Late Sunday morning. Carol picked up the
newspapers today much to your surprise. You did a few chores and took a nap
before doing your forty minutes of exercises. – Amorella
Moving to dusk. You worked Chapter Nine,
GMG.2 and these are the Stats –
** **
Ch. 9 – Sticking Point
Words - 3148
Sentences - 262
Words per Sentence – 11.4
Sentences/Paragraph – 2.2
Passive Sentences – 4%
Flesh Reading Ease - 100.0
Flesh-Kincaid
Grade Level – 0.6
**
**
Here is the chapter –
** **
NINE
Sticking Point
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.
The Dead 9
I,
Merlyn, Bard of old Scotland, recognise the central dream in these books of
dreams – a better world for the Living to raise their children and their
children’s children. I speak for myself, as all the Dead are wont to do. Who do
I speak to, a Betweener. How do I speak? In my humanity, in my spirit, that
which is composed of heartansoulanmind and is driven by the passion of good
will to all Homo sapiens. The Living are less than a hundred years of so from
the Dead. In the long course of time, this is not much. The spirit however
reflects from the physical world without time. It is not so abstract as is the
sense of freedom promoted by the concept of free will. What is freedom to the Dead?
Nothing.
What
is there to be free from? Nothing. I am free to dream my dreams and catalogue
them in book form because I love scrolls and books electronic or otherwise – it
is in my nature that which is placed nugget-like in the shell of my humanity. Words
are reason’s form; dreams are emotion’s form.
Reason
and emotion are the human spirit’s time and space filtering agent, an adaptive
processing array of the senses. Ground clutter interference and
pulse-Doppler-like waveforms among the Dead. To see without eyes and to hear
without ears promotes a revelation of heart-felt clarity not smelled or tasted
among the Living. Dreams, vivid or not, are the closest proximity to being
Dead. Look to your own dreams – what is the clarity? How did you discover this
clarity? Search your own mystery and you will do battle with the freedom in
free will. Freedom in spiritual form does not exist. The human spirit composed
of heartansoulanmind has not a thing to be free from.
Merlyn
pauses while nothing such as time passes.
Entangled
the hinterlands Merlyn wonders on how it is that Betweeners roam this single
shore between the Quick and the Dead. This setting is once what we thought
Faeryland to be, smirks he. In this seemingly endless event since earthly death
I have not seen a one. One day in a cathedral, He reminisces, I thought hard on
the difference between Faery and Angel. I had no trouble capitalizing both.
That same day I became convinced Jesus had been a worker of wood, and thus
druidic. That night alone on the cathedral ground I walked. I felt the Presence
of Angel or Faery. I know not which. I wrote the rules for such an encounter if
it were to ever take place again. It did not. Such worked memory I have not
forgot. I raise word with word up to be seen so that no one is in surprise and
perchance think to run away from such ghostly-like manifestation. Faery, I
thought, but since this long death I lean that it was an Angel on such a night
as this was. I, in life, gave the single wordy work to the boy, Thomas, the son
of Renaldo and Criteria. What did he learn? I have yet to ask his spirit.
Another
pause. Lessons from Living do not mean much to the Dead, and it may be that
these dreamed book of lessons from the Dead would mean little to the Living,
thinks Merlyn
.
“Hello,
Merlyn.”
“I
thought I be in a self-consideration.”
“With
whom in particular,” whispers a not fully undisclosed Supervisor.
“To
one not yet among us.”
“There
are several among the Living. What do you have to say?”
“I’m
wondering on what the reality is for doing.”
“Being
dead lasts a lot longer, so to speak, than being alive. Don’t you think?”
“Heartsansoulsanminds
might be the only reality.”
I
was here before any heartsansoulsanminds existed,” declares the Supervisor, it is I who is the Fact.
“Were
you here before souls, that is the souls that ingest heartsanminds?”
“I
do not know anything but Being – before and after do not apply.”
“How
did we humans really win this shortly earned Second Great Rebellion in
HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither?”
“You
had the help of the more seasoned Marsupial humanoids.”
Merlyn,
enclosed in soul erect but not standing, asks, “Then, how did these humanoids
deliver us the win? A few Living embracing humanity may well want to know.”
“By
long working the spirit of their Living into their who they are, both polite
and honest in thought, word and promise without a hint of perfection in their naturally
adopted and extended day,” comments the Supervisor.
Without the hint of perfection floods
Merlyn into an ancient smile.
Brothers 9
Richard
has two card tables as a makeshift desk against the west wall of the study this
cold January day. His laptop is running the latest Ancestry software offline.
“What
do you have on our Bleacher sisters?” asks Robert.
.
