Mid-morning. Breakfast, the paper and
arthritis. Carol is about ready to go for her walk. Check your email. –
Amorella
0956 hours. We have been spending time
cleaning up Spooky. Her hair got matted in spots. Who knows how? The sun
appears to be giving way to clouds. I assume Carol is going on her walk but
again, who knows? What do you have to say about women, Amorella?
Nothing
I don’t have to say about men, buddy boy. – Amorella
1000 hours. Fair enough.
You backed off. Why is that? – Amorella
1045 hours. Respect first, doubt
second. This probably sounds strange, but for anyone who has read these
postings for a length of time, I back away cognitively from how close I feel to
your Presence wherever that may be inwardly. You play the part of a pretend
Angel and I treat you as angelic to keep the authenticity I have held since
1988 or even before as a Presence ‘not in my head necessarily but nearby as
being in the room. “Buddy boy” has a sarcastic-like connotation. To me it
translates as “step back or step away”. It may be difficult to comprehend that
I have learned how to step away inside my head, my mind, over a great number of
years. This stepping away is a mind activity not a brain activity from my
perspective – as in a hypnotic trance where the psychologist might say, ‘do not
open the door’, after you have told him while in a trance, ‘there is a closed
door in front of me.’ The problem for a time was ‘Where do I go?’ Then, I
focused on ‘Where is the Presence/’ first.
You are back from having a tetanus shot that
you forgot to get when you were at Dr. Merling’s office about a month ago. He
had said to get at tetanus shot but when he left the office so do you continuing
the conversation. – Amorella
1215 hours. I did. The office
apologized but I don’t know what for, I’m the one who left. I thought I was too
old for a tetanus shot anyway, but Dr. Merling thought I should have it because
of the grandkids. It still seems unimportant; they should have their own shots.
You mailed letters at the post office
and had Smashburgers for a very late lunch. Carol had spinach, cucumber and
goat cheese and smash sweet potato fries with a spray of rosemary and you had
your usual, a spicy jalapeno grilled chicken Baja, each with a Coke Zero.
Afterwards you stopped at Hallmark at the VOA Centre then came home.
1605 hours. We won’t have any supper,
no matter how light until much later. Normally we eat before three. Time to
work on chapter two.
1703
hours. I have completed tweaking chapters one and two of book two but as if you
do not have the Introduction.
Post it as it is for now. It is still a
draft but a better draft than before. – Amorella
1706 hours. Should I really post this?
Yes. You will feel better. Let’s drop that
new blog showing GMG.One as you have been having problems developing it. If
people want to read it for free they can read it in the blog. Three dollars is
a fair price for anyone interested. She or he can buy it in the format she or
he wishes to read it in. – Amorella
1710 hours. What about those who don’t
have any format?
Formats are free from their respective companies.
Drop in the first two chapters of book two here and post. – Amorella
***
All rights reserved. No part of
this e-book may be copied by any information storage retrieval system without
the email permission of the author.
GREAT MERLYN’S GHOST: TWO
An Encounter In Mind
By Richard H. Orndorff
Copyright © 2001-2014 by Richard H. Orndorff
Dedication to be redone
This book is
dedicated four-fold; one, to my friends; two, to my many former students;
three, to my many colleagues with whom I taught for thirty-seven years,
1966-2003; and; four, this book is dedicated to the memory of one of my few
dear ‘special’ friends Thomas Robert Pringle. We were kindred spirits,
twin-minded writing allies from Westerville High School and our days at Otterbein
University where we were both members of the English Honorary, Quiz &
Quill. We were as writing twins in real life and we are fictionalized twin
brothers in these Merlyn fictions.
Acknowledgments to be redone
Many of the
legendary historical names, historical settings; the romantic and neoclassical
ideologies; and the scientific concepts and theoretical plausibility’s
entertained among these margins can be found throughout Google and Wikipedia.
I thank my life partner Carol, daughter Kim and son-in-law, Paul for their
diligence and patience. I also thank specific friends, initial readers of my
original Merlyn’s Mind trilogy: Angie; Bob and Patti; Cathy and Tod;
Craig and Alta; Fritz; Gary; Jeanne and Jim; Laney; my Aunt Patsy and Uncle
Ernie for their observations and helpful comments.
Also, a special thank you to my two living Muses who know who they are; and to
my theoretical physics advisor my lifelong friend John Douglas Goss, PhD.
Physics with whom I have discussed the scientific plausibility’s presented in
this edition; and, also to his personable wife, Nancy who has provided comments
and suggestions along the way.
During these last
twenty-six years Amorella has continually collaborated with my writing
projects. Since 2007 Amorella and I have been writing working notes/journal at
www.encountersinmind@blogspot.com. Feel free to scan if your curiosity is
piqued.
My original
objective twenty-six years ago was to write to intellectually stimulate and
entertain my heart, mind and imagination. Now it is time to share these
cerebral experiences to interested readers.
Richard H.
Orndorff, Summer 2014
...
This is Amorella,
Richard’s inner guide and collaborator. This work is a fiction but the words are
as honest as if the author were swearing. What makes this truly a ghost story
is that it is being set down as if an Angel were asking Richard, who is among
the recent Dead, to tell his story. I take the part of the Angel. Richard is
his ghost, his human spirit. The words come from where they would come from if
he were physically dead and is left only with heart, soul, mind and memory.
