Mid-morning. You are at Pine Hill Lakes Park
near the earth dam waiting on Carol to complete her walk.
0944 hours. Partly cloudy morning but the breeze feels good. Time to
work on chapter twenty.
Carol is back on the trail trimming
honeysuckle overrunning the path in the woods. You have completed chapter
twenty. Add, and we’ll post when convenient. - Amorella
***
Chapter
Twenty
Happenstance
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 20
Merlyn
awakens standing amongst the white foxglove and red poppy just east of the
stage ruins. His eyes focus first on his mind's pillar, the giant Oak and on to
the boulder and beyond to his hut. His eyes that are not slowly move to beyond
the hut, the heather, the narrow woods and rest on six tall blades of grass by
the river. Six, and a realization begins . . . Vivian.
A
billiard table rises from a short muscled contraction in a long fingered oak
root pointing his way. In a relatively quick blink the felted table green
appear empty save for a solid green ball number 6
directly in front of the far left corner pocket. With no cue ball present
Merlyn’s curiosity sweeps across the green and merging lightning quick on the
far cue spot as a solidifying yellow 1 ball, of equally size and weight rests
on green. I am drawn to the 1 ball on the far cue spot. I must have scratched
the cue ball but it doesn't appear pocketed. I am ready for anything but losing
my Vivian to nothing but dusty bones in the material world.
"You
have only my soul to hold onto, Merlyn," coaches Vivian from afar.
"The
soul is a mystery," he grumbles. "I have only heart and mind to grasp
you with."
“This
is not enough to hold me Merlyn,” her distant voice replies.
A
yellow and green ball, considers Merlyn, and yet who is the green? He picks up
the cue and its soft leather-like tip kisses the yellow gently towards the
green 6.
Now
we are close enough for conversation. He says, "I am the one, Merlyn. Who
might you be?"
“I
am Bracc's ancient ghost, cornered, green with envy, and ready for the
pocket."
"The
cue's been scratched,” responds Merlyn with necessity to the rules.
"I
am stuck still, and in all honesty embarrassed I died in a resort of trickery,
to convince the Living, that I could speak to the Dead."
"But
you are the Dead speaking in this, my fabled dreaming mind, Bracc. That is
Grandma’s story not my own,” announces Merlyn.
“Alas,
I am done in,” mumbles Bracc.
"You
are on not in anywhere Bracc. There is no trickery here."
"I
am but a poor soul caught, trapped, holed up near a pocket."
Merlyn
quick-wittedly remarks, "The economics of the soul have nothing to do with
pockets of poverty, I assure you my fellow shaman. You need to turn about like
those other once racked other fellows similarly endowed round balls. This flat
green is but a painting, man."
Bracc responds, "As is your yellow, Merlyn."
Merlyn
shifts thought, "Two solids and a scratched cue, do you see meaning in
this transient vision?"
"My
wonder is why I am here at all,” says Bracc.
"I
dreamt you, Bracc; rather Grandma brought you up to me.”
"As
a lesson?"
"I
think so, but you are here as a cross-segmentation of dreamlands — a
pollination of sorts.
Bracc
the green ball whispers, "The faeries have captured us both?"
"No
faeries, here, Bracc, unless you find a faeryland in your soul,” states Merlyn
directly.
“The
faeries are in me mind and heart but not me soul."
"How
do you know this?" asks a surprised and somewhat disjointed Merlyn.
"Because
faeries came about after creation not before," replies Bracc earnestly.
"Tricks came after."
I
thought hearts did the traveling, surmises Merlyn. It appears there may be more
to a soul than armor. He questions, "What do you know of the soul,
Bracc?"
Merlyn
is asking a once-misguided shaman about the soul? How can this be? "I know it is lonely, Merlyn,"
rolls from Bracc’s heartanmind. “Beyond this, I know next to nothing,
Merlyn."
"Whose
voice was first then? I thought it Vivian’s.”
"My
own. I know it is not from heartanmind, and that is as honest an answer as I
can give." Bracc pauses. "I have learned to be an honest man since my
capture."
"Who
captured you?" asked Merlyn.
"I
do not know. I found myself in a sealed solid walled place. It had a door."
"Did
you not try it?"
"Not
for several thousand years I reckon, but when I did it opened and I was free. I
do not know who held me or freed me, but it happened just as speaking to you
has happened. Avalon is an enchanted place. I am learning many things even
now."
“This
is my sanctuary not Avalon. Your heartanmind is learning what?” asks Merlyn.
