1008
hours. We have two days until the Fall Equinox.
You awoke groggy and unsettled after
spending the night moving from the bed to the chair to the bed in Kim’s old
room where there was less chance of waking Carol with your periodic hacking
cough. The Sunday funnies and paper have been read, Carol is relaxing after
working with the wash and various household chores most of the day. You swept
yesterday and this morning, gathering more cat hair then you would have
expected today. You feel guilty for not cleaning the litter boxes before
breakfast as Carol did so while you were eating. – Amorella
1014 hours. That is my designated job
as she does their feeding. I should have done it last night but I went upstairs
early to relax with the some headphone music before bed. I am feeling somewhat
better but I could use a short nap before venturing into my exercises. Last
week we walked enough each day that I didn’t feel like I was missing them.
Arthritic aches and pains, no doubt a temperature change like Carol says. I
want to complete chapter five and work through most of chapter six before this
next weekend. I have a month before we ready ourselves off to Florida for a
couple weeks or so; surely I can be done with chapter seven and working on
eight by then. I feel a sense of accomplishment now that GMG.One is out there
and an even greater sense of determination on finishing GMG.Two by mid-Winter
if possible. This will leave GMG.Three to work on for the rest of 2015. Once
these books are completed I will feel that I have accomplished not what I
thought I was going to accomplish but I hope to have the stories intact before
I actually die. It may seem odd to tell one’s story to an Angel before death
and leave it for a few of the interested to read at their leisure, but in real
life as in real death no one knows what’s next no matter what they may say or
believe. I am getting into actually liking this idea Amorella came up with. It
makes the works unique in terms of perspective for any reader, including
myself.
You have accomplished the draft for the
story to an Angel in the first three Merlyn books, so you are further along
than you think. You also find it interesting to think on, that is, your
imagination is catching up with the concept of story-telling to an Angel that
makes the request first, because that is how it is in here, ‘I asked for the
story’. As an agnostic you are open-minded enough to dwell of the plausibility
of an Angel of G---D and this supports your authenticity from my perspective,
not yours, boy. This construction then is as a ‘philosophical thought problem’
brought to life within the blog and earlier notes. You are retired and have
this work to do for now. Later, dude. Post. - Amorella
Mid-afternoon.
You have some 421 words on Dead 5, mostly written after a Subway picnic at the
Carl Rahe park along the west bank of the Little Miami. Presently, you are
waiting for Carol who is in Kroger’s for essentials such as bread and milk on
Mason-Montgomery Road. – Amorella
1519 hours. It occurred to me while
writing that this circumstance-in-writing is no different than it was earlier.
I am standing (comfortably) telling my story, your request, my story. I could
not have written what I have without you, but then you know where the words
come from, what projections of personality and passion that cause them to rise
into consciousness. In this circumstance I take you at your word to be (at
least) a pretend Angel. Without this sense I cannot have the base authenticity
of timelessness in which to gather my thoughts. Consistency may be the
hobgoblin of little minds, but in this case, consistency provides base, as it
were, on which to stand.
While telling the story in you own fashion
do you see yourself facing me directly? – Amorella
1526 hours. I was just thinking on
this. I certainly am not on the top of a pillar (I erased this and replaced
with ‘base’.) This may appear arrogant but I envision you directly in front of
my sight, within the distance of two feet, a little more than an arm’s length,
thus for my psychological comfort I cannot suddenly attempt to reach forward to
touch what does not physically exist.
You watched the national news and completed
more of “The Roosevelt’s” on PBS. You also completed Chapter Five of book two. Add
and post. - Amorella
[2202 hours. I encounters some problems with number set spacings below.]
*** ***
FIVE ©2014, rho, GMG.Two
Resolution
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 5
“There is talk among the Living that reality is not
as it seems,” says Merlyn. “And, there has always been talk among the Dead that
reality is not as it seems.”
Socrates
grins saying, “All the more reason to keep questioning. We know how it is being
Dead, but otherwise nothing more than the experience.”
