Mid-morning. You both awoke earlier to the
rain on the roof. Had a leisurely breakfast with the paper, and you have an
upcoming chore today, clean the litter boxes completely and add new litter from
scratch, so to speak. At least it’s a good morning for it. – Amorella
0940 hours. It’s not that bad of a chore. I really don’t
mind once I actually start.
Shortly after noon. You just awoke from a
nap and Carol is taking one. Jadah fell asleep on your stomach as you lay in
the chair, which put you asleep after forty-five minutes of exercises. Jadah is
curled up next to Carol at the moment. The rain is fairly steady but mostly
light with a rumbling of thunder off in the distant north now and then.
1227 hours. I haven’t even been downstairs to do the litter
boxes, but I’ll get them done. We were supposed to go to the Outback Steak House
for a Mother’s Day dinner today. Maybe we will later. The five-dollar coupon
ends today.
Mid-afternoon. Carol decided against Outback
today so you enjoyed Smashburgers instead. It has continued to rain off and on
all day. You may head back out for some reading time in the car depending on
what Carol wants to do after sorting through today’s mail. – Amorella
1547 hours. I think it is time to tackle those litter boxes.
Normally I scoop piddle and poop every day and add new litter according to
level but after a while the litter needs to be completely washed with soap and
hot water, the washed again with Lysol, dried, etc. – 1631 hours. That took a
little longer than I thought it would, but both boxes are clean and refilled
and the old litter is in an old litter carton and ready to go to the trash
tomorrow night. Poor Jadah is a bit apprehensive thinking, I assume, she did
something wrong that we had to clean up. She has been reassured she did not.
Spooky, on the other hand, could care less – she likes a very clean box and is
usually the first to use it afterwards. Funny cats. Funny people too, no
question about it. Cats and people both have their idiosyncrasies.
Why the details, boy? – Amorella
1644 hours. That is what I did. I put down what we do. I
thought that’s what this is about, my writing and everyday life events. Anyway,
I’m glad I do. Anyone who might think I am a crazy man holding myself up in a
little room somewhere, completely anti-social and the like, this is not true.
What happens in here happened, or with metaphysical events, I thought they
happened or might have been real events. I have continually acted as though
they might have, otherwise I would not write the books or the blog. After all,
if those transcendental events really happened there needs to be a record, I
would be remiss not to share; and if they didn’t, if it is all imagination, I
can eventually rest in peace anyway. I can assure you none of this is what
might be called wishful thinking. I’m basically an agnostic and not too hopeful
about our species anyway; which is some ways ironic considering the Merlyn
books are hopeful even in a fiction. Very odd, and I have no way to account for
it. Shoot, maybe I am a crazy old man,
but I am not anti-social, I just like my family privacy. – rho
You watched a couple shows and had light
snacks for supper. You just finished Chapter Sixteen so drop it in and post. –
Amorella
***
Chapter Sixteen
Suggestion
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.
Dead 16
Merlyn sits comfortably on the green meadow under his
favorite spiritual Oak in his sanctuary. The Scottish bluebells are in his left
in his peripheral vision and the stone stage ruins, north, directly ahead, the
white daisies beyond and the white foxglove and red poppy at his right
peripheral. This is one of very many pleasant days in my home of homes, thinks
the great druid. The grass is green as is the felt on billiard table in my
mind. I am the solid yellow ball in this thought and sitting next to the larger
cue ball in the center table. This is a reflection on ancient Elysium and its
rules. I still hear the Supervisor in a voice hardly a whisper. HeranHis
Being is alone enough. This is what he once said, and only in whisper is
all it needed be.
*
"This
is the Supervisor. Elysium, the ancient Greek Place of the Dead, works.
The connection between the Dead and the Living is in the heartansoulanmind’s
perception. The Living help cultivate the Dead through self-learning and
expanding the dimensions of human experience.
Everyone contributes into a self-education. What one learns life is
taken to the Dead. Hearts and minds serves as a serendipitous postal service.
