You
are at Stadium Toyota and your Toyota Care takes care of the bill for the last
time at 45,000 miles. After returning to Linda and Bill’s you are going to
lunch at a favorite place, Freda’s (sandwiches and pastries). – Amorella
0922 hours. So far, so good. I was about five
minutes late but Victor P. is taking care of the car and me – very nice place.
You’re
wish is that Humanity Central were a personification but it would be a
complication, something you don’t want. Think of me, the Soki, as a personification
if you like. – Amorella
0930 hours. Okay. I will use the Soki
dialogue and description in Stuck.
Soki’s Character
Development by Chapter in Stuck
**
**
1
>Hello. I, the Soki have some
observations. These marsupials are presently stuck in Ship of their own making.
Living people touch death the moment of birth, and they are stuck in their own
self-being. The individual has herorhis own voice, and as such, herorhis own
stage appears to stand relatively taller than the neighbors. In here, theatre
is a rule the living share. I have discovered that the dead individual also has
a voice and rules of theatre too. The dead have rules that end up being played
in a metaphysical court with the privacy curtain closed.
What are the rules for a genuine
non-being, a floater like me? Presently, I have only a vague notion. <
From Chapter
One
** **
2
>This is Soki. Blake won’t tell you he thinks
people are mostly hot air, but he does. ‘Life’s a scientific experiment and
people are the lab rats,’ fits Blake’s commentary to a tee. Justin thinks he
knows what it is to be dead because he once napped in an open grave not a
closed one. Justin Burroughs uses the dead and their remaining artifacts to
make a living. ‘We’re all prostitutes to money or power,’ is Justin’s
rationalization. I don’t think either Blake or Justin is very original. Pyl
hates her original nickname. Her father gave her a pretty name, Philly, as in
‘my silly Philly,’ which she thought was funny. Besides, she loved her dad’s
laugh when he called her Philly. Brother Blake though, could only say Pyl when
he was young. Mom and Dad thought Blake was cute when he began calling her Pyl,
as in ‘Pyl is a little pill.’ Pyl stuck, and she has never forgiven Blake for
something he doesn’t remember. Inside, Pyl doesn’t like her brother, but
consciously she thinks she loves him because, well, he’s her big brother.
Besides, her parents insisted the two like each other enough to get along while
growing up. Soki smiled. People spend too much time on stage before checking
its construction underneath.
I mention these points of view, because
when communicating with the dead, I can better see into the living. In here,
many a dead person thinks sheorhe has to define a sense of justice sheorhe can
‘live’ with to defend one’s self before the Court. The first questions may
center on ‘how am I innocent?’ and ‘what am I really guilty of?’ A good, honest
response doesn’t come so easily. Fortunately, the dead have plenty of time to
spend on life’s reconstruction. Of course, if those living spend too much time
on the construction of the stage they are singing and dancing on, I suppose
they will miss much of the drama life presents. When I feel like chuckling, I
think of it as a typical win-win situation.
The living characters, both marsupial
and human, don’t have the time or inclination to dwell on their after-lives.
Why should they? ‘Being alive is the most important thing. When I’m dead I’ll
have time to think about being dead,’ that’s what many of the characters in
here think.
Meanwhile, the dead usually end up
considering five aspects of the following questions to make a judgment about
their individual once-upon-a-time lives. One, ‘what do I now know?’ Two, ‘what
did I not know when I was alive?’ Three, ‘what was impossible for me to predict
and know when I was alive?’ Four, ‘what can I forgive myself for? And, five,
‘what can I never forgive myself for?’
To the living, these questions have a
tone of serious business, but in here when you are dead, you spiritually
survive by developing a sense of humor and wit to counter the morbidity of the
situation. Those living know more about life than I would ever care to know. I
find life and death ridiculously bizarre. To be honest, I just want to go home,
but I have no memory of what home is. So, like Trexer the tall marsupial, I am
trying to find my bearings.