Richard decides to take Merlyn’s role and to show who he is by his reason,
memory, imagination and dreams. Dead, he looks directly through the Angel
(myself) saying, “What else is a dead person but memories and dreams? I’d
rather begin with my dreams while they are still fresh.”
If you like you can
pretend to be an Angel like me and listen along for the authenticity. One day
perhaps you will be telling your own memories and dreams to an Angel too. You
know your memories, but what will your dreams be?
...
ONE
Piecemeal
Merlyn 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
our judgment day
The Dead 1
Merlyn is sitting alone in his curragh, in the spiritual memory of the
small wooden frame boat of stretched animal hides and of a slow moving mountain
stream. Glancing to the east he sees his favorite old tall oak at the center of
his sanctuary. He thinks, I am a dream in a dream in a dream; and Merlyn then
let’s it go because he cannot imagine more.
From
nowhere and nearby the Supervisor
observes the spiritual form of a middle-aged Merlyn sitting in meditation. He
recognizes Merlyn as a lonely flower blossom staged on a high rocky mountain
crag. Merlyn considers who he is but not what he might become in Transmutation.
Things are not always as they appear in this expanded World of the Dead, this
HeavenOrHellOrBothOrNeither, as many have come to call the place lately.
Merlyn’s
position is that of Schrodinger’s theoretical cat – he is half a spirit living
in the hands and fingers of Richard Greystone on Earth, and he is half a spirit
existing in the Combined Worlds of the Dead since the recent Second Rebellion.
Merlyn’s dreams continue the story that begins in the Lightning, or so told by the marsupial humanoids and other higher
conscious beings scattered about various universes that began within the first
universe that mattered in the mirror of the spiritual light into the physical.
One
doesn’t become a Merlyn without an internal order spiritual order and reason.
He learns as he thinks and nearly always considers he alternatives at his
disposal. Presently Merlyn is slumbering surrounded by an omniscient fog. He is
a blossom rarely seen and heard but through his dead friends. Richard the
Living has never seen a vision of Merlyn but he has heard the tone in Merlyn’s
voice once. Richard is as unsure as Merlyn about his own transcendentally
existential existence in this mirrored quantum entanglement of a spiritual
kind.
.
“Hello,
Merlyn” says the Supervisor. “You
hear me well enough.”
“I
do. Here is my thought. I do not understand this current Community of Dead in
which we exist. We Earth Dead revolted for a second time against you and
recently won. I am here to speak to the Living. The Communities of the Dead
have changed with this Second Rebellion, which is Earth centuries after the
First Rebellion during the Earth time of Homer, the Storyteller. I have shown a
book of these dream-story forms in twenty-one chapters of four segments. Now, I
have fourteen chapters to work. I rather like not being bound in this more
clearly understood project; the dreams are more intensely real for one
presently in two places at once. But where do I go from here? I feel mostly
unfilled.”
“And
you too are unfilled Merlyn,” responds
the Supervisor. “Half alive and half dead your stretched consciousness is
unfilled.”
Wide-eyed
and sitting tense in the curragh, Merlyn stares forward into the sanctuary’s
fog declaring, “This then is the natural state of all humanity, Living or Dead
– to be unfulfilled?”
“It
is the natural state of the Dead and the Living,” comments the Supervisor coolly. Why would a future exist without being
unfulfilled?
Merlyn
adjusts his form of existing memory and continues peering forward to observe the Supervisor directly in front of him
sitting on the forward frame of the curragh. Merlyn asks simply, “What exists?”
.
The Supervisor smiles as if
SheanHe had heard the smallest tiny piece of humor in what may be the longest
of time if SheanHe were the least bit physical. SheanHe considers the humor behind this spontaneous smile and
wonders – what would Merlyn think could he see my slightly upturned lips? He
has no eyes yet he still acts with a sense of what vision is. I would have
thought he would have learned something from being dead. He moves in the memory
of body and brain, forgetting he has neither. He sits here in his small boat on a river that is not and never has been
but a construction within the memory of his six senses.
The
collective consciousnesses of two species exist here and are kept simple and living in memory as if there is
nothing else in these Worlds of the Dead. These Worlds are as a dressing of a
horse whose hairs tip the humanity in the brush. Lightning continues from
Before-the-matter-of-material-physics through to a portrait that has yet to be
painted, let alone framed.
.
Nearly
fog, Merlyn stares ahead, muttering, “Dispersing, I see nothing. I know nothing
but memories and dreams.”
...
The Brothers 1
“Can
you believe the girls are still looking for new hats?” gripes Richard.
Robert,
sitting in the driver’s seat, sighs, shakes his head sideways in his typically
reasonable manner, “Deal with it Richie.”
“It
just pisses me off. We bought our caps in sight of ten minutes and we’ve been
waiting in the car ever since.”
“I
don’t know why we do this every year. The women go out and buy all this stuff
for Christmas and want to have it wrapped even though we know what we are
getting, even the daughters know.” He fiddles with the steering wheel of the
Lexus, “It is just a waste of time.”