The Dead, being out of space and time; more easily develop abstract and metaphysical
concepts and theory, which return through a slow process, similar to molecular
diffusion and osmosis, to the Living. The River Styx is the conduit, a
metaphor, a form that carries a current of new ideas and concepts both to the
Living from the Dead and from the Dead to the Living.
The classical Dead
understand Elysium is their Eve-Mother’s body. She is at the heart of the
heartsansoulsanminds of the originally elected Rebellion of the Ten Thousand.
Orders are few and far between, but when deeply heartfelt, Mother’s commands
are unconsciously understood. Most children intuitively understand this
process. The Dead are their mothers’ children first from the present back to
the beginning of consciousness the original mother’s consciousness. Eve-Mother’s
children recognize a possible truth when they feel it from the inside out.
Feeling is not declaring however, and in here, true translation from one sense
to another is not so easily accomplished no matter how heartfelt the feeling
may be. Even in life, in genetics a species’ genes language, the mitochondrial
DNA for example, is subject to a misinterpreted translation. It is no
different, in this case, with human languages — those of the Dead and the
Living.
To
absolve a few questions between the two social terms, the elite and the
proletariat, for instance, I’ll say each individual is judged equally, but how
the person lived is, in part, up to how the person chose to live her-or-his
common life under the circumstances she-or-he lived. Souls are built, in part,
for humanities’ protection and are similarly constructed.
Hearts
and minds are also distinct individual qualities. The only roost an
individual controls is herorhis own. This sharpens the sense of Free Will. The
Dead have no fear of other people in these books. The Dead,
Marsupialese-humanoid or Homo sapiens, exist to grow, to mature within one’s
individual heart and mind and on into the grandness of the species as a whole —
a flower within the largest of flower gardens, so to speak. This is a necessity
not a rule. Why else would conscious continue in existence beyond the grave?
While
I, the Supervisor, am observing an individual heartansoulanmind,
herorhis soul experiences being observed. This may cause a teeter-totter of
heart and mind in the deepest or lightest of unconscious and conscious levels.
This is how it is to be confined in one’s humanity. This experience, a mixed
play with Free Will, results in subtle changes in an individual’s
contemplations at any given time.
Contemplation
is one thing; human attitudes and behaviors are another. The general cultural
virtues and vices of your two species, homo sapiens and marsupial humanoids,
are separated into various higher qualities: prudence, justice, temperance and
fortitude for example. The marsupial humanoids and the homo sapiens and other
species with like spiritual attributes are not to be toyed with. I, the
Supervisor, wish all naturally gifted species such as yours, well. Your Milky
Way Galaxy is but a single limited garden. As the Dead and Living expand their
awareness of what reality is its roots, its potential, appears to grow deeper,
but the root was already, long into the Before and the multidimensional concept
of seeding.
*
"I
understand," replies Merlyn as if he were speaking to a Presence. I am
watched and even read, thinks Merlyn. By whom I am not sure. I am not even half
an ounce in weight. I can be sucked in and out of a living lung and never know
the difference. The dark pupils that bring me sight are scattered letterforms on
a ghostly white background. I exist within the observation of the
Supervisor and thus, I am dead and not dead both at once, no matter in what
shape-shifting circumstance my pupils find themselves embedded.
The
Brothers 16
Robert
and Richard pull up beside to the neatly white clapboarded and brown-trimmed
one time church, now a book store, climb out of Richard's red GTI and walk
briskly over to the austere entrance below the copper clad roof of the bell
tower. Once inside they make their way between mazes of mostly neat book filled
rows and intermixes of interesting cubbyholes and wall fixtures to the back of
the first floor.
Coming
up the back corner they spotted two dark green overstuffed chairs midst a chaos
of book cover colors which gave the simple framed backdrop walls the appearance
of large abstract art forms stacked in various sized three-dimensional
rectangular blocks of color. The two sit down somewhat recklessly into the
puffed chairs before perusing through nearby book sections then moving on to
the second floor and returning to the corner area where they began. Richard
arrived first.