Richard
moves the software through three generations. Here, take a look. Rob sat at the
computer screen:
Hobert
White Bleacher (1770-1859)
Priscilla
Quiller (1768-1825)
Hobert
Bleacher, a smithy, raised his family in the Mountain Falls section of Frederick
Co. In 1799, Hobart and Priscilla bought tracts of land in both Shenandoah and
Frederick Counties. His two sons, James and Jason, traded horses, taking them
from Virginia to Ohio. Much of this operation took place before 1853, and by
1854, they ran out of good horses from Virginia so James purchased land in
Delaware County, Ohio near Center Village and sent for other members of his
family. Shortly after moving Jason died and was buried in Hunt Cemetery,
Delaware County.
James
Mark Bleacher (1799-1877) Elizabeth
Sherman Vonderbundt (1794-1864)
James
was a successful local horse trader. His spouse, Lizzy, was his first cousin.
Their horse farm was on the east side of Center Village. They had a daughter
Mary Elizabeth and a son, Robert.
Robert
Mason Bleacher (1832-1922)
Sarah
Francis Wadermann (1839-1913)
Robert
was born 19 April 1832, and became a horse trader like his father. He inherited
half of the farm, when his father James died in 1877. The other half of the
farm went to Mary Elizabeth and her husband, Joseph Randolph Grant. His wife
Sarah was born in Franklin County, Ohio on the 7 December 1839 and
died 13 May 1913.
Carl
Tuller Bleacher (1864-1949)
Cynthia
W. Workman (1866-1946)
Carl
was born 18 February 1864 and was a farmer and harness maker. He sold his land
on 31 July 1899 and moved onto an established farm on Freeman Road north of
Riverton. Carl died of natural causes on 7 October 1949. Cynthia was born 23
September 1866 in Riverton and died 2 March 1946 two houses north from where
she was born on the west side of Vine Street here in Riverton. Her father,
Walter Workman was the town doctor and emergency veterinarian from time to
time.
George
Allen Bleacher (1895-1974)
Leonora
Von Kilmer (1898-1968)
Connie
and Cindy knew their grandparents and even have some pictures of themselves
with their great-grandparents, Carl and Cynthia. The girls were four or five
and remember the farm, which in 1950 was sold to a neighbor who rented it until
the mid-sixties. Part of the farm, especially near the woods, became a rather
large housing development. George and Leonora are buried next to each other on
the newer developed east side, over near Knox and Walnut Streets in the College
Cemetery.
David
John Bleacher (1918-2001)
Donna
Roland Bleacher (1918-2002)
Connie
and Cindy’s parents. Their father was born on 8 December 1918 and he died 12
January 2001. He was a pharmacist and had two pharmacies. One was on the north
at the edge of old Uptown, and another on the south near Dempsey Road. Donna
was one of the town’s librarians for thirty years. She was a very vibrant woman
and was a great storyteller. Their father was an astute businessman as well as
being an excellent and caring pharmacist. Both are also buried near his parents
in John Knox Cemetery. Donna’s parents are buried in the old north section.
‘
Rob
comments, “The Bleacher’s have been in Riverton about as long as we Greystone’s
have.”
Rob
smiles wickedly, “I remember a story about Grandpa Greystone dating one of the
Bleachers in his youth.”
Both
laugh. “That would have been weird,” whispers Richard.
Robert
pricks up on the tonal queue by continuing, “What if he put her to bed and she
got pregnant and married someone else? Nobody would have known.”
“Sound
like a soap,” says Richard defensively.
“Who
knows, Richie?”
Richard
wonders on hearts raised within a secret shared passion, two lovers who in a
lifetime of secrecy and never to be discovered – how is such a love after
death? What of the children of such lovers -- those never considering who their
biological father or mother may be? Richard says, “Remember the old joke –
‘everyone knows who their mother is, but only mother knows who the father is,
and sometimes she’s not so sure.’”
Twin
brother Robert, the retired cardiovascular surgeon, considers how it is holding
a transplantable heart in his hand – even the living can walk around, breathing
the air, not knowing the former secret life lived by another’s passionate
heart. Such a private thumping and pounding is unheard and unknown. We restart
the heart and living muscle knows what living muscle does. That’s all there is
to it. Love is an agent of biology not a family’s foundation.
Grandma’s Story 9
The
year is 1216 and Lord Robert and Lady Margaret are sitting at the table with
their sixteen-year-old son Charles. The three have had dinner and a servant is
in the kitchen preparing summer fruits for dessert.
“Remember
when you used to sit under this table,” smiles Margaret.
“Yes,
I had fun as a child; didn’t I Mother?”
