Mid-morning. Breakfast and the paper and
then you had cleanup chores in the kitchen. Another dark and dreary morning and
your arthritis, particularly in your wrists and hands is acting up. Neighbors
to the south, Kings are having their driveway torn out today. Jadah’s been
cold, Spooky not so much. It was forty-one outside earlier but you have the
heat on. It is sixty-eight in the bedroom but warmer downstairs. – Amorella
1008 hours. I was checking my email and a former Indian Hill student
Cathy Walker posted and Facebook tagged you for this e-poster:
“Keep
Books Dangerous
Support
small press
Publishers,
writers
and
artists.”
What you find humorous is that you have
never thought of the Merlyn books as dangerous. And, in consideration you
cannot think of how they might be; but you like the sentiment thinking: any
book banned by one institution or another is usually read. – Amorella
1018 hours. I shouldn’t have to worry about the Merlyn books. The e-poster
just struck me funny. I’m sure she was thinking about me as an old rebellious
former teacher of English who would get a kick out of the sentiment not a
writer in the small press. Cross-referencing as I do though, I thought – ‘the
Merlyn books are dangerous books’ and I see the irony on a variety of levels.
It pretty much makes my morning actually.
You
have completed forty minutes of exercises and also to segments of chapter
eighteen. – Amorella
1156 hours. I have the southeast section of the yard yet to trim.
Usually it is relatively quiet around here but Kings, next door are having the
driveway torn out and redone by the Middleton’s. Tim said he wanted his
driveway done as well as they did our front walk a couple years ago. We both
had the Middleton boys in our classes back in the late eighties/ early
nineties.
Afternoon and you are going out to lunch
when Carol gets to the car. You finished the trimming and also raked the front
and side yards. It is partly cloudy but at least the yellow sun shows itself
between the white dressings. – Amorella
1331 hours. There are six men working on Tim’s driveway, there were
eight. The postman’s late, he is just coming down the street now, different
driver. In the old days late forties early fifties your postman was with you
for your life living on the street. I remember ours on Park Street, Mr. Kenneth
Gorsage. I’m Facebook friends with his son who is about ten years older than I
am. My sister Cathy lives right next door to his father’s old house. That what
I liked about old small town Westerville, most everybody knew everybody and
most people would speak to each other, that is if you were mainstream
Protestant. We weren’t perfect, I realized that early on. People had a public
level and a private one. Most of the private levels stayed that way even in
church. At least that’s the way I remember it.
Lunch at Smashburgers then as the price
began to climb on gas prices you filled up both cars. In the process you found
that the Toyota got 39.4 m/g at the pump and 39.7 m/g on the car’s computer.
This is the first time you averaged over 39 m/g at a fill up. You and Carol are
quite pleased. Tomorrow you take the hybrid up to Columbus for the weekend once
again. - Amorella
1825 hours. I completed the Chapter Eighteen final draft.
This went faster than you thought it would.
You are falling into the habit of editor like a professional. – Amorella
1827 hours. I am gathering a natural flow much as I did when grading
papers. It has taken these eighteen chapters to begin to feel much more
comfortable editing the book.
Add and post. – Amorella
***
Chapter
Eighteen
Brevity
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.
Merlyn
has this little ditty memorized to the point it sits in stemmed reverence from
which the four-leafed chapter dream grows to novel size and beyond. Merlyn
kneads the dreams into words, the music for the heartansoulanmind whose
transcendental spirit shines. The words cast a light for those have no sight
and for those with an imagination that casts no shadow.
The
Dead 18
Vivian. My never forgotten memory of waiting
on love once again deliberated from heartansoulanmind with a brooding lip, I am
at once again vivacious and uncommonly forever fourteen. I, Vivian, am young in
years but half a divine moonth along in years rather than days. I am as a babe
though unslaughterable and ready for the capturing this older man, Merlyn; this
great Bard and Druid of our own Caledonia. My thin soft white linen robe drapes
suggestively tight or loose where welcome for a visual shadowy enrichment the
dark triangle outlined below and subtle fresh fruit-sized bosoms, taut nippled
to further enhance this Merlyn's questing imagination. Glancing down her
breasts tingled of the goosiest of small bumps, each as a firm faery stem ready
to flower for pollination.
