a make believe circle on England’s Salisbury Plain,” said Grandma. “Here is one of shaman’s stories.”
“I had a dream and I thought about this for the next fifteen years. The dream was about a great Rebellion in the Place of the Dead. The dream began with the cold, icy fingers of the Dead feeling their way back to Mother Earth. The Dead do not go to Heaven or even to the Moon. The Dead are still within us.” He continued, “If you cremate the Dead, their bones will be blackened like the night. They will not have to see their bodies rotting and the animals won’t dig them up, and the quicker they will be a part of Mother again and best of all they will have no icy cold fingers reaching out for the Living. Close the Land of the Dead with well placed stones. Stones don’t move so easily as the spirits do.”
Grandma snickers. “Stones, a few of them, are like bones,” she said, “line them up just right and they lie right in front of you, that’s the truth of it.” She added with a wink or maybe two, “I got me on a Merlyn chant to take us from the past to that future dream which includes those humanoid figures Glevema first met being dead.
From the two venerable Celtic hearts created to sing
Return this story to where other passions ring
The well-known druidess and druid will do
In a similar spirit body that is dressed like you.
Within a corridor where stirring memories show
Vivian and Merlyn on Charon’s ferry flow
This time when Grandma chants and hums,
The marching future this way drums.
Diplomatic Pouch 2
The next morning Blake rambled down the stairs to find Pyl and Justin sitting at the breakfast table with toast, cups of coffee and sections of Cleveland Plain Dealer unevenly placed on the table. "Morning," murmured Blake. Glancing out the large back kitchen window and added, "Looks like quite a few dog walkers out at the park."
"Joggers were out earlier," commented Justin.
"Right."
Pyl put down the editorial page and said, "Are you really willing to sell the plane?"
"Three hundred thousand is much more than it’s worth."
"Why is that?" confronted Justin. "Pyl and I were just talking about this."
Blake walked to the cupboard for a mug, the refrigerator for skim milk, and the pantry from instant cocoa mix. He tore the package open and added "Odd that she brought up her top price rather than low-balling. I will say that." He nuked the mixed milk and powdered cocoa hot.
Pyl commented, "Justin thinks the woman has a strange mix of Boston accents. I agree that her voice is unusual."
Blake laughed, "Maybe she’s a business woman who studied to hide her family’s true language accent." He surprised himself in sympathy but he hated the culture injustice that sometimes comes from not learning to speak properly.
Pyl caught his facial language and voiced, "You've taken a liking to her sudden friendliness, huh, Blakey."
Justin popped in with instant humor, "Sell the plane and gain a businessman’s wife, is that the plan, old man?"
"Then we'd have the plane back," joked Pyl.
"Don't you two have some work to do today?"
"Just to jerk your mind, brother dear."
“Why don’t you two work with me, here in Cleveland. It is our family owned business." suggests Blake dryly; hopefully wishing they would help run the company. “We can live here in the old family house.” Blake trails off in the silence then sighs, “You’re right, it wouldn’t work now any more than it would have worked ten years ago.”
*
Mid-morning. Ship hovers well above the air traffic and well below any orbiting satellites. Lake Erie is straight down. Friendly sits around a handsomely dark p2wooded table-from-the-floor with Hartolite and Yermey. They are drinking a good-for-you yummy twistanshake and nibbling on p1green-forest-nuttleberry treats. All three sit bare breasted in colorful boxershort loungers relaxed on comfortchairs down so their clean bare feet and well trimmed toe nails are firmly snuggled in the greenest plushest living blades of grass this side of HomePlanetsThree. Ship's floor is a living piece of bio-diverse machinery from his outer hull to his antigravobars pulse that allows these three perspicacious marsupial humanoids to serve as Ship's heart, Ship's humanity, but not Ship's mind which is mostly his own.
For safety’s sake, the worst that can happen is Ship, with for his living crew attached, will run naked to HomePlanetsThree. When it comes to fight-or-flight the marsupial humanoids have always had some place to run for their own survival and safety. They have not had a stand-an-fight event for over twenty-thousand earth years. A very strong social consciousness is necessity.
"Do you think he'll take your offer?" asks Hartolite.
Yermey responds, "I'm more interested in why Ship allowed the Cessna wingtip's touch. Ship knew the plane was close and he chose to do nothing until after the touch."
With gazed eyes narrowing Captain Friendly recounted, "Ship allowed a touch not a collision. I too wonder about this. For now though we need to go with what is. Unknowingly to her this woman Pill may have scientific evidence of our existence to be analyzed, and there may be microscopic evidence, traces of blackenot mass on the wingtip. I think still it would be easier to buy the plane and allow them to make a healthy profit in the process. Besides, an electromagnetic anomaly may have allowed the plane to tap Ship. Godofamily only knows stranger things have happened to us.
"What do we do?" questions Hartolite. "Ship is autonomous as we came here on our own orders, not from ParentsinCharge." At least this is my assumption, she thought. If we don’t know the truth, surely Ship does.
Friendly interrupted Hartolite, whispering, "We came to save this species of primates from the most abominably of plagues, perhaps the same one we had over twenty-thousand years ago."
With his impish smile Yermey calmed the notion, "We cannot know this plague is for certain.” Pausing in the further reflection of a man who is nearly five hundred Earth years old, he said, “it is highly probable though, highly probable." Yermey thinking continued with, “or otherwise I would not have volunteered for this surreptitious expedition.”
***
You
have been toying with ebook conversion services as you are not in the mood to
do it yourself. You want world distribution because the iUniverse books have
that. You have a plain book cover on those books.
2201
hours. I want a simple white print on a blue background like what I have on the
softbound Merlyn books.
Find
and drag a copy on here then post. All for tonight. You have to have blood
drawn for Dr. B for Thursday and you have to be at the hospital at ten for your
operations. – Amorella
2220 hours. The truest blue color photo is the first one, but the set up and style is the same.
I agree. This book is about when you are dead and an angel asks you to tell a story about yourself. You can say I have one in three volumes. It is a mystery about being human. Merlyn the Bard is the only character. He dreams my story in four clover leaf segments per chapter for twenty-one chapters. The first segment is titled "The Dead", the second is "The Brothers", the third is "Grandma's Stories" and the fourth is "Diplomatic Pouch". - Amorella
2234 hours. I don't know that this bodes well. It was my own entrapment for focusing on the story for self-validity and consistency. Not for selling the book. I am not interested in selling the book. Sharing the story makes me free not selling it.
Who are you, Coleridge's Ancient Mariner now? - Amorella
2238 hours. Time for bed. Good night, Amorella.
Good night, boy. - Amorella
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