“You
appeared to, but we were never sure. You would smile or even grin no matter
what anyone said when you were little.”
“Children
should be seen and heard, Father?”
“You
are still are, son,” replies Robert.
“You
have always taught me to question everything. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
“I
think what your father means, is that you have taken the rule too literally.
You form questions when they are not needed. Sometimes what people want to hear
are answers.”
Charles
looks directly at his mother, then he turned his head to his father, “How can I
think of answers when I am busy asking questions?”
Lord
Robert touches his wife’s right hand, “What do you think of the Magna Charta,
son?”
Charles
turns slightly to the right to face his mother, but glances down at the table,
“I understand it is taken mostly from King Henry Beauclerc’s words taken from
what he decreed the day he became king.”
“I
agree. Those were Beauclerc’s words,” comments Father.
“I
don’t think the Barons should have forced him to sign,” adds Charles. “The
Bishops should have done that. I heard there were twenty-five Barons, and
thirteen Bishops. Thirteen is an odd number of Bishops don’t you think?”
“There
was a sub-deacon of the Papal Household also present so that makes fourteen,”
replies, Margaret.
“Who
told you the numbers?” asks Robert.
“Walter,
Bishop of Worcester,” replied Charles nonchalantly.
“When
did you see the Bishop?” asks Margaret.
“At
church.”
“When
were you at church?”
“Yesterday.”
Lord
Robert asks, “Do you want to be a priest, Charles?”
“The
Church has too much power. It is corrupt.”
“What
about King John?” inquires Mother.
“He gave in to the Barons. He is not a good king,”
“He gave in to the Barons. He is not a good king,”
“What
are you going to do with these feelings?” asks Lord Robert comfortably.
“Nothing,”
smiles Charles, “I’ll wait for Prince Henry to grow up. If he is a good king, I
will support him. If he is not, I shall be clever enough to avoid the royals
altogether.”
“How
will you do that?” muses Margaret.
“I
will do as you two do, and hide beneath the Bishops,” replies Charles with
renewed adolescent confidence.
.
Mark, 25, is the son of Lord John, 54, and Lady
Nelleke, 50. Mark walking through the autumned woods on the Lake estate in 1216
is talking with his soon to be mistress and future wife, fifteen year old
Moira.
“King
John ravaged the Barons’ wives. He is not a good man,” said Moira with a
shifting flirtatious smile half formed on her lips. “Like you are, m’Lord.” She
squeezes his hard thick right hand with her left. She unconsciously runs her
forefinger between his index and middle finger, pushing them apart slightly as
they walk.
“I
am not so good as you might think,” confesses Mark.
Moira
stops and as they stand among a grove of oak, she says most considerately, “Your affection for me is beyond
redress, m’Lord.”
“We
have done we need be ashamed of.”
“I
have, m’Lord.”
“What
have you done?” he implored in good-humoredly heightening the duo drama.
She
replied coyly, “I once dreamt of us together in the grass surrounded by trees
such as these.”
“You
tease me profusely,” replied Mark, “with your gnawing at my fingers in your supplest
touch.”
She
holds the back of her right hand. “You may kiss such a sweet hand as my own, my
dear lord, Mark Thomas.”
He
chuckles, bends and kisses her hand, “You never call me Mark Thomas.”
As
she moves her index finger down his, “It is longer than Mark.” She suddenly, as
if on a stage, draws herself close to his chest and whispers in his ear. Her
upper thighs unexpectedly move slightly apart. She murmurs, “I think I might
enjoy calling you Mark Thomas.”
Mark
quickly follows his own natural inclination.
Two would be lovers standing in tall grass
May raise their standards in love’s trespass;
Love and trust come in words, or eyes alone,
The words themselves not always foreknown;
The human eye knows what the brain does not
Two pair of eyes can quickly tie the ancestral knot.
Diplomatic Pouch 9
While
half dressed and sitting on the edge of their king sized bed Pyl thinks on
Justin and how he is faring. I hope he and Blakey are enjoying his venture to
the dig with Friendly. Both are so slow adapting, but then I am not much
better. Here we are on a planet much like our own – a place with similar
terrains – hills and valleys and mountains but with many more rivers and
streams, fresh water lakes and larger and numerous saltwater lakes and seas. A
chime that reminds her of a soft Macy’s made-a-sale-bell interrupts. “Come in,”
she says in a normal voice.
“Yermey,
here.”
Pyl
is up and out the bedroom door. “Good morning.”
“And,
good morning to you. Thought I would stop by and see what you are up to.”
I
was enjoying the peace and quiet, she thought. “Nothing. I am in my robe
because I haven’t decided what to wear.”
“That’s
a consideration. Mind if I sit?”