Friendly thinks I am swimming in her
head like a fish. She thinks I am a creation of her writing imagination. I
don’t believe Friendly is stupid, but she is wrong in her thinking that I am
imagination. I have a sense of self-being, but I remember nothing of before. I
have a sense of being torn as I came into this universe. I was shoved or
pushed. I was not pulled or drug here. Now I float like a balloon, I do not
swim like a fish. I float, but I do not eat, sleep or dream. That’s what I feel
currently. Being conscious is interesting, is it not? Blake thinks the
unconscious is even more interesting. Pyl is not interested, and Justin is not
sure what he thinks. Too much thinking makes Jack a dull boy, that’s what I,
the Soki, think. <
From
Chapter Two
**
**
3
>Soki, here. Almost everyone likes a
pleasant surprise. Justin and Rabbi Jabal are secretly deliberating the worth
of the sealed urn. I’ve been walking among the dead, and like the urn; many of
the dead are sealed too. Who owns what? I recently read in the newspapers that
some want to declare Jerusalem, a Holy site, decreeing no one owns the city but
God. Each side in the dispute can save face, no matter what the politics or the
religion. The dead don’t know what to think about owning things because those
who did no longer do. From what I’ve observed, life is a tough row to plow.
Mice or men, you better get out of the way. Eventually, the living get plowed
under too. The dead think this is funny. Theatre complicates life, and people
shout from the stage, ‘You! Do this! You, do that!’ Talking heads are everywhere.
Living people take in air before speaking. The dead don’t breathe. It’s no
wonder the dead don’t talk. <
From Chapter
Three
**
**
4
>This is Soki. You see how it
is. Friendly and Fargo showed up too late back in nineteen eighty-eight.
Marsupial spiritual ministers had made a mistake in calculation. I know how it
is to err. An error caused me to be here. I am sure of it. I envision myself as
a detached, floating head, a typically sketched Roswell-like alien, you know,
with the large egg-like eyes and small mouth.
Oddly, I think of myself as
one-dimensional. However, I did develop a two-inch long, one-fourth inch wide
red welt on my right cheek entering your universe. The facial wound is as it
was some earth years ago. And, I do have a small mouth, but it is not for
breathing, talking, or food intake. People smile with pleasure after the
partaking of a rewarding, delicious meal, but I don’t eat. I have nothing to
chew on, nothing to digest. Something hit me about seeing those dead dogs on
the beach though. I thought the earth was supposed to be a dog eat dog world.
Why would a dog give up its recently given independent life to follow a human
being? I suppose it was for food and shelter. But dogs can survive without
humans. Wild dogs still do. <
From Chapter
Four
** **
5
>Soki here. The dead, unlike the living, do
nothing. Once, while floating near a country road on earth, I saw an old
cemetery, and out of the corner of my eye I watched a mass of spiritual bodies
raise themselves as an upward wind, like a deeply exhaling breath from the
earth herself. Yellow streaks of incorporeal light rose to treetop level; a
giant ethereal wave it was. Shortly, the unworldly light returned, inhaled into
the earth, soaking into the ground in milliseconds. Mistakes happen in life,
and some appear irresolvable.
Furthermore, I now feel that my being
here is a mistake. Perhaps I wasn’t pushed into this universe but sucked in
instead. I heard someone once ask ‘do mistakes happen to the dead?’ I haven’t
observed any. I have seen unusual things like the earth appearing to breathe on
it own, but appearances can be deceiving in either the world of the living or
the dead.
The cemetery wind might not have been
spiritual at all. People have little notion of where the minute remains of
millions of years of decayed matter lie resting for the moment. Some people
want to be buried in one place or another. Others want their ashes scattered
about. A spiritual body may be asleep in thought and recovered memory, but the
old physical shelter, the once blood pumping body is eaten away and drifts with
the tumbleweed. It happens on the outer layer of dead skin on the living every day.
People leave body parts dotted about the world like it’s a refuse dump. The
world is a planetary cemetery surrounded by air. Minute fractions of a person
fall away and flakes gobbled up or buried right where sheorhe stands, that’s
how I see it. When thinking of peoples’ self-images this is all rather
humorous, especially since I don’t flake. Unless, of course, some my remains
are mixed in an inky black. <
From
Chapter Five
**
** [No Soki in Chapter Six]
7
>Hello, this is Soki. During
a recent discussion with one of the dead, sheorhe said, “I do know we are
related to the living.” Since I, the Soki, have no relatives who are or
were living, it seems an intrusive statement. It is difficult for me to think I
arrived here, out-of-the-blue, existing between the dead and the living.
From
Chapter Seven
**
**
8
>I sensed a symbiosis and the
beginning of a true and weathered friendship in Friendly’s memory. Similar, but
in a lesser sense, symbiosis is also a threaded suture between those who are
living and those who are no longer. Walking between visible and invisible
worlds leads me on to new conclusions. I wonder if friendship’s nesting place
in the heart is also the place of The Connector. I have not seen
such an ethereal creature, but my sense of smell dictates something in
friendship pushes or pulls people toward one another. Friendships seem to have
a purpose beyond life’s physical constraints. The heart and the soul may be
masquerades, camouflage for a still secret kernel deeper within, a kernel that
has the ability to stretch an individual’s tenacity beyond the bonds of life
and death. Few living people have the time or inclination to think on such
things.
People have to work for the
necessities. People have to eat. The dead don’t work and are eaten away. I, the
Soki, take my own nourishment from observation, which is then written
for me via Friendly. I cannot imagine what this written leftover is dished out
two dimensionally on a page. <
From
Chapter Eight
**
**
9
>Strange, I the Soki, never
notice the smells, though the earth is right here below me. I float about,
usually a few feet to ten miles above it. The dead do just fine without their
five physical senses. I do too.
Nearby, in the modern world, I see
children having a good time playing ball in the street. I’ll bet I’d look like
an old balloon man face to them. I have no string attached however, and they
would think me scarred and sad by my features. I am not sad though. Being
conscious is interesting. When I visit the dead I do not see any children. I
wonder why that is. <
From
Chapter Nine
**
**
10
>This is Soki. Like the stage manager in that
Wilder play, I stand between the lines of those waiting to enter or exit. No
one says much either way. People enter life, usually in a moment of anguish.
Living people eventually die, and the dead themselves pretty much stay off
stage. The living resurrect them in memory from time to time. I’m smiling
because I’m thinking of that short story called, The Monkey’s Paw. Like
people say from time to time, ‘you better watch what you wish for.’ That
reminds me of what the dead say about wishful thinking. Imagine your every
secret lifetime wish coming true in seconds. Think about that, and you have a
better idea of why, in here at least, the dead pretty much stay stone cold.
Those living are confused and mortified
enough. Look at Friendly. She is angry with herself and others because of her
present situation. The question is: ‘Did I do the right thing?’ What’s
interesting is that the dead and the living both mull over the same question.
The deeper the mulling, the more the mind heaps mischief. This tension and
discord make mountains of theater. Stages set, dramas ensue, and hearts grow
explosive.
I enjoy floating outside these passionate staging
areas, where it is as a mild, mild day as I settle below the breeze. White
fluffy hearts are adrift above. One is shaped like a tree, another is like a
boulder, and yet another is shaped like a humpback whale - no, it appears to be
like old Captain Ahab’s whale. The whale-shaped heart is no doubt Friendly’s -
she’s probably thinking wishfully on her favorite captain - Fargo, and how she
wishes he should hunt the world for her. I wonder if Friendly really read Moby
Dick. Well, you can see how this wishful thinking is from the inside out.
To me it is funny and a bit sad at the same time. You probably wish I would go
away. <
From
Chapter Ten
**
**
11
>Hello again, this is Soki.
The dead stir nearby as I write through Friendly. The dead understand something
I cannot. I do not see the connection between the words ‘living and jest,’
thought the Soki, and he floated up and on, toward the foothills ahead.
Perhaps the dead can be as sardonic as the living, he surmised, but what
purpose would that serve? And, he wondered, ‘words have levels of meaning.
Perhaps the dead, like words, are shuffled about from one level of meaning to
another. I think I’m on to something here, but I am not sure what it is. It’s
like dead people are sentenced, but does that mean the dead were once active
verbs when they were alive, and now that they are dead, they are nothing but
empty nouns that once were?
This is ridiculous. People debate and
debate. I do not understand the purpose of arguing over matters that have no
objective conclusion. Sometimes I have seen people will a conclusion that isn’t
there. Even dead people do this. People are built to put their lives on the
line for something that does not, in reality, exist. The dead put their hearts
on the line, and sometimes everything works out for the better anyway.
Hearts that are free cannot have a
destiny. Yet, here I am. I do not remember asking to be here in your universe.
If anything I am an accident. Yet, I feel strongly that I must observe and
report my observations to you through Friendly. Soki smiled. I have been
among the living and the dead too long. I must remember who I, the Soki,
am. Who am I? I just don’t see the forest for the trees. Maybe I’m just a hole
in Friendly’s head. Maybe that’s all there is to me. I don’t believe it though.
<
From
Chapter Eleven
**
**
12
>Soki here. Friendly’s main
love, Fargo, is out there somewhere. PrimeThree is working but not answering
the phone. Beyond that, Friendly has decided to be the explorer she is. ‘I want
to be the best I can be and to do the right thing,’ is a statement that clothes
Friendly’s heart, at least at the present.
I recently had a conversation with a
dead person; one who in life had been called Jack. He dressed in the same
statement as Friendly - wanting to be the best he could be by also doing the
right thing. Jack is dead because he made a quick decision not to run a
yellow-going-to-red light. Jack slammed on the brakes and came to a stop. The
man in the blue truck behind assumed Jack would run the light, and he couldn’t
stop until it was too late. The fellow’s truck hit Jack’s car and shoved it
into the path of a big rig that wasn’t moving fast. The front end of the semi
hit Jack’s door and Jack died because his head hit the knob on the radio. It
was written up as a freak accident. One quick decision can lead to a brand-new
adventure.
This is an adventure for me too.
Sometimes I’d just as soon be home. Perhaps the dead know where I belong. I had
to arrive here from somewhere. I, the Soki, need a reason or purpose for
existing here. Surely, the living and the dead can appreciate the sentiment.
<
From
Chapter Twelve
**
**
13
>Soki, here. People wonder
from time to time about old friends and companions. Some relationships go back
a couple of generations. I’ve been meaning to ask the dead if they keep in
touch with those they knew in life, and if they do, how does the process work?
In life, of course, the genes do have a kind of memory that is passed on from
that originally genetic Adam and Eve. Beyond that, living people have to study,
learn, and memorize.
It is interesting that people who are
alive on earth today are dead on another earth. It is difficult to believe
something like that could be possible. People do know of those in life, those
who carry on year after year, but who are mostly dead. I think habit and death
have a connection, but I do not know what it is. If I wander into death’s
chambers, perhaps I can trace my way back to the soul’s beginnings in these two
species, the marsupials and the humans. I’d much rather wander into a question
than a period. A question always seems to have more hope circling its
conclusion. Don’t you think? <
From
Chapter Thirteen
**
**
14
>Hello, again. This is the Soki.
Watching people is interesting. People, living or dead, usually think they are
onto something. I remember talking to a dead man named Socrates. He was one of
those people who, when alive, enjoyed asking questions. Dead, he helps the
living today because his student, Plato, wrote a book. Later, Plato’s student,
Aristotle, also wrote a book. When I read an old book I always think, ‘dead
person talking,’ and ask myself, ‘what would sheorhe think about life now,
after being dead?’ Then, sense I have this ability and little else, I try to
find and ask herorhim.
When I first met the spiritual remnants
of Socrates and told him what’s going on in the world today, Socrates laughed
as though he already knew, and said, “Who are you, little fellow?” I was
surprised he described me as small. <
From
Chapter Fourteen
**
**
15
>Hello, again. This is the Soki.
Watching people is interesting. People, living or dead, usually think they are
onto something. I remember talking to a dead man named Socrates. He was one of
those people who, when alive, enjoyed asking questions. Dead, he helps the
living today because his student, Plato, wrote a book. Later, Plato’s student,
Aristotle, also wrote a book. When I read an old book I always think, ‘dead
person talking,’ and ask myself, ‘what would sheorhe think about life now,
after being dead?’ Then, sense I have this ability and little else, I try to
find and ask herorhim.
When I first met the spiritual remnants
of Socrates and told him what’s going on in the world today, Socrates laughed
as though he already knew, and said, “Who are you, little fellow?” I was
surprised he described me as small. <
***
>This is Soki. Curiosity
lends itself to experimentation, and I think a living individual is an
environment in context. Blake, for instance, has some personal perceptions to
check out. Blake, as an environmental event, can help determine the context of
his relative substance. Each person is as his own revolving planet. But, what
does each revolve around? Life? Death? Imagination? God? Who knows?
To the living, the thinking may mean
one thing; and to the dead, it may mean another. People spin around in their
own orbits though; there is no question on that. Hearts spin around too. Some
go into orbit and others crash into the sea. Souls sit quietly. To date, I’ve
never seen a spinning soul. The only souls I’ve seen sit like Mr. Lincoln at
his memorial in Washington.
No matter. The dead walked on the earth
or elsewhere first, the dead are not imagination. Those who are living exist
only because the dead once existed. I don’t think even old Socrates would
question that. <
From
Chapter Fifteen
** **
16
>This is the Soki. People
don’t need an outsider, like me, to tell them that life can be a dog eat dog
world. I have heard both the living and the dead debate the definition of
justice. In here, fair play is a focal point for the dead to debate on. Spirits
learn to speak in behalf of herorhis own defense in a preliminary judgment
before the Court. People find themselves volleyed through someone else’s court
their entire lives; so it seems fitting that it would continue after death. In
life, many people would like to be rid of the lawyers. The humor, in here at
least, is that each of the dead is allowed to be herorhis own defense lawyer
before the Bar. The best lawyers in these after death cases aren’t worth a
damn, which is the whole point I suppose. Not so long ago I met the residual of
a spirit, who people say was treated unfairly in life. Here’s the lead-in to
herorhis story.
I, the Soki, was walking one of
the many spirit roads the dead wander. I was minding my own business, talking
with Socrates actually, and I inadvertently bumped into a troubled and
discontented spirit. Sheorhe looked down at me and said, ‘Who are you?’
I do not remember how I responded, but
I do remember being put out by the question. The upset spirit continued, ‘You
are only a two-year old,’ or, something to that equivalent. I was upset because
I am older than two, as any fool can see. Anyway, as in a dream sequence,
Socrates and I immediately faded from that pastoral scene.
As we reappeared directly in another
countryside, I asked Socrates who it was that said I was two years old.
Socrates responded matter-of-factly, ‘I think that was Jesus.’
I had read of Jesus, but we had never
met. If we did indeed meet, it was by accident, and I really wasn’t paying much
attention. Socrates had been asking questions, you see, and I was listening. I
suppose I should have apologized to Jesus for the blunder of bumping into him,
but I did not think of doing so at the time. I feel somewhat bad now, but then
the scene changed so quickly. I was so befuddled by the moment that I forgot
what questions Socrates and I were discussing so intently. A moment beyond that
and the spiritual road and Socrates disappeared. I was left alone near what
appeared to be a stone cabin beside a forest.
The spirit world has some environmental
manifestations of a living world - similar enough anyway that I can use words
for reference and description. Floating between two worlds is disorienting.
Even thought, as the ancient Greeks suspected, a human connection exists
between sleep and death. In here the dead are sometimes representations of
their individual life’s dreams and nightmares. Walking along with Socrates, who
is forever asking questions, is a good example of what I am talking about. The
nightmares are something else. It’s no wonder some poor hearts curl up in their
soul’s shell and wait it out.
I, the Soki, do not think I met
Jesus of Nazareth. Even the Socrates I have talked with seems more a kernel of
Socrates not Socrates’ ghost. To one such as me, who is neither dead nor alive,
it is awkwardly discerning. I feel more comfortable in the Betweens. When I see
a spiritual kernel, sheorhe is as a reflected form might appear in a quiet,
mirror-like surface of water. I must, as it were, touch the reflection to
communicate with sheorhe. The touching causes a ripple, as a small pebble being
dropped into a calm pond. The spiritual or kernel image becomes distorted.
Thus, I must assume that what I observe is not necessarily the reality, nor
even a shadow of the reality. I do observe something though, a sacred
consciousness that is plain and simple. Other than Socrates as my exception,
the spirits have come to me randomly.
Why do I write through Friendly? What
use is an observation if no one else is aware? The marsupials have their own
dead who are not too far away actually. I can talk to them too, but since this
being written in English I’ll focus on the human side of the dead. The after
death set up is much the same for both species. Necessity rules the dead much
as physics rules the living.
A reclusive North American woman poet
of the last century used to write about tunneling through minds. She’s been
dead awhile, and when I met and spoke with her, she responded indifferently.
Her use of the word ‘tunneling’ is appropriate here. In Amherst, when I
anchored at her gated gravesite, I noticed the pebbles people had placed on her
tombstone. Why would people place a pebble on the tombstone? I picked one up
and put it in my pocket, as it were. That night, as I waited, Emily lay silently
in her grave. I had the distinct feeling she understood about such things as
placing pebbles on tombstones, and I would never come to understand such
knowledge. <
From
Chapter Sixteen
**
**
17
>Hello, the Soki, here. Pilots and engineers have
a lot in common in this book. Each controls herorhis situation as best as can
be controlled. Avoiding a misjudgment or accident is the best path to follow
when possible. Planes fly more safely, and machinery works more efficiently
under these conditions. Errors happen though. The history of NASA shows the
example here. Well-dedicated scientists and engineers work, yet mistakes occur
and can be costly. Better to err on the side of safety is the usual thinking.
Most people are naturally conservative when their own lives are in danger.
Friendly is no exception. She can
pretty much guarantee the plane won’t crash because she’s secretly rigged it
with a gravoline. ‘I’m going to kill two birds with one stone,’ that’s her
thinking. People like such control because it doesn’t happen often. I see some
humor in this - well-educated people, marsupial or human, always thinking and
planning for contingencies. <
From
Chapter Seventeen
**
**
18
>Hello, Soki here. I listen
to what the people in here think as well as what they say. Creating romance and
drama in life is evidently important to living creatures with consciousness.
Remembering romance and drama are what the dead plow though everyday. It would
be really funny - that after centuries of the preparation, of working through a
life’s affirmations and denials relative in one’s living, the dead person
arrives at Court prepared for herorhis defense and finds this sign on the door,
‘The Judge Is Out, Please Wait.’ That could be one hell of a wait, I’ll tell
you. <
From
Chapter Eighteen
**
**
19
>Hello, this is Soki. Paths are crossing. From
where I stand, I can follow the paths up the hill but not down the other side.
With freewill I don’t think the ‘Beginning of Things’ was as pat as people
would like to think. It seems to me that if you have raw material and light a
match, so to speak; nature will take herorhis own course.
Human love also seems to fit into such
a pattern. A match is lit in raw material and there is no telling what will
happen. If the actors are acting, who is the audience? Even the dead don’t much
listen to the living. They have personal reflections to agree on and settle.
Many of the living and the dead think Angels are hovering about, but I’ve yet
to see one in my limited wanderings.
Some people say life is a mystery, but
I don’t think it is. I think it’s mostly fiction. The reader can think what
sheorhe wants to. I don’t care. People think what they want. People, living or
dead, develop intuitive plans for hope and consideration.
Freewill is what it is. Freewill is no
accident though, not from my perspective anyway. When one person’s freewill
crosses paths with another person’s freewill, events happen. Earthlings can
read histories and reflect on freewill at work. I think I’ll wander off and
check some history myself. I need to find a kind and talkative old soul, sit
with herorhim for a spell, and give a listen. <
From
Chapter Nineteen
**
**
20
>Soki here. People
need to keep their bearings like Karlina. No doubt about it. I found Solfire,
who is an old soul. Solfire likes to be referred to as a she. We have
been discussing the subtle differences between the living and the dead. As a
soul, when she is protecting a female heart, she usually takes the aspects of a
male. And, when she is assigned to a male heart, she takes the aspects of a
female. Sometimes, she has told me, she keeps herself as the sex assigned
because the heart is more comfortable. Solfire thinks sex has more to do with
comfort and orientation, at least in the metaphysical realms.
‘People sometimes think I am an Angel,’
whispered Solfire, ‘but I am not. I am not built to judge people. I am a
being who protects hearts. The heart is not immortal, not in this book at any
rate. I carry the heart, the kernel of who a person actually was and is, beyond
the physical realms. Like the Soki, I don’t care what you think. My duty
is to listen and protect hearts, marsupial or human, it makes no difference to
me.
Other souls and I have been around
since Adam. You would not believe the many hearts I have held, and the
unbelievably true stories I have witnessed. The stories the dead carry are the
only ones that make it safely to the other side. The rest of life is, as it
were, a busy silence as far as one’s heart is concerned. Sometimes, for a
variety of reasons, people forget the best of their deepest emotions and wishes
and loves. And, sometimes, people need to remember the worst of their lives
too, to keep a balanced perspective. How else can a heart justly defend
herorhis actions? Other souls and I keep a record so the individual who does
forget has a chance to remember life as it was, relative to herorhis time and
place in the universe. From in here, it makes sense. How else would it be? You
tell me. <
Chapter
Twenty
**
**
21
>Hello, this is the Soki. Conscious creatures move
worlds, or think they do, no doubt about it. Only three survivors of the
potential plague are now alive, but it is clear that Friendly didn’t want to
talk about it. Justin, Pyl and Blake have a decision on the marsupials’ offer
to take them home for a visit. I can already tell that two of them, in their
heart of hearts, don’t want to go. They have the archeological dilemma that has
yet to be resolved and running away for a year brings about its own
complications.
Rabbi Jabal would like to have the
other half of the urn and its contents returned, and he is assured by Karl that
it will be. Karl thinks Justin is being justifiably clever, but he is
apprehensive for him nevertheless.
PrimeThree has the problem with two
earths. Parentsincharge cannot locate the earth Friendly and Fargo first landed
on twelve years earlier. PrimeThree does not wish to invite the natives to
their home territory for the same reasons as before, potential plague. Some
waste their time arguing that homeplanets should have minded their own business
and stayed home in the first place. Other marsupials feel they have a moral
obligation to help protect the earthlings because Martin died inadvertently
while they technically had custody of him. Most don’t want the natives to
become extinct; but they don’t want to interfere either. And, many marsupials
think, ‘the natives do not need to know we exist. We will throw everything into
a quandary if we show up near earth with billions of natives looking on.’
***
The dead, interesting enough, don’t
give a hoot about any of this and continue to move through their own renewed
self-discovers. For example, I have seen Martin. He realizes he is dead, but he
is busy denying his lack of physical self. Presently I can see him from this
very spot. He is sitting in a spiritual binding, and he won’t come out. Some of
the dead sit in their own bindings for years. The dead realize something is out
beyond their covers, but many are afraid to venture forth. Some are afraid
Satan will be waiting, and some are afraid of God. Then others, like Martin,
are afraid of their own shade, so to speak.
“The bindings you see may be souls
protecting hearts,” suggested Solfire.
“Can’t you tell?” asked Soki.
Solfire shakes her head.
“Interestingly enough, not always. Some, with a great deal of deceptive
self-confidence, can will a soul-like structure that will bind them for a great
while.”
Far be it for me, the Soki, to know how this works. Many of
the dead I have talked with, in here at least, have the same basic argument,
which is this:
‘Before I can face The Angel of
God’s Eye directly,
I must first be able to stand naked,
Revealing the deepest kernel of my true
heart.
To defend myself before the Court
I must first attempt to see my true
self as I will be seen.’
That’s a point of view I can report. I
don’t know whether it is true and neither do the dead. Actually, I feel I have
missed some observations along the way, so I will continue observing and
floating about among the living and the dead.
I have a point of view, and I am sure
you readers have yours. You do your own observing. You’re old enough to think
and act for yourselves. You readers who have stuck through this book will now
close it and continue your own life adventures. Bully for you. Write your own
book.
Do you want to write one of the best
mysteries ever? Go into a private, mirrored room and close the door. Take off
your clothes and stand naked in front of a full-length mirror until you
secretly laugh. For most people it doesn’t take nearly as long to begin smiling
as you might think it would. While you’re at it look in that mirror and see
yourself as you were at five. Your smiling and being naked on the other side of
the mirror is quite humorous to me. Don’t worry about your privacy; I won’t see
anything you don’t already know.
Do you want to write one of the best
science-fiction works ever? Do the same, and stand naked in front of that full
length mirror, only this time observe very, very closely. Start anywhere but
end up staring deep into those miraculous dark-as-the-night pupils of yours.
This is the Soki, saying, ‘Good-bye for now.’ <
THE END
From
Chapter Twenty-One
**
**
1000 hours. That took a few minutes.
Mid-afternoon.
Linda, Bill, Carol and you had lunch at Frida’s near Indian Rock Beach then
drove down to the condo where Linda and Carol walked and Bill and you sat in
the car with the windows down listening to 70’s music on XM. Once home you four
had desserts from Frida’s and talked with James joining in. – Amorella
1440 hours. We had an interesting lunch and early afternoon.
Victor Perez is the service manager that took care of me at Stadium Toyota – he
was a good person to deal with.
Supper
of leftovers after which you began watching the election news. – Amorella
1947 hours. No more blog for the night. I’ll probably go to
bed early. I’m glad I copied all the Soki material from Stuck so I can
better study his character. I do not want to change his character from what it
is when Stuck concludes.
You
cleaned up the material on Soki dialogue and description in Stuck. This then is
the base of his character. Post. – Amorella
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