The
two sit on a stone-imaged bench across Eleusis Street from The Mikroikia at the
corner of Lyceum, to their left, down Eleusis several blocks is the Temple Gate
at the River Styx where, during the first Rebellion, the focus was on building
a bridge across to return to Earth. To Socrates and Merlyn’s right Eleusis
Street stretches several city blocks up to Mother’s. Minds can change more
easily in such a previously orthodox setting. During the Rebellion it was
thought that Mother’s was north as in the North Star, and south, somewhere
across the Styx were the motions of the stars and Earth. Think of this as the classical region in
HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither. Everyone has their favorite place to meet their
friends. Merlyn and Socrates prefer the dark curtained wordless humor set in
timeless Greek style.
“We
must breathe the Golden Rule to survive the complete lack of physical
existence. Only with the mind do we set the social order. Our minds are free
but we are not free to unbind them,” comments Socrates.
“This
is true for form to exist,” replies Merlyn in agreement. “We Dead are without
the physics but we are not gods.” He smirks, “The ancients conjured gods and
goddesses out of the air.”
“We
do not have a definition of Reality until we have a definition of G---D,”
states Socrates. “And, our definition of dead
appears to be without physics.
The Dead wished to build that bridge to return to physics; to the Earth.”
A
dark humor infests the conversation as it lies on a line. “Mario, told me once
that the bridge was designed by minds and hearts not physics. That was his
explanation. He said the distance of each span was to be forty-one feet out
with an imagined stone base, wood frame and concrete. The bridge is to be ten
feet above the water,” declares Merlyn. “His friend Thales said the work should
be wide and low off the water, a military bridge. Human religion thus conjures
an argument between Poseidon and Zeus, as Poseidon never liked to follow his
brother’s orders. That is what had been told.”
Socrates
shakes his head and adds, “Such talk still provides blasphemy in one time
placed culture to another.”
“Were
it as such then, but here, as always, the individual reigns,” replies Merlyn, “and
our marsupial humanoid cousin spirits rightly call this place,
HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither.”
“The
humane spirit has the choice to reign.”
“For
what ends, Socrates?” Both laugh in the thought.
“To
be a bridge,” says Socrates with clarity.
“The
new people on Earth speak a lot about physics. Some cannot tell the difference
between the science and poetry.”
“Both
are observable, Merlyn.”
Merlyn
smirks, “One day we will not be able to tell the difference between a marsupial
humanoid’s spirit and a Homo sapiens.” He stands with a request, “Let’s walk,
as it were, down to the Temple Gate and observe the River.”
“The gate façade replicates the Temple of
Asclepius. Twelve sixteen foot wide stone steps from river beach up to the
rectangular base stone floor. The front wall, closest to the town, is sixteen
rectangular stone blocks high, each cut block twelve inches long, ten inches
high and eight inches thick. The front wall consists of four blocks in from the
outer west corner to the arched entrance. The same four blocks in from the
outer east corner to the arched entrance. The height of the wall is ten blocks.
The eleventh block begins the arch. Four blocks up from the eleventh ends the
arch and three more blocks up to the top of the wall sets the architrave. A
simple concrete frieze tops the architrave with a small centered relief of
Asclepius the Healer, the bearded god of medicine holding a serpent-entwined
staff,” states Socrates. “This then set the stage for the mighty bridge to
freedom, to return to the hallowed ground that bore us.”
“And the bridge was never built,”
comments Merlyn’s ghost.
“Never built beyond a few spans,” answers
Socrates’ spirit who silently wonders on an analogy to their present existence.
Merlyn, reflecting Socrates’ quiet state,
speculates on how this scene might be recalled to an analogy for those living
in the modern twenty-first century.
Neither is amused about what point might
now be made.
...
Brothers 5
On Tuesday during the week before Christmas, Robert is on the back porch puffing on a thin mild cigar a neighbor had given hime. The temperature sets in the low sixties this particular afternoon in Riverton. Inside, Richard stands pouring himself a diet RC Cola from a two liter plastic bottle into a large Coke-a-cola glass.
Connie
gives her brother-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek saying, “That’s for being a
dear and getting your own drink.”
“Right,”
replies Richard. “I know you always loved me best.”
She
giggles and whispers, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” as Cyndi walked in.