While
other customers bustled about Richard mumbles, "Other than my kindly
Marsupial humanoids helping us out, God’s promise to Sarah and Abraham is the
only hope I can come up."
He
sits a few more minutes then spies a Hebrew Bible in English on the nearby
table and thumbs through Genesis until he finds Chapter 22:15 which reads, “And
the angel of the LORD called unto Abraham a second time out of heaven, (16) and
said: 'By Myself have I sworn, saith the LORD, because thou hast done this
thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, (17) that in blessing I
will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of
the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the seashore; and thy seed shall
possess the gate of his enemies; (18) and in thy seed shall all the nations of
the earth be blessed; because thou hast hearkened to My voice.'” All nations,
thinks Richard; this is pretty inclusive in my story, but how do I keep the
references to any particular religions out of the books?
Robert
comes over from the nearby bookstand, he asks, “What did you find?”
“I
found an old Hebrew-English Bible on the table, a 1917 edition, and I have the
reference of God’s promise to Abraham in Genesis.”
"Don't
bring any miracles into your books," comments Robert, "the book is
fiction enough as it is. What do you think human beings would do knowing they
had help from God?"
Many
already assume this, considers Richard. He says, ”Then I'll have to leave it to
my marsupials. I agree wholeheartedly. I have to leave God out of this.” I know
better, he realizes. I don’t know if God exists or not. The concept of God
exists. People will read and consider what they want to read and consider. Each
comes to her or his own heartfelt conclusion. Nothing can be done to prevent
this. Nothing should be done. I am free and so is everyone else. A line from
Milton’s Paradise Lost forms but is interrupted.
"There's
politics in King Arthur's Court too. So, you're stuck with politics,” notes
Robert, "And, what about the Druids and the Christians? You can't go
deleting history. Your books are not fantasies.” Robert glances down at the
poetry book, "This is $9.95, not bad. I'm ready to go."
"Might
as well. Old Bibles are rather classy."
"Some
are worth a penny or two," remarks Robert with a grin.
They
pay for the books and return to the car for a nearly silently back to Riverton.
"What
about Earth Abides and I Am Legend?” asks Robert about five miles
into their trip home.
"In
my original Braided Dreams,” says Richard, I had a twin Earth almost wiped
out. The apocalypse concept has been done to death.” That was another time,
another dimension, he imagines. Each book is bound by its own time and
dimension and space too. No two books are alike to any writer or reader either
for that matter. A book is frozen. People however cannot be bound, or God
either.
They
continue on in the mutual appreciation for silence, but upon pulling in the
driveway Cyndi comes out the side door, waits for Richard to open the door, and
says, "I'm going to pick up Connie. Rob do you want a ride?" He
responds affirmatively then says, "Dickie has a problem with his book,
what do you think he ought to do?”
Cyndi
looks at her husband and replies, “He knows. You hit the problem head on. You
don’t dilly dally with it. Isn’t that right, Richie?”
"Listen
to your woman, bro.”
*
Later
Richard sits straight and formal like his favorite grandpa used to with an old
Bible in his hand as he stares out at the college cemetery across the street. I
am on one side and they are on the other. West Walnut Street might as well be
the River Styx.
Grandma’s
Story 16
Queen
Saraid, King Conaire II and young Prince Corbred are walking along a forest
path, happy to be alone for a change, when the king sees a strange mushroom on
the right side of the path. It is ivory colored with brown spokes like those of
a Roman chariot, the spokes of our enemy. The Prince asks, “What is this?”
“Shall
I pull it for a snack?” replies the queen.
“No,
no. This may be an omen.” The king glances up. “Where is Corbred?”
“Oh,
he is fine. I saw him walk on ahead, but he will not go far without me.”
King
Conaire II stands and looks about scrutinizing the trail. “I don’t see him.”