"How
the soul teaches. That is what it seems but I do not know this."
We
are but entanglements of personality, conjures Merlyn in the moment. The human
spirit of soul and heart and mind dances a threesome within the Living and the
Dead. If matter can be in a bit quantum entanglement, a piece of Bracc, then
what of me in basement of the dream and being of no matter at all? Thought
alone, first, before the plowing of words and their immediate considerations.
Faeries to berries and berries to fruit with thunder to toot. Lightning yellow
balled be first and foremost and is carried through the soul of Vivian who else
would be green with envy but myself?
The
Brothers 20
Robert
says to Connie, "It looks like a day of rain. Let's go to a movie."
She
nods in agreement, replying, "I'll have to wash my hair. I'll call Cyndi
first to see if they want to go. What do you want to see?"
"Quartet"
is re-playing at the Drexel on Main, We all enjoyed the film; let's go see it
again."
*
Late
morning and the four are sitting in the northwest corner of Ernie and Pat’s
Grill, Uptown Riverton, looking through the varied sheets of rain across State
Street to the perky front window of Patricia's Flowers pressing on the staid
white marbled Citizen's Bank. The two sisters are finishing their classic
salads, mixed fruit cups and sharing a side of sweet potato fries while Robert
has finished his an Italian Combo and Richard his Cuban Panini. Both are
nibbling on their remaining sides of barbeque chips while waiting on Connie and
Cyndi. Each had unsweetened ice tea with lemon with Richard sipping on his
second glass of Coke Zero.
Richard
asks, "Anyone for a Graeter's ice cream?"
After
the movie," suggests Cyndi, "we can hardly finish our salads."
"That's
because you ate the sweet potato fries first."
"And,
you didn't even share them with us," declares Robert.
"You
could have ordered your own," quips Connie smiling.
"It is hard to believe that Dustin Hoffman is
directing. He was born in 1937," notes Cyndi to Robert.
Smirking
contentiously at his wife's remark, Rob quickly grins at Cyndi, "Not when
you think back on The Graduate, Hoffman looked pretty young in those
days."
Richard
chuckles and adds, "We were young back in 1967."
"You
were a quarter century," comments Connie and now we are all moving on to
three-quarters of a century."
Richard
continues, "Speaking of three-quarters of a century, how old is Maggie
Smith? She plays the grand lady Jean Horton in Quartet, and the old
Dowager of Grantham in Downton Abbey."
Cyndi
corrects, "She is the Countess of Grantham."
"Whatever.
How old is Maggie?"
"She
was born 28 December 1934," says Robert glancing at his iPhone.
Connie
comments, "Maggie puts her heart and soul into her work. She is a
wonderful actress." All ardently agreed.
Richard asks, "I can understand her heart,
Connie, but how does Dame Maggie put soul into her work? How does anyone put
the soul into anything?"
She
responds, ”It's her enthusiasm, Richard, her passion."
Cyndi
quickly follows with, “It’s her quintessence."
Robert
checks his iPhone, “Quintessence, mostly I get references to the song,
the music. I looked up 'phrase - heart and soul' and it is still reference to
the music." He pauses to tap in more letters. "There is "Brevity
is the soul of wit,' and 'wearing one's heart on his sleeve', but that is not what
we are talking about here."
"Love
powers the heart," affirms Connie, "but what powers the soul?"
"Passion
powers the soul," states Robert as if it were a fact.
"We
need a definition first," claims Richard.
"No,
let's use a thesaurus, responds Robert. "Here, I have it. 'Spirit,
Embodiment or Quintessence’. Cyndi's right with quintessence."
"What's
the difference between one's spirit and a ghost?" questions Connie
cynically.
Richard
is readying a sarcastic response when Cyndi swiftly connects the two,
"Like the Holy Spirit and the Holy Ghost."
"We
have argued this before," says Richard, "but let's say I agree with
you that you have a soul. Let's say the soul is without mass but that it has an
energy and it carries
information."
"What
kind of information?" asks Robert.
"Let's
say it is electromagnetic in some bazaar quantum mechanical way."
"Richard,"
responds Cyndi, "let's don't follow Alice down that old rabbit hole."
"No,
seriously, I mean like light and radio waves can carry information. This
physics can store a human self-awareness and memory. The soul can a natural
entity rather than something supernatural?
Rob
adds, "Scientists can read our thoughts with signatures of the signals
generated by firing neurons. Whether this can be worked into a container or
soul I don't know."
"I
don't think of a person's heart and soul and the physics of light in the same
breath," comments Cyndi dryly.