“Is
Connie trying to seduce you?” asks Cyndi nonchalantly.
“You
know how she is,” Richard comments while returning the two-liter bottle to the
refrigerator. He adds, “Other than you being a half inch shorter, I can’t see
two hairs of difference; you are clones of your mother.”
“You know I cook better roast beef,” murmurs Cyndi in an equally seductive
tone.
“I’m
going to sit on the porch, no sense wasting this perfectly good day,” says
Richard.
“What
happening?” asks Robert.
“I
was being toyed in the kitchen. I think it is a form of female harassment.”
“I
agree.”
“What
do you want to do about it?”
“What
can you do? Nothing. I don’t mind the flirting. It never leads to anything,”
laughs Robert.
“That’s
the truth, surmises Richard. The two sit together quietly thinking private
thoughts.
Robert
yawns, saying, “I could take a nap.”
Richard
also yawns and in a low voice, replies, “Me too.”
“We
didn’t used to be this way,” grumbles Rob.
“Pick
up a newspaper from a year ago and the ads are similar to this year at
Christmas. Sales are built on holidays.”
Robert
adds, “We live in a cultural habit. The whole world is nothing but cultural
habits.”
“We
have our women and our poetry Rob. What more do you want?”
Robert
chuckles, “Remember out mid twenties.”
“Yeah,”
answers Richard, We all go through the drinking. First, the excitement of the
riding the first bike, then we were pumped for the driver’s license and then
there was the first legal drink.”
“Cultural
habits and cultural rituals – rites of passage Rob.”
“What
was the difference two thousand years ago?”
“Roman
boys built miniature chariots and trained mice to pull them and had races.
Nothing was really that different – take away electrical power and engines and
we would be living pretty much like the Romans, that is our everyday life
wouldn’t be much different.”
Rob
notes, “Health and survival rates would be.”
“You
got me on that. We both had childhood diseases in the forties and early fifties
that would have killed us a hundred years earlier.”
“We
would have been born in 1842; who was President?”
“FDR,
of course.”
“No,
I mean in 1842.”
Richard
pulls out his iPhone and presses Suri and asks. She responds, “Checking on
that . . . the answer is John
Tyler”.
Richard
presses Suri again, “Is William Henry Harrison President in 1842?”
Suri
responds, “Alright, here’s what I got: (1842 is after William Henry Harrison
died)”.
“She
says he was dead by 1842. I didn’t know that.”
Rob,
who has been checking Wikipedia, replies, “Tyler was the first President to die
in office. I didn’t know that either.”
Richard
stares at his cell. “Look at us. We just look stuff up we don’t know and here
it is. Who would have thought we could do this when we were kids?”
Robert
shook his head as he placed the phone in his pocket. He says calmly, “We could
not have known any of this. Who would have thought I would have become a
surgeon?”
“We
played war games, mimicking what we understood of World War II; which was not
really that much when we were ten years old.”
“We
took our bb guns down the basement, set up toy soldiers in various places near the
far wall, and shot them down,” smiles Rob.
“We
pretended they were German but all we had were those green toy American
soldiers. I tried to . . ..”
“.
. . modify the helmets with a soldering iron,” commented Richard and Robert in
unison. They both laugh.
“What
are you two laughing about?” asks Connie from the kitchen.
“Stocking
presents you are going to buy for the grandkids?” adds Cyndi her more serious
tone, “Is that it, fun Christmas presents to put in the socks?”
...
Grandma’s
Story 5
The
month is November in 941. The grandson of King Alfred the Great is King Edmund
Atheling. Nine generations now separate Lord Thomas and Lady Hilda.
*
Lord Thomas b.
0697 d.
0779
Lady
Hilda b.
0705 d.
0791
Anne b.
0733 d.
0796
Judah b.
0730 d.
0806
Sarah b.
0759 d.
0855
Robert* b.
0747 d.
0806
James * b.
0*785 d.
0862
Courtney b.
0790 d.
0863
Crosby* b.
0814 d.
0850
Farrah b.
0814 d.
0885
Parker * b.
0842 d.
0934
Selby b.
0862 d.
0951
Madison * b.
0888 d.
0956
Shandy b.