“That
little boy,” replies Saraid. “has never run off before. He is usually tugging
on my dress.”
*
Meanwhile
little Corbred is on a trail of his own. I’m not afraid of anything, feels
Corbred. The fox is a menace and I will chase him until he tires and then I’ll
bring him home by his tail. Everyone will see how marvelous I am. Corbred’s eyes continue focusing on the
tail end of the fox.
*
“The
boy’s your responsibility,” comments the king in his clearly royal voice.
“Yes,
m’lord,” replies the queen with no further comment.
"The
mushroom is a bad omen. I think the Faeries are behind this, comments the King
nervously.
“We
must find him,” exclaims Queen Saraid fearfully. “Faeries will want to bargain
for our son?” Or worse, she wonders, steal his soul?
*
Corbred,
who lost the fox, hears a great horned owl hoot “Whoo” once near the top of the
old tree.
Corbred,
not sure what he heard innocently answers up, “Prince Corbred”
“Whoo,”
replies the owl.
“I
am Corbred, and I want my mother.”
The
old owl flies off.
Exhausted
from the hunt the boy lay on the worn animal trail and into a deep sleep. He
had a dream encased in sharp teeth. Here is little lost Corbred’s dream:
“Hello,
little boy, this is your Grandmother. What sharp front teeth you have. I will
have one of those.” She reached in his mouth and pulled it out.
When
Corbred awoke he discovers his left front tooth is missing. He wonders about
this for hours because he can find it nowhere.
Suddenly
in late mid-morning he hears his mother’s voice and quickly runs toward her.
“Corbred!” she exclaims, “I knew I would find you.”
“I
was hunting a fox, Mother, See, I found his den looking for my tooth. How did
you know to find me here?”
“This
was the only animal trail we hadn’t yet searched.”
“I
didn’t notice,” he says, “I kept my eyes on the red tail because I knew the
fox’s head was at the other end.”
“You
sound just like your uncle,” laughs his mother. She asks, “What happened to
your tooth? I didn’t know it was loose.”
“Grandmother
came by in the night and took it out.”
“Grandmother?
Both of your grandmothers are dead, Corbred. You know that.”
He
replies indigently. “Well someone took it,”
She
sighs then she politely comments, “Your father will say a faery took your
tooth.”
Suddenly
Corbred turns white as a sheet. “Faeries take your soul, not your teeth,” he
replies. He quietly considers, I never thought of the faeries in my dream. I
thought of Grandmother.
“Don’t
bother with it, son,” says Mother, “It’s just old men’s talk.” He gives her a
look that might have frightened her but did not. She asks, “What’s the matter,
Corbred?”
“My
front tooth left an opening in my mouth, Mother, and it is making me faery
afraid.”
She
laughed softly and motherly, “Don’t worry, you are safe. No need to be very
afraid.” She smiles, “I’m not afraid.”
Corbred
thinks it is good to keep his mouth shut so no one can see the gap in his
teeth. People might mind a Faerie's gap. Besides, a lost tooth is better than
being a lost soul. That is what got him to thinking, putting tooth and
soul together in the same sentence. He was never the same boy after. As he
matured he became known as Corbred the Silent.
*
Grandma
chuckles and slides quietly between the toes of her nearest reader. She nestles
there, between those toes whenever they touch the bare earth. Grandma smiles
commenting, “Everyone thinks she or he knows the difference between a tooth and
a soul by the hole it leaves behind.”
A
whisper from afar, “I know the difference,” says the still small lost ghostly
child in Corbred’s well-worn nearly extinguished spirit.”
*
Grandma
relinquishes her chuckle in an added wink says, “One has to be careful about
what she or he thinks she or he knows for sure. The Place of the Dead is full
of such spirited people.
Diplomatic
Pouch 16
Arriving
at the room a little late Justin and Hartolite are already seated and
semi-relaxed while Justin suddenly focuses at the figurine sitting on the drink
stand to Hartolite's right. He asks, "What is that on the table?"