“The
soul is supposed to be our spirit,” adds Connie. “It’s our inner self, it
doesn’t have to be supernatural.”
Richard
responds, “We’ll never define the soul scientifically then?”
“It’s
intangible, Richie,” declares Cyndi.
Richard
comments, “In my fiction, it’s a shell.”
“So
are you, Richie,” toys Connie.
“Dickie’s
a shell-game,” laughs Robert. They all chuckled light-heartedly.
“This
universe is just another stage,” pipes Richard. “We are all a piece of
entertainment.”
“For
whom?” asks Robert, “the Dead in your story or the audience in the cemetery?”
Grandma's
Story 20
Fifteen
years have gone by and Criteria and Renaldo have never consummated their
relationship or married. They are partners, story gatherers. In their travels,
Criteria took Renaldo to Rome, Athens, Jerusalem and Cairo.
Criteria
feels almost all narratives are derived from one original story, just as she
senses all people are descendants of an Adam and Eve. Renaldo thinks the
accounts are spawned by one’s spiritual nature. He doesn’t agree with Criteria
that a Master First Story existed. He parallels with Pythagoras who noted some
numbers are special and thus held sacred and that, likewise, some stories are
special and sacred. The two continually discuss these issues but never argue
because each secretly fears offending the other to the point it would destroy
their now much extended soul-felt friendship.
Presently,
the two, on horseback, are on the road from Rome to the Abbey of Saint Maurice
and from the abbey they were to head north to Notre Dame du Clarier, the
Cathedral of Sion in Valais.
"The
Bishops of Sion and of the Abbey of Saint Maurice are rumored of creating a
speculation," says Criteria amusingly, “I wonder what this is about?”
“A
sin, no doubt,” mirrors Renaldo's chuckles. “If there is a good story, a sin is
involved.” He had been assessing the founding his own story which is about
their surviving the previous night’s quite unusual tornado, but he can’t
conjure a sin to carry the wind in it.
Reading
his face Criteria declares, “In last night's cyclonic tempest, God could have
taken our bodies and souls.”
Renaldo
responds, “I thought that. Aristotle, Pythagoras and Plato made allowances for
the soul's survival -- a method by which the soul may travel from one body to
another.”
Criteria
jokes, “Metatempsycosis, modernized ideas from the Gnostics but not Rome.”
Renaldo
abruptly states, “The Church says the body is resurrected, that the body is not
separate from the soul.”
“Pythagoras
said the body was divided from the soul and that the soul could transmigrate
from one body to another." Criteria takes pause then, “I like Pythagoras
because he sometimes taught to an all woman audience, that one of the
philosophical monastic orders was all women and they held their property in
common.”
“We
hold our property in common too, Criteria,” adds Renaldo in laughter. “We are a
monastic order of two.” They climb off their horses for a night’s rest and take
out their bedding for under the stars. A bit later.
“We
are,” she says and snuggled in close, affectionately confirms, “We are one in
our hearts.”
Renaldo
warmly kisses her forehead, "and our souls." They quickly fall asleep
in each other’s arms.
Criteria
stirs at dawn, “Renaldo, are you awake?”
“I
was thinking about the soul and perhaps it is possible that an angel would hold
of them if we both had died," comments the obviously awake Renaldo.
Criteria
sits up in interest. “How, pray tell, do you come to that conclusion?”
Smiling
contentedly he says, “Because an angel holds each of us in his hand?”
After
bread and fresh water they climbed on the horses and continued north on the
road from Rome to St. Maurice.
That
evening after a meal of stewed goat meat and onions at the White Cross Inn the
Frankish leader, Comets del Acqs III, interrupted them. His coat of arms
clearly visible from a chain, he asks, “Good pilgrims, do you mind if I sit?”
Both
stood in politeness, “Kind Lord, of course not, replies Renaldo. “We heard you
were staying at the inn. It is an honor, sire.”
“You
are a legend, sire,” professes Criteria, “as were your great, great grandfather
and great, great grandmother, King Pharamond and Queen Argotta.
Comets
del Acqs eyes her carefully and comments, “I think you are a princess in
disguise.”
Criteria
set a standard aristocratic smile, saying in Greek, “I am but a simple pilgrim,
kind sir.”
“And
a scholarly one who knows her native language,” Comets replies. “I know your
father and one of your brothers.”
Renaldo
gently interrupts, “Kind Lord, do you have a story for our scribing? I am sure
Rome would enjoy the story from an illustrious a Lord as yourself.”
He
sat amused. Criteria and Renaldo listen. “I have a story. My grandfather had a
daughter, Viviane of Avallon del Acqs. My great, great aunt married Prince
Taliesin, the Arch Druid.”
“Blasphemy
in Rome, sire,” responds Renaldo while assessing the titled name, Viviane.
Comet
replies bluntly, “But not with the Franks, pilgrim. This is not Rome.”
Criteria
touches Comets del Acqs sleeve. “Indeed, Sir, it is not."
“You
are, Criteria, your father’s ever roaming daughter who is guided and protected
by the monk, Renaldo, that I can see, and shall get word to your father as
such.” He points, “I see that Pythagoras rests on the extra chair.”
“Plato
and Aristotle too,” adds Renaldo who wonders in silence, who is this Viviane?
Criteria
quickly remarks, “Renaldo is right, Plato, Aristotle and Pythagoras -- our two
Greek columns and a pyramid.” She observes Comet del Acqs now boisterous grin
and quietly gives thanks.
Diplomatic
Pouch 20
Morning,
Blake lies in bed mulling his thoughts. These people know no more than we on
such metaphysical things though they are twenty-thousand years ahead of us in
their knowledge, society and technology. These people are no wiser than we;
otherwise they wouldn't have stumbled around in our initial meetings. Friendly,
Hartolite and even Yermey appear polite, kind and mannerly. We can be polite,
kind and mannerly also. They are no better than we are when it comes to knowing
who we are and why we are here. You would think they would have learned
something about hearts and souls, at least given them more criteria. You would
have thought that machinery like Ship would have a soul by now. We think we are
that close, but the artificial intelligence is just like we are but less
heart-bound. No, that might not be true. Ship appears to have a heart for we
humanoids.
Once
up and a short time later Blake knocks on Pyl and Justine's door. Within
minutes the three were walking the hall to breakfast. No sooner than they were
settled with coffee, tea, milk, juice and bowls of cereal that Hartolite and
Friendly entered into the room with Yermey following.
Blake
quickly draws conclusion that Pyl is attracted to Yermey for his mind and for
no other reason. Blake also realizes that Justin shows hint of any jealousy so
Blake dismissed that dark thought. With a lull in conversation Blake asks
Friendly, "Last night we were talking about the soul. I am interested in
your concept; do you people think of the soul as intellectual and emotional
charged as we think of the mind and the heart?"
Friendly
smiles graciously, "These matters are perhaps easier to speak on in the
freshness of morning.” She glances at her comrades and says, “we think of the
soul as remaining neutral and immortal though not the same as Godofamily is
immortal."
Hartolite
adds. "Our species and your own have similar thoughts on souls, hearts and
minds. Each thinks of them separately and having no material weight and
seemingly taken up no space within our physical selves. That is if you consider
the mind to be a spiritual-like place beyond the thought processes of the
brain."
"We
discern the spirit, the heartansoulanmind to be in our friends also; just as
you do," reinforces Hartolite, “each is in our individual selves but it is
also spiritually communal, at least that’s our culture’s view.”
Blake
comments somewhat in dismay, "You are some twenty-thousand years ahead of
us and you are no further along? Last night, Yermey said that you have
machinery that can detect a person's soul."
"This
is easier to do in our home language and loses something in translation. Our
machinery cannot quantify the soul.”
“We
would never think to weigh your heartansoulanmind,” mutters Yermey in the
dullness of the presentation. "It is madness to think on such a
point."
Pyl
touches Yermey's hand with compassion, "It is madness; this is not
how we three imagine the soul. We don't find the mind or even the soul as
nearly as mysterious as the human heart." Her sentence ended with a softly
humane smile.
"That
is another subject," comments Justin. “First, what can we say about the
soul that we all agree with?
"We
can say," declares Yermey, "that the heartansoulanmind is immortal."
Justin comments, "You continue to say heart and soul
and mind like it is one word."
"We
look at it as if it were one so when speaking in English it flows as one
word," responds Friendly ever so reserved and polite in this subject area.
Justin
thinks, Yermey make one’s heart and soul and mind sound like a trinity.
With
strong interest Justin asks, "How did you come by this three words in
one?"
Friendly
reasons, "I think it is our physical pouches that make the initial
differences in our species, that is, our pouches provide a genuine difference
on how we view the world." She glances to Yermey to continue.
Yermey
says, "Early on we were just like you. We had our families of hunters and
gatherers, our tribes and our separate territories."
"Particularly
when we felt we were stuck on a single planet," interrupts Hartolite.
"Yes,"
replies Yermey with eyes on Hartolite, "when we were on a single
planet." He paused with wide eyes and open thought and remarks,
"Growing pouched is a community. We are heartansoulanmind first. Growing
pouched is as much psychological as it is physical in our species. Our small
groups evolved from the pouch concept. This group evolves into our species as a
family unit. We are connected physically through sharing, just as our
individual heartsanminds share an individual soul, an immortal shell,"
Yermey pauses to gather himself from talking too fast, "to us, the shell
is but an extension of the pouch, you see."
Being
open, frank and a bit irritated with Yermey’s somewhat dogmatic style and mixed
sense of logic, Pyl looks Yermey in the eye and says, "I have a womb, not
a pouch. What's that worth to you Yermey?”
***
Orndorff, don’t get carried away in the imaginary moment. I, Amorella,
am the Master here not my caretaker creation who oversees the Dead. Relax go
watch some television we’ll come back to this later. Post. - Amorella
2116 hours. I do feel better about it now
that the imaginary spookiness has fluttered away. I cannot put myself in the
Supervisor’s character; doing so makes me feel self haunted, which is very
weird. I have no idea how Amorella will set the scene. I cannot think of a play
or a piece of literature to adapt from other than “Our Town” (and that just
came to me in the moment).
Post. - Amorella
Mid-afternoon and after lunch. Carol is on page 14 of Vince Flynn’s The
Last Man and is not sure she is going to read much more. You are at the far
north lot of Pine Hill Lakes Park under partial tree shade. First, skim over
this chapter to remind yourself what is going on. – Amorella
1432 hours. That I’ll do. I am trying to recollect the last chapter but
it has faded way. This is just what happened after a day of giving a Brit
lit/history background lecture. It was done until another semester or another
year. Well, this is not exactly true. I keep the lectures in mind for about a
week or so. Wikipedia is so awesome. I remember ‘selections’ of the events in a
particular literary period but I cannot remember details without a quick check.
Basically, here though, I forget the general as well as the specific. How these
books get completed is beyond me.
1445
hours. I completed the scan, now what?
All four sections are to be moved together
in one unit. We are going to weave the dream stories together in this chapter. –
Amorella
1447 hours. I should make a working copy and drop it into Word for
easier working then when completed, drop it into Page. I am not sure how this
is going to be accomplished. Merlyn is the central character though so I assume
the story will pivot around him.
One would think but that is not the case. It
will pivot around the Supervisor. – Amorella
1450 hours. This is indeed a surprise.
First, copy the chapter onto Word. –
Amorella
1457 hours. I made two working copies.
Address the number of words in each section
as well as total chapter words presently. – Amorella
1502 hours. The segment
totals are: The Dead – 795 w; The
Brothers – 776 w; Grandma’s Story – 742 w; Diplomatic Pouch – 724 w; with a total of 3,037 words not
including the Chapter Preface which is 97 words.
You are home. Now, let this sink in. Post. – Amorella
1808 hours. The weather has turned dark and heavy rain is imminent. At
the same time (coincidence no doubt) I am thinking on the Supervisor and how this chapter twenty-one is going to be. The
word that comes to mind is spooky – our black cat is sitting curled by the
front window and I can see an open right yellow eye after background thunder to
the west. She is looking to me. Ha, ha. Spooky. The rain begins at 1814 hours.
Most cool drama in my mind. Spooky opens both yellow eyes and watches me
owl-like, powers down and those yellow eyes lids close leaving me a faceless
black cat for observation. (1817)
Nothing like a little theatre for one, eh,
orndorff. – Amorella
It was fun while it lasted, actually it is getting a little lighter but
that is distanced by soft thunder to the west by northwest. I am having a
problem getting my head around writing with the pivot being the Supervisor. Even in the notes I want
to drop the italics onto the preceding ‘the’. As I wait in the wings with the Supervisor alone on stage I think of
the wondrous Oz and as a small child being as frightened as Dorothy awaiting
his presence.
2109 hours. We had left over Papa John’s pizza for supper – as excellent
as it was last night. We watched CBS and NBC News as well as the last two
episodes of “Revenge” which is now done for the season. There were two scenes
adapted from Shakespeare in the last showing. Lots of Shakespearian scenes in
the series. This makes it more fun to watch. Carol went up to bed and I am not
sure what I am going to do here presently except to check my email.
Let’s wait until tomorrow to work on chapter
twenty-one. – Amorella
Post. - Amorella
No comments:
Post a Comment