Happily
glad, trooping seelings, the blessed faeries, conjure me a-musing . . .
wondrously and sprite-like they, a piloerection of tiny hairs about to shoot a
feminine succulents for capturing love's quick aroma in this Master Druid's
most deserving nostrils.
I,
a druidess spectacular, swell in mind, shape-shifting my supple young heart to
sway to the natural craving of our two druidic souls to reunite from Beyond to
intertwine in ancient and naked worldly ways. In intuitive grace we shall be
one and invisible but for the subtlest sighs of a gentle breeze at play among
the highest leaves on the Oak.
Bay
tree laurels, like reason, are not for this momentary crowning. Pray today, no
victors here but for Merlyn's plowing into my wholesome wet earth. A virginal
seeding is not so much a soulful clutching, as it is the outreach of hot
passionate desire.
*
It
is this enraptured youthful wish of mistaking mind for heart that leads young
Vivian into the gravest error, an accident of unforeseen and unpredictable
circumstance. Faeries, Vivian should have known, have greater trooping smiles
in a spiritedness bordering on lasciviousness compounded by obsession rather
than love-in-reason which in this earthly reality all living consciously are
bound by even in Death.
She
stands forever if it suits her, a young lady-by-the-lake, ready to walk up and
out the forest path exit ready to greet the man she has known for lifetimes but
never once on Earth.
*
Perchance
here is Merlyn shared-in-memory. Likewise, he stands a pace or two from heart’s
forest path entrance like a physics experiment ready for quantum entanglement.
Merlyn's soul instilled in heartansoulanmind has no need of memory. Merlyn
feels those still recent dreams are manifestations of Divine Justice whether he
thinks it so or not.
*
In
an earlier time in life plods Merlyn, I was sitting on a recently fallen log
minding my own business wondering how I would think as the second common
element, air. Everyone knows how it is to be made of Earth and neither Fire nor
Water would be so fully comfortable for its burning up or running off. Air;
nothing is so intimate, long lasting and invisible. What I could be and do? He
smiles soul contented, knowing intuitively that to be naked and running, the
woods invisibly clothed in Air the most free and natural of Aristotle's magical
four. The breath of God will be my Heaven. That was my wish in those days when
I measure these first thirty-six years.
Waiting
for the white dressed druidess by the lake Merlyn brushes the back of his head
as if an ant had falling from a tree leaf and is taking flight. My virginity
contains naturally cultivated creative powers and one day I will know what it
is to be invisible. On that day I shall become the sovereign's Arch Druid's
master, or so thinks Merlyn.
*
In
the interval beyond space and time Merlyn glances through himself to see the
billiard table clean and empty of balls and he wonders if it is fair and just
that reasonable cause and effect appeared to be eluding him. How can it be that
when I ponder on my first meeting with Vivian there are no balls on the slate?
I
am thirty-six and a virgin and this would-be-druidess is fourteen and not. We
are about to meet for the first time. I see her stealthily walking through the
memory of woods and two arms outstretched from the lake's touch. Vivian knows I
see her for more than she is, a true druidess in the making. He glances down
and sees two grounded goose feathers, one pointed towards her and the other
pointed towards him.
How
can it be we share the same pinion feathers when they point quills opposite? Is
this an event to be calligraphic in our two minds forever? Mind to heart and
heart to soul – is this but a practice for full sharing. Open-minded, I am
ready for anything but the losing of heart’s self-discipline in this world or
the next.
The
Brothers 18
Connie and Cyndi sitting on the wood stained gliding swing
chair for two and Robert and Richard were sitting in sturdier charcoal black
chairs one on either side of the porch glider, and on the other side of the
street lies John Knox College Cemetery.
Robert
and Richard had just adjusted their sitting on the warm cloudy day. Robert
speaks first, "Where are we going for supper?"
"Let's
go uptown for a change, I'm tired of the chains," replies Cyndi.
"That's
a good idea, how about Jimmy John's?" adds Connie.
"And
we could have ice cream for desert," suggests Cyndi in retort.
"That
was quick. Sounds settled then," comments Robert shaking his head with the
hint of a grin. He adds with a hint of sarcasm. "What did you want to do,
Richie?"
Richard
grumbles, "Like it would make a difference." Noting the sharp looks
from both women, he mimicked his brother's dry grin. "Where did you want
to eat, Robbie?"
He
shrugs his shoulders, "Hey, Jimmy John's is fine with me."
"Why
do you two not speak up? Why didn't you suggest where you wanted to go,
Richie?" asks Cyndi.
"Why
didn't you ask a minute or so ago?" His shuffled face explains he had made
his point.
"We
can't read your mind, Richie," says Connie with irritation.
"We
can just let them scramble up some baked beans and hot dogs for
themselves," reinforces Cyndi.
"Mind
reading would be illegal because of privacy laws," quips Richard.
"Let's go to the kitchen, Connie." The sister
leave but it is the brothers who sense banishment.
Richard
feels a tinge of guilt for instigating the squabble, thinking, 'I'll pay for
this incident later,' but says, “How’s your cemetery poem coming, Rob?”
“I
haven’t been working on it, but I have another I’m dressing up.”
“Let’s
see it.”
Robert
left the porch for a few moments then returned. “I had it in the folder under
the car seat along with a few others I like to work on from time to time.”
“Like
where do you work?”
“Sometimes
when I am out for a short drive I will go down to the park, sometimes just a
parking lot, or park under an old shade tree down the street. I can dig out a
poem and see if the setting helps change my attitude towards the words. Here’s
the poem.”
Richard
reads Robert’s poem intently, recognizing his own parallel patterned thinking
while reading.
*
TRANSPLANT WAITING
ROOM, CHIIDREN'S HOSPITAL
Parents
pace among the scarred tables,
settle
anxiously into shell craters,
stare
about for tonic comfort.
New
magazines paint the litter of butchery:
more
reminding of a holocaust
With
one picture, a girl,
middle
of a row, gently smiling
At
a sweet, treasured thought
lost
to the ashen grass of Auschwitz;
It
was the Christians, at Chatila--
broken
rooms, stray dogs lapping
Blood
from pools, furnishings line
the
roads, the gray remains compose;
Children
sled, tumble, cane to rest
in
the red snow of Sarajevo;
Good
intentions stick to poles,
grim
advertisements for aid.
Western
Art in gilded frames haunts the walls:
Still
life with ripe fruit; poppies
bleeding
a hillside; myths of Primavera
down
the bright corridors of morning;
Yet
in one scene, parents perhaps,
bending
the will to stoop,
Glean
the fields at evening --
they
could be Arab women
sorting
clothes at Kasserine Pass,
or
thin fathers picking rice
Among
the limbs near Camranh Bay, or
Parents,
bent at the bed of human future,
who
have sent the organ-gathering troops?
To
scour the farms of combat,
and
who have willingly bowed
toward
the any-price of child salvation.
*
“I’m
not sure what to say about this. It leaves me organizing thoughts and
speechless at the same time.”
Robert
gives him a sardonic look, saying, “That’s really quite a helpful criticism,
Richie.”
Richard
returns with, “Sarcasm is a slice and dice scalpel, Robbie boy.”
“I
got the pun, Dickie.”
Richard
retorts slowly and more seriously, “That’s the problem with words sometimes,
you think they mean one thing in context, and it turns out they mean something
else again.”
“That’s
what was good about being a surgeon,” says Robert. “I was in and out, and the
body being operated on was never my own.”
Richard
develops a twinkle in his eye, “You can’t cut your thoughts, like it or not,
the brain just keeps on working and producing.”
“These brains of ours will stop one of these days, then
where will we be, bro?” comments Robert, who almost always slams in the last
word of a conversation.
Rob's
content with having the last word, sighs his brother, and frankly I can't think
of anything else to say. I’m getting hungry. We need the girls so we can go to
lunch.
Grandma's
Story 18
This
is Grandma. Bloodlines were important to the Royals of Europe within their
national identities of religious power. This story’s legendary bloodline traces
to Pharamond, King of Westphalia, who died in four hundred and thirty of your
common era. In this story King Pharamond is about to declare his love to
Argotta Genebald of the East Franks an important bloodline link.