"The
finger-cup-with-a-top? It is filled with sacred water from home,” answers
Hartolite warmly.
"It
looks empty. I thought it was a vase to put a single flower in, except it is
not quite tall enough."
She
responds contentedly, "When I am homesick I put it in my pouch when I go
to sleep. It is comforting."
"Pardon?"
"I
put it in my pouch for comfort. She picks up the small vase and hands it to
him."
Justin
takes it with self-consciousness, "It's soft. I thought it was
glass." A nasty thought hits and he tries to dismiss it. His cheeks
redden.
Showing
an immediate concern Hartolite asks, "Are you embarrassed? What is
embarrassing? I mean, if I may ask. I will try to rectify it."
"No,
no." He looks for a place to put the vase trying not to imagine it was in
her pouch. "I'll set the relic here."
Hartolite
stands reaching for the vase and says, "I'll take it, Dr. Justin.”
He hands it to her with relief. ”Call me
Justin, Hartolite. PhD’s are not medical doctors."
"That
would be rude,” she replies. “It would be impolite for us to be presumptuous.
Earthlings are all titled that's what we are taught."
"We
are more equal than titled with a Mr. or Dr. that's what we believe, that is
what are laws say."
"Saying
and being are two different things."
"See,"
brightens Justin, "We agree on that."
"I
am happy that you consider us equal. May I ask you an equal question?” Not
waiting for his response she asks, “Is having sex fun?"
Jarred
by the question Justin attempts to be professional. ”Do you mean foreplay or
intercourse?"
Hartolite
laughs at his awkwardness. Just like our men she thinks. "No, I meant
'Isn't sex fun?'"
Justin
laughs at the thought but remains anxious. To relieve the silence he quietly
replies, "Our species thinks so, but, uh, affairs are not looked highly
upon in our culture."
"Then
why are there so many?"
"I
don't know." What about your culture? Our social rules are
complicated. How do you dispense justice?" He meant to say marriage.
"That's
an easy question. We have three judges. After a hearing they pronounce the
person not guilty or guilty."
"No
jury?"
"Why
would you want to complicate the justice?"
"It
is like your Supreme Court only it is an equal court," comments Hartolite
matter-of-factly. Then a quick change of subject, "Since we are equal
would you like to see my pouch?"
Am
I being seduced, he thinks. He says, ”Isn’t that a bit intimate?"
"No.
We marsupial humanoid women are built to share our pouches." She stands
and drops her outer pants slowly. "See, here it is." I would never
show my pouch to a primate at home. He might attack me."
Justin
stands in front of her a bit awkwardly while a polite curiosity takes charge.
He becomes medical doctor-like with observation, "There is a brownish
ridge like an old scar."
"You
can touch it."
He
does. "It is rubbery."
“You
can put your hand in if you like. Our men always put their hand in the pouch
whenever they can. Usually when we are alone in the apartment as we are now. Go
ahead.” She eases his hand down inside.
Justin
comments in surprise, ”This is soft and slightly moist. My goodness. This is
very calming, very pleasurable - I feel like I have just been given a full body
massage."
"That's
why our men like it. It is the same for us women too. When I put my hand in my
pouch or in Friendly's pouch we become very relaxed, like we were crawlbabes
in a quiet sleep."
Thinking
about her hand in Friendly’s pouch, Justin slowly pulls his right hand out and
politely steps back while she adjusted her outer pants. "I don't know what
to say."
Hartolite
giggles, ”Neither do our men. Isn't that funny?”
Their
eyes meet in a sparkle and Justin automatically reflects her giggle.
Both
laugh and are strangely more intimate and friends than just moments before.
Hartolite is sure this is a good sign that the two species are indeed equal
just as Justin had said. She thinks, ParentinCharge at ThreePlanets are wrong.
We two species have automatic strengths in our humor and laughter.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment