After noon. You are surprised to find you only have Dead Eleven to complete for this chapter. – Amorella
1301 hours. This allows for a
good feeling about the day as far as writing is concerned. I don’t know what
happened to provide that twist at the end of Pouch 11 – a bit of unconscious
humor I suppose, something to wake up Merlyn. It is one thing to have the
Marsupialese dead moving in, quite another to have soul machinery moving in
too. I really don’t know where that came from.
You think this won’t be a calamity? –
Amorella
1306 hours. I don’t know
anything about souls. If a soul enters an AI machine I assume it knows what it
is doing. I also assume such an AI machine managed to develop a heart first,
that is, to go with its mind (to keep a continuity within the story).
Later. You don’t see this (machinery with a
soul) as a problem within the Merlyn books? – Amorella
1620 hours. No.
1720 hours. After a nap and I
just re-read Dead 10. I do not remember writing this about the soul.
**
**
TEN
Roundabout Reel
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 10
Wing-dancing spritely across leafy
forest
Feather
bright birds sing along in a chorus,
Dead
trees' gray fingers will leaf out quite soon
Under
misty full light of magic May Moon.
.
Merlyn lies comfortably as a stone sarcophagus on the
top of the granite-like mountain separating him from the Earthling Dead. There
is a difference up here in my sanctuary from down by my hut and stream, he
thinks. There is a residual effect, an echo of sorts from life that may stay
awhile in one or more of the person’s most intimate surroundings. It is a place
that most of the Living at one time or another get the tincture of a haunting
when the ghostly spirit as it were, is no longer there or perhaps never was
there consciously. That’s my observation that has no more validity than I do.
Such a lace of humor to drape me this side of the River; a dark humor that
forever sparks my humanity to survive beyond physical death. Humor, to my
spirit, is everywhere, a delight like a spring valley of fresh flowerings. All
one has to do on either side of the River is to observe one’s surroundings.
With this, Merlyn flashes above his sleepy stone-like head to the Supervisor’s saying in
parchment-woven heartanmind:
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.
These
are the first words from the other side, and from our Supervisor’s gleaned
intelligence, no less. No tunnel or flash of light for me; nothing more than
the presence of words hanging in the dark – “We rise from clay, this judgment
day.” And, the surrounding dark strangely resounds in a chorus every so
quietly, “Be we dead and still alive.” The words haunt as an apparition might
flow among the Living – an invisible sheet of an undiscoverable yet understood
reality.
We are born already dead, that’s how I
see it. I do not know the words, the vocabulary to grasp the sense. Life is but
a moment where we have need of great calculation. I see this now. Without time,
the closet of the open soul speaks:
.
-
I, an open soul, am a fully immersed constant observing out three hundred and
sixty degrees Up and Down and All Around. I am a poetic breath without the air.
Open mouthed, I forage with kindness for a mutually beneficial sustenance
searching to shelter an unprotected heartanmind that I might learn more
examples of what life is. –
Turn.
Turn. Turn and Turn again.
-
Merlyn’s soul, Foretoken, asks, why are
you here?
- the once open soul, Venerable, answers, to learn. –
-
What else can be digested from Merlyn’s heartanmind? –
- Venerable replies, a
weakness needs shoring up.
Another
Turn sets open and then it is closed for the better.
.
Merlyn
grumbles. What is this that moves my soul away from this place to another as
another soul flies down to nest – Here. I feel a surrounding movement where
there is none. I feel as a chess piece picked up and dropped on an adjacent
square. I am the same Druid piece I was and not a Bishop. I appear alone on
this Board but I know better. The Supervisor
is about. I am who I am – Merlyn a Master Druid and once Scottish Bard. I lie
on the top of granite mountain in my own sanctuary. I look down to the Dead and
up to the Living. Stone of the Spirit is my architecture. I am a common
heartansoulanmind. I am free to defy as are all other human-like spirits. I lie
here in balance with Up, Down, and All Around. I am and I am not, both at once.
Silence.
Humbly,
I exist without being. I have no voice, no sound, no spiritual sense at all
other than an invisible crosshair. Being without being. There is no beginning
or end to it. Naked consciousness aware. I defy my very self’s center to
remember what a Master Druid is.
.
Beware Earthly air, whirling winds deceive
Beware
the claw-ripped Souls of Beltane's Eve.
Selected and edited from “The
Dead 10”, Book 2.
**
**
1727 hours.
I would have thought I would have written the above, but I do not. How very
odd. I remember the “Beltane’s Eve” poem lines from decades ago; not word for
word but they have a familiarity to them. No one could follow this at first
reading. I couldn’t. I hear a little of Dante in the tone “Stone of the Spirit
is my architecture.” There is no reasonable in this. I am shocked by the
content. I am not the “I” who wrote this piece. This is my reaction to it. –
rho
You remain honest despite your comment. Now,
do you see a truth, boy? You are in parts still. – Amorella
1737 hours. I am an 18th
century literary neo-classicist and a 19th century literary romanticist –
two-toned?
Right
out of your old British Lecture Introductions – what do you think? – Amorella
1743 hours. It is a relief to
not be a secret full blown multiple personality; I can say this for certain.
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