Here
we are in a forest clearing. Princess Argotta of the East Franks sits on the
trunk of a large fallen walnut tree and faces east. King Pharamond wishes to
sit beside her, but under the circumstance, he sits on a smaller oak log facing
her.
Pharamond
thinks (in this time of muddled and muddy politics and religion) -- I am
attracted to all that I see -- beauty, but not beyond compare. Argotta sits as
a friend, and as a possible lover and mother; yet most important, as I muse she
sits a princess. First, I must tell her I love her, and second, I must ask for
her hand in marriage, a state marriage already secretly approved of.
*
Should
I wait until he speaks, thinks Princess Argotta? It seems only polite to do so.
I don’t know why he wants me to be his walking companion in this forest? He has
not made any advancement though now I wonder. The king is the point and he is
sharply double edged. I am no flat of steel though; I appear to be the handle
of such a metaphorical sword. I can exchange a blade handle easily enough.
Harmonies exist in a marriage of royal metals. It is odd for me to have such a
quick thrusted feeling thought. I should up a shield for his silence, but now,
strangely, I do not care for one. Normally I maintain the need to speak. It is
the job of a Princess to speak her mind. Others need to know what to do.
“We
haven’t seen the owl today,” interrupts King Pharamond.
“No,
we haven’t milord.”
“You
are beautiful when your cheeks are red, my Princess Argotta,” discloses the
king.
She
smiles pleasantly while looking at Pharamond, saying, “M’king, did you know I
am skilled in the art of blacksmithing?”
Pharamond
nervously laughs at the unexpected remark, “I did not, m’Lady. I had no idea.
Where did you learn the arts?”
“My
father, the king. He is skilled in the ancient arts.”
“I
did not know.” . . . along with what other secrets, he assesses.
She
stands, straight and ancestrally proud, “Yes, when Father discovered I was
interested in the arts he taught me. I have created a sword with my own hands,
milord,”
Pharamond
smiles more warmly. “I did not expect this. Your father is of the old ways.” He
quickly conjectures, “I always considered him a follower of the Bishop of
Rome.”
“That
he is, and so am I. We do not agree with the Visigoth tribes to the south. We
accept Jesus as God. I understand the Visigoth question this.”
“True,”
says the king. “Some people have doubts.”
Without
thinking or even flinching, Argotta immediately replies, “Jesus as God is not a
fact, milord.”
Pharamond
is taken back momentarily confused, “What do you mean, my Princess Argotta?”
The
king's unusual royal tone takes Argotta by complete surprise. She quickly
answers, “You cannot doubt a fact, milord.”
The
king replies in relief. “You are skilled in the academics also, I see.”
“Of
course, milord. What would you expect of a princess?”
King
Pharamond blurts, “I would like you to be my queen, if you so desire it also.
You will always be free to verbally respond to me as a man would respond,
Princess Argotta both in public and in private.”
“This
is not the Catholic way, milord.”
“In
private we each are not the Catholics we are perceived in public. We have more
in common than I suspected.”
“We
do, milord,” responds Argotta as she steps towards the king. She kneels
automatically and draws her right hand forth as if it holds an invisible and
magic sword, “I accept your kind offer. You may thus kiss your future queen’s
hand, my King Pharamond.”
Old Grandma knows
which way it goes
Along the genetic
path petal-filled with rose;
Hand in hand from any
solitary Eden left
Is an ancient story
of an Eve and Adam bereft.
Diplomatic
Pouch 18
"Who
would have ever thought we would see this live?" utters Blake Williams
quietly.
"Never
in a million years," declares Justin.
"What
does this mean?" asks Pyl.
Justin
quickly rebutts, "Why does this scene have to mean something, Pyl? Jeez. Here
we are in an alien ship witnessing the dark side of the Moon."
"There
is a purpose,” grimaces Pyl. “What do they want from us?"
Yermey
appears to pop up from nowhere, "You ask a good question, Pyl
Burroughs."
"Here
it comes," mumbles Justin unthinkingly.
"What's
that?" smiles Yermey.
Blake
grins sardonically, "He means Pyl will be direct.
Yermey
chuckles, puts his hand on Blake's shoulder saying, "Let's go in here and
sit for a minute where we can talk comfortably."
The
relatively non-descript empty room has two chairs and a couch roll up into
place for sitting while the ceiling and upper walls create a soft lighting.
Blake enjoys Yermey's comrade-like touch and says, "All this needs is a
fire lit fireplace to appear from the far wall."
Yermey
laughs softly, commenting, "No fireplaces here but I could arrange for
one.”
"No,
that's fine,” responds Blake. “Excuse me a moment, I’ll be back.”
Pyl
sits on the couch with Justin fitting in beside her, "I don't know what's
fine, Blake,” she says. “We don't know, but I assume we are going to be used by
these people."
Justin
realizes Pyl hardly knows he is here comforting. He off-handedly falls into
Pyl’s mood, "Pyl's right, Blake. We need to know more before we get cozy
with these people.” He thought, after all the man said, ‘he’d be back’. It
sounds like a line from a movie.
Yermey
returns quickly, sits, looks quickly at each earthling and comments, "I
appreciate your honesty; really, we all do. Cozy is not a word I
know well. We want you to feel safe and secure. First, we respect your species.
This is the reason we came here. The greater ThreePlanets family is not happy
we have arrived, and even less so for inviting you onboard as guests."
Jokingly
Blake off-handedly mouths, "Good cop, bad cop."
Yermey
ignores the comment not understanding the meaning. He says, I think Friendly
might be able to better explain. "I am neither a good cop or a bad cop. We
would like, if you three accept, to have you teach us more about your culture
from your personal standpoints. We want . . . "
"I
understand you would like some help Yermey," interrupts Friendly. "It
is not often Yermey asks anyone for help.
Let us give you some private time to talk this over among yourselves.”
She continues standing. Yermey follows suit and the leave quietly.
*
Something
Yermey had said earlier stuck in Blake that would change his life, Yermey had said,
"the machinery allows us to see who we really are," to which Friendly
countered, "it helps us to analysis are private agendas in advance of
action."
"What
do you think, Blake?" asked Pyl, "Are we ready for this?"
He
looks up, "Ready for what?"
"Ready
to help," replies Justin. "Do we want to help these people help
themselves to our ways?"
Confused,
Blake smiles sheepishly, "I think I am missing something here." He
sees Hartolite passing, calls her in and asks, “Do you think we can really be helpful to you people and
helpful to our own species also?” Suddenly Yermey re-enters.
"This
is important to us, to have you be our ambassadors of sorts. We have come all
this way," reinforces Hartolite. "We four are the rebellious ones by
being here on our own. Our visit is not officially sanctioned. We cannot come
out and say 'Hello, we are official representatives from ThreePlanets.”
“Who
is the fourth person? asks Blake immediately.
“Ship,”
smiles Hartolite comfortably.
"Why
have you not used SETI?" asks Pyl. "It seems to me this would be a
natural first place to communicate."
"We
prefer one on one personal contact," answers Yermey, "because we are
trying to avoid the cleverness and bullshit. We don't have time for
nonsense."
"You
live five hundred years," responds Blake. "I think I smell some
bullshit right here."
"I
don't have time," declares Yermey bluntly, "because I have lived
those five hundred and some years already."
Blake
catches the look in Yermey's eyes; no question, he thinks, these people are
human. We have death in common. This is something we can all understand.
"Our
Parents-in-Charge would use machinery to deal with Earth if it is forced upon
them," comments Friendly.
"Communication
machinery, though not as sophisticated as Ship," adds Hartolite. "We
have no weaponry. We need none. When we think 'run' or Ship thinks 'run' we do.
We are very fast plus invisible when need be. We can take care of ourselves.”
Pyl responds with her brother’s
bluntness, "We have too many machines programmed to take care of us. We
are willing to listen though. We want to remain on good terms."
"Good,"
smiles Yermey, “we like those terms.”
I
am not sure what these terms are, thinks Pyl while looking at Justin for an eye
of quiet
reassurance.
***
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