“It’s
a cultural façade,” comments Richard nonchalantly.
“I’m
not talking about Christmas. I’m talking about the present wrapping.”
“It’s
time wasting, like you say. It was okay to wrap stuff when the kids were young
and didn’t know any better, but our kids have a kid.”
“They’ll
just say it’s for the kid,” mimics Robert also nonchalantly.
“Women.”
“You
know the old cliché.” The brothers’ minds recollect on the old banalities about
relationships and marriage.
“Sometimes
it would be nice to not be here, to just go away to some deserted isle and
contemplate the absurdity,” comments Richard.
Robert
taps his brother on the shoulder grins responding, “That reminds me of the
incident in London where the fellow wanted to kick you out of Westminster. I
wanted to be on a deserted island at the moment while at the same time I
contemplated the absurdity of the charge.”
“It
is absurd,” laughs Richard. “We just left the Poets’ Corner and the old geezer
says to me, “This is a church, hat off please.” I immediately felt bad, reminisces
Richard. People always tell me to take my beret off out of respect; they didn’t
say so, but that is what they meant. We had just visited Chaucer’s encased
remains. He is the first who sparked me with a literary interest in the human
condition. In automaticity Richard adds, “Whan that Aprille with his shoures
soote; The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote.”
He
probably has it all memorized, considers Robert saying, “What are you thinking
about bro?”
“Geoffrey
Chaucer. He changed my life with . . .
‘And
specially, from every shires ende
Of
Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The
holy blisful martir for to seke,
That
hem hath holpen, when that they were seke.’”
“A
good doctor would have been better than the holy blissful martyr, don’t you think?”
asks Robert respectfully.
“We
took that pilgrimage too, Robbie.”
“We
did, but we had poems to write didn’t we Dickie.”
“People
had an innocence in the medieval days.” Richard sighs in disgust. “At least
even in today’s world when we were in Canterbury the last time, a single
burning candle set on the floor near the Chair of the first Archbishop, St.
Augustine. I thought that very cool, moving even, that in this day and age
someone would light a candle in memory of Archbishop Thomas Becket who had been
murdered at the cathedral in 1170.”
“It
is inspiring when anyone remembers,” adds Robert while thinking on John
McCrae’s “In Flanders Fields“. A poem he memorized while in high school.
Just
then, Connie and Cyndi come out of Macy’s with their load of hat bags. Both
sister chatting – listening and talking as if the conversation were a
simultaneous translation.
“Finally,
we are out of here,” comments Richard with relief.
“I
couldn’t have stood another minute,” adds Robert, whose point is missed by
Richard.
Once
the women loaded the car and sitting comfortably in the back seat, Connie
enthusiastically asks, “Where are we going for lunch?”
“I
would like the Tea and Sandwich Express,” replies Cyndi.
“Why
don’t we park there,” says Robert.
“And,
we’ll walk across the street to Taco Bell,” completes Richard.
“What
have you two been talking about?”
“Memories
mostly,” responds Robert.
“Were
we in the conversation?” questions Connie.
“Of
course. We were thinking about our last trip to London,” notes Richard, “and
Westminster.”
“Oh,”
says Cyndi, “you were talking about being asked to take off your beanie.”
“Beanie,
that’s a good one,” notes Rob.
“You
know it’s a beret,” directs Richard.
She
responds, “Just trying to get your goat, dear.”
“Remember
when you two were college freshmen and had to wear those ridiculous beanies,”
says Connie.
“I
kind of liked them,” comments Cyndi. “They both looked cute and innocent.”
“No
one’s is ever innocent,” remarks Robert.
“Babes
are,” badgers Cyndi.
“Depends
on their age, isn’t that right, Robbie,” rebuts Richie.
“Hey,
our two beautiful babes here are always innocent,”
replies his twin. All four laugh.
...
Grandma’s Story 1
“Criteria
and Renaldo had a big wedding in Greece. Plenty of money flowed from Criteria’s
side of the family. Once established that Scottish Queen Igraine is a cousin
Criteria buys land and a comfortable house fit for the newly endowed Lady and
Lordship in Scotland. Both give up previous Catholic duties as story gatherers
and live where the warmer Gulf Stream flows peacefully on the Isle of Arran off
the southwest coast of Scotland. The birth of their first child brings
immediate problems, says Grandma and we begin.”
.
Criteria
lay exhausted. Two servants, Kirsten and her sister, Flora, work to control the
new baby’s periodic seizures. Between the baby’s muscle twitching and
salivating, the child stares blankly and falls limp. The babe rejects any
substance. Crying starts then stops abruptly. The open eyes become
motionlessness for a time then return to normal. This consistency sets Lord
Renaldo on his knees in fully intense private prayer at least three times a day.
.
Now
in her late thirties Criteria is seized by the newly felt pain of a mother’s
world immediately recognizes that praying is not the answer.
Two
days and nights fly by. The newborn boy sporadically takes in nourishment then
lies still only to be plagued with outbursts and seizures. Everyone in the household becomes close
to physical and emotional exhaustion.
.
This
child should not take so long to die, is the unshared silent thinking always
followed with a merciful, ‘May the good Lord take you now.’
“His head fights his body,” says the servant Kirsten.