“No,
of course. Would you like a cup of our hot coffee?”
He
chuckled, “Real coffee, no thanks. You ought to be rationing that.”
Pyl
sat in the chair across. “We keep our furniture out rather than in the ceiling,
walls or floors – I hope the sight is not too much clutter.”
“You
humans are a charming species,’ commented Yermey with that wickedly lovable
grin of his. A waspish thought popped into his head, ‘packrats’. He rubbed at
his naked chin.
Pyl
mirrored his grin, “Cat got your tongue?”
He
put his hand comfortably down on his lap. “No. You know, I don’t really
understand that phrase, cat got your tongue’.”
“Good
question. You were being silent, that is, your tongue wasn’t moving, so I asked
it the cat snatched it,” invented Pyl.
With
a spark of glee in his eyes, Yermey deadpanned, “What cat?” Pyl thinks. Yermey
clips, “Cat got your tongue, Pyl?”
They
both laugh in the awkwardness of the moment.
Yermey
says, “I have an old cultural story I would like to tell you.”
“I
want to hear a story about your culture today,” replies Pyl. “One that reflects
on your own personal values.”
“I
can do that. This is one of my favorites from childhood.” Their eyes meet in
the moment.
She
politely interrupts, “We are friends, Yermey. I like this.”
“Good.
We are friends.” He immediately stands rather formally to shake her hand.
Embarrassed,
she stands and gives him an innocent peck on the cheek as if she were young and
giving a surprise kiss to her Grandfather Taylor who, in the moment, she
remembers with great affection.
They sit back in their chairs and warmly relax in
each other’s company.
Yermey begins. “We are on a Raft continually rocked
back and forth in a very gentle manner, this is what the children imagine as
they sit rocking back and forth in a group. The teacher then says, ‘the Raft
you sit or stand on demands to be Balanced.
He smiles, “Imagine you are a child standing and
balancing yourself on a teeter-totter in the school yard.”
She shakes her head. “I have done that with great
glee when a child.” She wanted to add, ‘I conquered my fear,’ but did not.
“We were told we were balancing Salt and Pepper, the
main spices in life. Later, when we were older, we were told that too much
spice was not good and too little was not good either. We had to learn to
balance ourselves every day of our lives. If we did not, we would fall.”
“Fall from Grace?” questioned Pyl unthinkingly.
“Ultimately,” replies Yermey calmly, “but that comes
when we are older in adolescents when we can better appreciate how to lead our
individual lives in relationship with others who have learned to survive
Grace.”
“Survive Grace? I don’t understand.”
When we are sixteen we are considered personally
responsible for ourselves and we are each given two identical pills. One will
kill you quickly and the other will make you terribly and painfully ill.”
“How awful.”
“The responsibility is real.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We each know our friends and adults have two pills.
We quickly learn to help protect each other from ourselves by being sincere and
honest with one another.”
“This is so strange to consider. Why give a child of
sixteen the ability to kill her or himself?
“So she or he will have reason to mature in a more
balanced personal life.”
Pyl is surprised by Yermey’s open sincerity. He has
the pills she thinks. “May I see these pills?”
“Of course.” He pulls out a small tube and slides the
tube open. “See. Two pills, side by side.”
Yermey gives her eyes a close inspection, saying, “I
took one of those pills once.”
...
** **
1943
hours. It is good to have this chapter completed as a nearly final draft, if
there ever is a final draft.
A reminder to you that this work is as in
your ‘voice’ to an Angel’s ears. – Amorella
1946
hours. Perfection it is not nearly so much so. I am moved by your reminding
words. I am as nothing as a writer here, but my heartansoulanmind has a story
to tell so here is another chapter. If I were to speak to an Angel it would be
less than a whisper for concern of startling such a Being. I like the silence
and am thankful for it. – rho
1958
hours. I have dropped the work in the blog and also in iCloud on Page and feel
much better knowing it is safely off my computer. It is quite difficult to
explain how I truly feel about sending this chapter nine on as if in words to a
real Angel. I have no trouble denying perfection because it would be dishonest
but to be ‘face to face’ as it were with a real Angel is not an easy task. I
can assure myself of this because, rightly or wrongly, I at one time thought
this ‘confrontation’ was real and I sincerely reacted as if it were real. This
is what I am reminded of by Amorella’s ‘short-note-to-me’ above. A sense of how
this experience felt first hand is that I would have to hyphenate every word
because letters to words to sentences to paragraphs to sections to chapters to the
books as a whole are as a single word, a feeling rather than a thought.
This is an unrealized until now insight of
how it is to you to speak to a real Angel via reason first and imagination
second. Post. – Amorella
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