“How
can a newborn know which is which?” asks Flora.
“Angels
know things,” notes Renaldo. “He is a fighter.” He thinks, this boy is a
warrior. If he survives, he will become a warrior for God. If he dies, he will
rise as a new angel among the rest. His body moves in spite of orders his head.
In Renaldo’s mind doubts rise like blackened suns. A retired order of God
should not be the Lord of anything, he thinks. What would Criteria have me do
besides pray? What else can a retired monk do?
.
“I
see a runner,” says Flora the next mid-morning. “A strange man running this way
in the courtyard.” Silence settles in for a brief reaffirmation.
“It is Merlyn!” shouts Renaldo suddenly,
“Merlyn! Merlyn is here at our manor! Merlyn is here!”
Tam,
the head servant, opens the door and immediately bows. “It is an honor, a
blessing. The baby. You came to help the baby.
Merlyn
acknowledges the bow with a slighter one. He hears the immediate cry up the
stairs. He commands, “Let me see
this child. I shall have my way with him.”
Shortly
Merlyn is holding the boy. The swaddling clothed babe trembles at the fingers
while his elbows shake to a different rhythm. “Get me sea salt,” he orders, and
head servant Tam is on his way.
Merlyn
holds the child carefully and observes the boy’s every movement and recognizes
there was an order to it. The twitching slows and the blank staring begins.
With a blinking the boy drools. Limpness ensues and a few drops of urine. The
tiny, vulnerable infringed body stiffens. The twitching begins at the extremity
of one limb or another. An elbow or a knee would then quiver. Trembling and
quivering and crying or screaming commences.
Merlyn
sees the boy coming and going in and out of this world both in irregular
intervals and suddenly again originally foreshadows his own fate -- how it is it that I, Merlyn, will
experience this terrible sensation in my own life? How is it that I will find
myself in two places at once like this poor child . . . I am
stuck frozen and flat in a future place. The cold stone surrounds a pond of
stars. I am here then and now. I am the shaman dancing. A shaman I do not know
looks at me and points to a not so bright star, and says “We are from there,”
then he points to the soil beneath my feet, and continues, “to here. Here, his original vision ends to repeated
in memory and now once again.
.
It
seems half a day (which it is not) when Tam returns with a sack of sea salt.
Merlyn makes a solution in a bowl of water and put a cloth to soak within it.
He takes the cloth and squeezes a few drops into the child’s mouth. He does
this several times in the afternoon, and thus Merlyn saves the firstborn son of
Lady Criteria and Lord Renaldo. By evening the young babe become a mite
stronger on his way to being a healthier and well-reasoned child.
Merlyn has an untold, unknown trick up his sleeve
His mind is a nature for dreams to slide
and weave.
...
Diplomat Pouch 1
The
three marsupial humanoids and three Homo sapiens sit around the usual table in
the usual fashion with daiquiris and bowls of assorted Earth spreadable cheeses
and wheat crackers.
Have
we left yet, wonders Blake Williams while glancing studiously at his sister Pyl
and brother-in-law Justin.
“What
are you thinking, Blakie?” asks Pyl.
“We’d
like to know?” smiles Friendly.
“Let’s
go,” says Yermey, “follow up, Dr. Blake.”
Blake
let’s out a little laugh commenting, “It feels like we’re in the Twilight Zone.
My mind is racing with questions such as – have we left yet?”
The
sunny communial laughter spontaneously rises at the honesty. Friendly declares,
“Blake, we have been on the way since a few seconds after Ship closed the
door.”
“No
turning back, Blake,” notes Justin in a tone meant more for himself than anyone
else.
Friendly
jumps in quickly. “We and Ship will fill you in on our culture’s particulars.
Be rest assured we four, Ship included here, are your friends and legal
guardians, not guards. This trip will take about three months in your timekeeping.
Ship will keep you posted – not as to where you are, but what time it is in
earth days, minutes and seconds until our arrival time.”
“Much
like a GPS,” adds Blake comfortably.
“We
like to think of our location as within ourselves,” comments Hartolite. “Ship
is our pouch and we await the time pleasantly.”
In
a pausing smile Pyl asks, “Then does it get unpleasant?”
“Very
good,” responds Yermey in a respectful delay. He surmises, I like this woman,
her smile is as comforting to me as Friendly’s. Very odd, this is. Pyl is but
an Earth babe from woods, but how she shines. What a good strategy it was to
come here as we did.
The
relief of intimate communial laughter is dying down to quiet after Pyl’s droll
remark.
“Why
is it, Hartolite; that you refer to Ship as a male when you think of him as
having a pouch you are surviving in?” asks Justin in some unrealized irritation.
Hartolite’s eyes shoot kindness with her
comment, “Justin, Ship is a male because most of our males would rather serve
than lead. Our women protect first, and that is a major aspect of our society.
Our men, the majority, would rather focus on making our lives easier to live.
More men than women built Ship. It is our culture.” She stops abruptly fearing
she is going to be regretfully misunderstood.
“I
like that,” comments Blake. “Let the women lead. They tend to be better at it
anyway – less testosterone I suppose.”
Justin
sits in contemplation. Understanding Blake’s tone is easier on me then slightly
retributive tone in Hartolite. Her face though, thinks Justin instinctively,
appears to show contentment. Perhaps Hartolite just knows who she is and honestly
acts accordingly. These people are an interesting observation; I imagine they
consider us primates a fascination also. This is going to be an adventure, no
doubt about it.
Pyl
casually smiles Friendly’s way. We two are more alike, she surmises. We like to
get things done and sometimes we find men like Yermey and Blake annoying thorns
in our side. I look forward to time we two sit and talk about how it is being
female in our respective cultures. I think it is not really so different as I
first imagined.
Blake
waits patiently for what’s next without conscious thought. ‘We are in this
until the conclusion; we might as well make the best of it. That’s what we are
here for.’ These two statements cover Blake’s bottom line.
Hartolite
has concerns about Ship contacting HomePlanets and stating the obvious — we are
bringing three primate volunteers home for an introduction to our culture.
Machinery will work this out before our people see our homecoming as a fact.
Ship would have never allowed this if he and the other machines did not see
this as a favorable outcome for us. Then, out of the blue, a fresh thought – our trip to Earth and this outcome was
secretly manipulated by machinery in advance – by whom, ParentsinCharge or
Yermey? If this surprise bit of intuition is correct, it has to be from one or
the other. She shakes it off almost instanteously with a ‘why would I ever
think this in the first place?’ The idea sinks in to bother her more than she
wishes to suspect.
Hartolite
suddenly feels dishonest and amoral about this whole surreptitious operation of
returning with the Earthlings and considers, ‘I will share this with Friendly
when we are alone.’ Deeper and secretly within herself Hartolite realizes that
‘Friendly and I may become cognizant of something Yermey has not yet
contemplated.’
...
Two
Family
Merlyn has this little saying still:
Ring-a-ring
o'rosies
A
pocket full of posies
"A-tishoo!
A-tishoo!"
We
all fall down!
We
rise from clay
On
our judgment day
The Dead 2
Merlyn sits perplexed. I feel I am the appearance of an overcrowded
forest that needs thinning. Heartansoulanmind, the roots, the base of this
forest is entangled and unable to move.
From
below Merlyn’s seeming entanglement the Supervisor
whispers, “See one of your own kind, my friend.”
Fog,
I am, thinks Merlyn; and the buoy bell rings in a string of letters – a
congregation of droplets; I connect the dots. Above or below I must go. I would
rather see fog as cloud so . . ..
“Come
sit by me Merlyn, interrupts Socrates, as he pats the stone. Socrates smiles
broadly with eyes twinkling in the foreground. “I enjoy appearing old and out
of sorts to passers-by. They keep their distance.”
“I
like the isolation too,” notes Merlyn.
“We
are all human spirits, even our marsupials comrades,” says Socrates. “I feared
I would be asked to return to the Living; I am glad you were chosen.”
“Spirits
know you were real; many aren’t sure about the fiction in me,” jokes Merlyn
warmly.
“This
allows for a slight-of-hand physiology even without the use of hands,” returns
Socrates in the best of his good nature.
Merlyn
replies, “I have a sense of the greater reality here, in this meandering Place
of the Dead, but we spirits have an entanglement with matter, still. We keep ‘impressions’
of what we were as bodies first. I don’t . . .”
Socrates
interrupts, “To lose the sense of a physical body loosens our sense of self;
yet we know better. Here we exist, each within our souls, alone. Otherwise, how
could I create a wall between myself and other souls that are mostly too kind
and curious?”
I
am dual-souled, thinks Merlyn. He responds, “What do you see? I see little more
than fog. I need a solidification of this metaphysical entanglement at its
root. In the twenty-first century the Principle of Unitarity suggests spirits
may be inextinguishable. Funny. We know this as fact.”
“We
spirits are basically perpetually permanent,” reinforces Socrates, “Ghosts to
the Living, spirit forms here – at least to others we are spirit forms. I can
look into the water-like pools but never a self-reflection other than in
thought alone.”
“It
is as if one could displace the alphabet and say that the letters in the
sentences still exist in their thought,” remarks Merlyn for personal clarity.
Then he quickly adds, “But as Forms, we are not Perfect, as Plato suggested.”
“Even
now, with nothing but heartansoulanmind, we cannot define perfection. Who is to
say what is what? I would think that even the
Supervisor cannot say what is what. I think SheanHe would have the ghost of a
chance at giving the basic state, the delineated ground, if you will, where
these spiritual roots of ours are nurtured to grow into and through very bodily
nervous systems,” comments Socrates. He concludes, “We were, are, and will be
-- reflected consciousness.”
“But
in what state?” asks Merlyn, “What force-in-being entangles heart and soul and
mind at the root?”
“Passion,
that is my guess. But I do not know.” replies Socrates. He continues, “Even
now, being dead millenniums, I have questioned people. Who am I? Why do I exist
still?” He thinks, in Living I asked these questions and others. I am no
further along than had I been in a peacefully dead sleep.
“I
do not know,” says Merlyn. “Passion is not spiritual. It is not many elements
that make up being human, but it exists in individuals and in the great
community of both the Living and the Dead from out perspectives. It wells and
subsides in waves of emotion and rational thought. Why would passion be the
root of heartansoulanmind? A passionate heart, a passionate mind, these are
understandably human and known through circumstantial evidence. Is passion the
cause of every circumstance?”
Socrates
sits quietly. “Perhaps passion is the First Cause and all else is the effect,
the circumstance. What do you think, Merlyn?
“I
do not know.”
They
humor, “We both know nothing.”
The
sober silence sat between the two spirits and held them loosely in its grip.
Finally,
Socrates smiles slightly declaring his latest word on the subject, “Merlyn,” he
says, “When we realize we know nothing, our soul shines a short smile.”
“Humor
is what the soul understands best,” suggests Merlyn, “but it arises from the
passion that drives what we are.” As if sharing his soul, Merlyn adds,
“Humanity is the pun not the punch line.”
Socrates
replies, “We know nothing, but it is framed in a smile.”
Merlyn
shakes his head affirmatively wondering on the framework of the Supervisor. He smiles as he watches
Socrates away with a friendly wave beyond the fog.
...
The Brothers 2
Connie
calls everyone to the kitchen to gather their food on a plate, smorgasbord
style, and to take it to the table. Roast beef, carrots, mash potatoes, peas,
corn, green beans plus a tossed salad with an array of dressings, cottage cheese,
a variety cheese pack slices for choosing along with wheat muffins and rolls.
Richard is first in line, following by his three-year old granddaughter Ronda
and Grandma Cyndi.
“Grandpa,
hold me up so I can see,” says Ronda in both a polite and orderly tone little
girl.
“Yeah,”
notes Robert chuckling, “next she’ll want you to fill her plate Dickie.”
Robert,
seeing Cyndi’s frown, says, “What would you like little lady? Your Grandma will
put it on a plate for you.”
“I
want peas and potatoes,” she replies then giggles.
“Peas
and potatoes you will have,” answers Grandma Cyndi clearly.
“Aunt
Connie makes good potatoes and peas,” declares Ronda. “I like green and white.”
“She
always likes the butter on the potatoes and peas,” comments Aunt Connie
stirring the gravy in front of the stove.
“David,
how are you doing young man with your plate young man?”
He
calls, “I’m doing fine, Aunt Connie.”
The
family meanders haphazardly and quietly through the kitchen gathering food to
take to the large oval oak dining room table.
“Do
you want some gravy on your potatoes and peas?” asks Aunt Connie.
“Yes,
but not too much, please.”
“That’s
a good girl,” remarks Robert. “It is very polite to say please.”
“I
know that, Uncle Rob,” comments Ronda. “My mother taught me to be polite.”
“Both
your moms and dads will pick you up after dinner. They are out themselves.”
Connie
looks towards her sister, “Jennifer is always more staid and proper and she is
passing it on to Ronda.”
Cyndi
replies, “I wish she would be more right brained like Julie. Just look at
David.” She eyes her nephew, “David, what do you have going on in your head? I
see a twinkle in the eyes of yours. What scheme are you conjuring up?”
“I
am thinking on a trick to play on Uncle Dickie,” he says.
“What
kind of trick is that my young friend?” responds Richard.
“I
can help you out with that after dinner,” smiles Robert.
“I
don’t need your help, Grandpa. I can think up my own tricks,” replies David
suddenly disgruntled.
“I
guess he told you,” notes Richard.
“Grandpa
and Uncle Dickie are arguing again Aunt Connie,” says Ronda. “You said no
arguing and backtalk at the table.”
“That’s
right,” reinforces Aunt Connie, “they forgot their manners didn’t they?”
“I
told them like you said to, Aunt Connie,” Everyone laughs.
“She’ll
get it down eventually,” smiles Connie.
“Get
what down?” questions David. “I don’t see anything up but the chandler.”
“That’s
a good word, David. I don’t believe I ever heard you say that word before,”
praises Aunt Cyndi.
“That
is a good word, reinforces Grandma Connie.
“Until
you have to spell it,” laughs Uncle Richard.
“Yeah,
wait to you get to school and have to spell all those words you know,” comments
a grinning Grandpa Rob.
“Don’t
get him to dislike school before he’s even in the first grade,” admonishes
Connie.
“I’m
already in school, Grandma. I like school.”
“I
like school too,” acknowledges Ronda. “We sing songs. We learn things and have
good days.”
“I
learned to print my letters two years ago, Uncle Dickie,” says David.
“My
letters are on the iPad,” comments Julie. “I can punch them in my letters game.
I like the music when I hit the right letter.”
Dinner
continues well and Rob and Richard are waiting for dessert while the others
finish up. Ronda holds up her fingers announcing, “I’m old. I’m four. I will be
seven sooner than later.” She awaits a response of smiles.
“You’ll
be five, then six and then seven,” replies Cyndi in Grandma calm and
instruction as she picks up the plates and Connie then brings in the apple pie
a la mode.
“Your
mommy is going to pick you up shortly. You have been a very good guest this
evening,” adds Aunt Cyndi.
David
whines slightly, “I want chocolate not vanilla.”
“Do
we have any chocolate?” asked Uncle Richard in David’s defense.
“We
have raspberry,” comments Cyndi politely. “Would you like raspberry on your
apple pie.”
“I’d
rather stick with vanilla. I don’t like raspberries.”
After
a lull in conversation while dessert was being eaten Connie suggests, “Let’s go
sit in the swing on the front porch and wait for your parents.” And the others
trail along sitting in the white Adirondack chairs lined beside the white swing
for seating three-at-most while Cyndi rids the table of the second set of
dinner styled paper plates, glasses and utensils.
...
Grandma’s Story 2
It
is twelve years later. Merlyn is still alive, but not so well. His arm and leg
muscles have the palsy. The rumor is that he was struck by lightning under an
Oak. His arm appears to ripple molasses-like, especially in his forearms.
Merlyn still runs with the wind and if there isn’t one at his back he appears
to create one. Merlyn understands Grandma runs with him as his old body bolts
into a sprint. This Grandma does.
Thomas
has the appearance of most any twelve year old. Gangly Master Thomas, is what
Head Servant Tam calls him, but not to his face. Merlyn has returned for a
visit. He makes Thomas orally memorize half a moon’s worth of Rules for Life.
Thomas
then recites the rules for Merlyn. “Good,” says Merlyn. “Now, write them down
before you forget them.”
.
Later, and standing in his mother’s room
Thomas, (knowing his parents and the house servants are with Merly) climbs to
the highest shelf in his mother’s room with the greatest of curiosity.
Mother
and father have some secrets, he thinks, but I know most of them. The bag on
the top shelf must be valuable. Thomas brightens imagining a small headstone
encased in velvet. What might be inscribed in magic on or maybe in the
headstone? I wish Merlyn were my father, thinks Master Thomas. Merlyn can
change the direction of the clouds. I have witnessed this, and I believe he can
change me into something other than what I am.
Once
reaching the top shelf Thomas slowly pulls a human skull from the velvet bag.
He peers into the empty sockets and wondered how it is skull was placed in the
bag. Why the old leather? Why the newer velvet? Not wishing to waken the Dead,
Thomas whispers at the head, “Who are you?” A few moments later he scampers
down and roams the halls only find his mother, father and Merlyn in a mostly
unused room staring at scattered papers on the old table. Master Thomas
interrupts, “Whose skull is this,
Mother?”
Criteria’s
eyes light as she laughs in a deep laugh that he has not heard before.
“Who
have we here,” announces Merlyn with a grin, “but Master Thomas sporting two
heads.”
Renaldo
smiles, declaring, “We wondered if you would ever find it Thomas. I win the
wager.”
Thomas
puts the skull on a nearby chair and forges some dignity with an immediate
questioning, “What is all this? What are all these papers and books on the
table? Are you working with my parents on an unsolved mystery Merlyn?”
“An
extra two heads may be a good thing,” responds old Merlyn. “But Master Thomas,
will you give up the mystery in your hand for another on the table?”
“Writing
last longer than bones,” quickly supplies Thomas, “and you are working on the
older of the two mysteries. I shall find out about the skull in Mother’s good
time, but you will not be here forever, so your mystery is of primary
importance.”
“He
speaks his mind, Merlyn,” replied Criteria rather proudly.
.
The
days pass and on this particular day Merlyn will leave. Thomas has tears.
Merlyn hold him as tightly as if Thomas were his own son. He rubs the boy’s
back for calm and says, “Master Thomas, neither of us will live to see but a
better place in time will arrive one day. On that day we will be freer to
understand who we are.”
Master
Thomas sobs and mumbling says, “Thank you for the memorizing the rules, Uncle
Merlyn. They shall be with you in my heart always.”
“This
is where we will always meet, in the writings. Then in a whisper to Thomas’ ear
he discloses a secret. You remember this, boy,” says Merlyn. “We will discuss
it in another place in another time.”
They
hug. Merlyn then leans down and gave the boy a kiss, saying, “God be with you!”
He
turns, touches the hands of Criteria and Renaldo, and begins in a skip that in
a blink turns to a run until he is out of sight. Young Master Thomas glances at
his crying mother. Hot tears flows from the three. Never again, thinks Thomas,
will there be a man like my Merlyn. He hugs and kisses me like I was his own
son. In this thought Master Thomas grow inside where the growing counts most.
Merlyn turns running, leaving a son
The old man’s race is hardly begun;
Master Thomas, one of many to come,
Shares his heart in fingers and thumb.
...
Diplomatic Pouch 2
Blake
asks Friendly, “Do you shave your legs?”
“We
marsupial women have no hair to shave. As I said, we alter our genetic
structure so there is no body hair, that is, other than what you call pubic or
belly-pouch hair. Our philosophers or clerics as you might call them, both
female and male, have their genes altered so they have no hair at all, head to
toe.”
“Why
do they do that, I mean, they wear clothes don’t they? People wouldn’t know,”
continued Blake.
“They
do wear clothes, but without hair they feel closer to angels.”
“Really?”
replied Justin.
“Angels
may not be the right word in English. Angelic-like force is perhaps better,”
comments Friendly. “Clerics feel closer to Godofamily because animals have
hair, so without hair some people feel less animal and more spiritual.
Justin
paused a moment thinking of the eighties documentary The Power of Myth with Bill Moyer’s interview with the mythologist
Joseph Campbell on comparative cultural mythology. Here, we think of angels
with bright swords and these people think of angels being hairless.
“I
have been meaning to ask,” says Blake, “What is in snack we are nibbling on? I
like the crunch.
Friendly smiles confidently saying, “What look like nuts are a sweet
beetle that has a cinnamon-like taste. It is a flavoring my fifteenth
generation grandmother concocted. It has been handed down ever since.”
Pyl’s eyes got big and her face jutted, “Huh? They are beetles?”
“Yes, and very sweet. Most everyone loves them.”
“You need to acclimate to our foods,” adds Hartolite with a grin.
“Are all these different nuts in the bowl really beetles?’ asks Justin.
“No. Some are nuts. Beetlewingsandtreenuts are a great combination. We
eat them like you eat potato chips. Ours are healthier though because they are
genetically induced and farm raised proteins.”
“Which?” laughs Pyl, “The beetles or the nuts?”
“Both,” replies Friendly, “glad you like them.”
Beetle wings that appear and taste similar to Pringle’s potato chips
optimizes Justin, I would never know, but then I don’t really know what our
foods are really composed of. These are proteins, that’s better than fat.
“I think you are joking,” says Blake. “How do we know anyway? We have to
take your word for it. Besides, the nuts taste like walnuts but look like
peanuts. If it tastes like a walnut that’s enough to satisfy me.”
“Why would you say that, Blake,” responds Pyl. “You can’t earthanize
everything that is foreign?”
“Why not? I relate to the Earth. I am the Earth.”
“We do the same, Pyl,” replies Friendly. “Everyone adjusts to a foreign
culture in herorhis own way.
“Their own way, Friendly,” notes Blake.
“Thank you, my good Dr. Blake,” smiles Friendly in return. “It’s okay,
Pyl. I asked him to make verbal corrections where he sees them. Languages can
be very tricky.”
“And deceptive,” adds Justin who then realizes his comment might be
misconstrued. He brightens, “Good morning, Yermey!”
“Morning all.” Yermey notes the smiles as he grabs a handful of snack.
“I have been thinking.”
Being helpfully, Pyl asks, “What about?”
He sits next to Pyl in his usual position at the table, “Your peoples’
sense of freedom and dignity. Why do you place freedom before dignity? It would
seem dignity would come first?”
“It is a phrase,” says Blake. “Without freedom there is no dignity.
That’s the meaning.”
“No, this is not true, Blake. There is a wonderful photograph of a
nearly starved human dignity sitting naked in a simple chair. It was taken
shortly after the Allies liberated a Nazi concentration camp. He sits tall and
regal-like with his left leg crossed closed in the European fashion.”
“So, he has his freedom restored and he sits in the human dignity he can
muster,” snaps Blake. “There is no dignity in being a slave.”
“We are all slaves to something Blake,” counters Justin.
“When we are dead we are slaves to nothing,” vents Blake.
“Perhaps being hairless is a form of dignity,” suggests Hartolite.
“Don’t tell Samson that?” humors Blake, “or Delilah either,” he mumbles.
“What I was thinking about,” injects Yermey, “is that you people live in
groups as we do. You have your city states, as it were, and your smaller
groups, being close friends and family groups. You have branches of government
but they are not living branches. Freedom and dignity are the sap in branches.
Our society is based on roots of dignity that allows freedom to grow into
leaves and flowers. The roots are in spiritual dignity first – that is, human
spiritual dignity. We would not have come here otherwise. You people don’t say
what you mean.”
“No,” replies Blake with a snort, “We people mean what we say.”
*** ***
You watched several shows “Unforgettable”,
‘The Lost Ship”, ABC News and another you have forgotten. – Amorella
2114 hours. Too many shows at once;
they are entertaining while watching but three of them is about as many as we
can go. Perhaps I’ll think of it later, not that it makes much difference. We
had light suppers, Carol had scrambled eggs and I had the last of the stuffed
peppers. Thus we end our day. Carol has gone up to read and I’ll check the
email before heading up to listen to some music before sleep.
2135
hours. I closed the GMG.One blog. I have enough on my plate with one. I don’t
know if it is exactly legal to publish a book blog when it will be for sale
through a variety of sources. It doesn’t seem right because publishers and
sellers deserve a profit from putting the book in their warehouses, so to speak.
I feel uneasy putting a final copy out for free in this circumstance. I may not
necessarily like the book-selling world but they are free to attempt to make
money. It is legal to sell and buy and I have bought a fair amount of used and
new books in my life and have even sold a few back to Half Price Books. Two
dollars and ninety-nine cents is about as close to free as I am going to go.
At least you know who you are as far as this
bookselling business is. - Amorella
I change my mind from time to time
depending on circumstance. This is the way I have survived life and a career in
the classroom. Sometimes a decision is as simple as putting up a sail or dropping
it down. I see no storms or land in sight. Keel in place, steady as she goes in
the slightest breeze. For the moment I’m satisfied. Existentially, I have
nowhere else to be as far as I can see. (2158)
You have oars. You can always row off your
little piece of private theatre. Post. – Amorella
I’m tired. It is time to drift off.
I’ll keep you posted, boy. - Amorella
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