0890 d.
0943
Lyndon * b.
0916 d.
0979
Daisey b.
0925 d.
0999
Ackley * b.
0941
*
Madison,
53, and wife Shandy, 51 are with their son, Lyndon, 25, and their
daughter-in-law, Daisey, 16, who has recently given birth to her first son,
Ackley. Here is one remembrance.
Madison
glances at his red-faced and screaming grandson and says to Lyndon, “We have to
make sure the sheep survive the winter. We have beer fermenting for the
holidays. There will be food on the table, but we have to stay clear of town
and winter illnesses, particularly with the boy here. He’s healthy enough, but
a sick child is easily a dead one, and he is our first of the next generation.
We could use easily a couple more, son. ”
“Mother,”
adds Lyndon, “Four years ago we helped supply material and food for the king’s
army. We have the king’s respect with these sheep and land of ours.”
“Your
King Athelstan is dead. Now you have a new king, Edmund Atheling, who is a mere
lad of eighteen. What does he know about being king?”
Madison’s
voice sobers into arrogance, “I am proud to have served with both Alfred and
Athelstan. We defeated the Celts and Scots as well as the Danes and Vikings.
Athelstan of Wessex and Mercia was the first king of modern Britain, may God
bless his soul and that of his father’s too.”
“You
wouldn’t let me serve in the Battle of Brunenburh,” whines Lyndon. “You fought
for the king while I served with supplies.”
Madison
gruffly retorts, “You were barely twenty, boy. What did you know? You would
have liked to have got yourself killed, then where would we be?” We are royally
noted our service. We are likely for more land for more sheep.” He pauses for
Shandy’s benefit, “We have to keep building this estate for your mother, for
her security.”
The
baby continues whaling. Young Daisey lies in bed too exhausted to raise her
voice. Daisey lived out such a farm life that she never needed to count beyond
four.
.
Grandma
gives a knowing smile saying, “Now is time to see how things are with the
Scots, that is with the descendents of Lord Thomas’ younger twin son, Jacob.
Here is the Scottish bloodline.
Lord Thomas b.
0697 d.
0779
Lady Hilda b.
0705 d.
0791
Jacob b.
0730 d.
0783
Ruth b.
0735 d.
0783
Daniel b.
0761 d.
0840 [Frodisharg]
Treasa b.
0764 d.
0843 [Vigdisdottir]
Taliesin b.
0785 d.
0847
Grimildis b.
0795 d.
0873
Wilfred b.
0821 d.
0901
Daria b.
0826 d.
0903
Bairn b.
0877 d.
0931
Nairne b.
0885 d.
0948
Dana b.
0908 d.
0955
Douglas b.
0906 d.
0936
Corey b.
0936 d.
1003
Tully b.
0937 d.
1025
It
is 941. Cory is five; and sister Tully is four, and Dana, 33. Grandma Nairne is
56. Douglas died in the Battle of Brunenburh in 936. The women, Dana and Nairne
continue Douglas’ business Merchandise.
The two women run Merchandise in
Glasgow with Ross, an able and trusted servant as their front man. The Glasgow
enterprise expands to include boots and saddles, farm implements, horses and
other sundries. Here is a remembrance.
“You
need not worry Mother,” replied Cory. “I want to be a soldier like my father,
not a priest. I am learning Latin for reading the Bible myself. I won’t need a
priest.”
“Blasphemy,”
says Grandma Nairne. “What are we going to do with this boy?”
“Not
to worry Mother,” replies Dana. “He is the little man of the house.” She spies
both of her two children now under the large oak table. She teasingly asks,
“What are you two doing under there?”
Tully
responds, “We talk to the voice in the corner.”
Mother
laughs, “Which corner is that?” she asks.
“He’s always in the northeast corner,”
responds Cory in an earnest honesty.
Nothing is better than a children’s fantasy revealed
In the corner of a table, a room or a field.
It makes little difference where hangs imagination’s
sign,
When it finds a quiet listener in a corner in its mind.
...
Diplomatic
Pouch 5
“Tell
me about your trips to Los Vegas,” suggests Yermey. “I want to understand more
about having luck and the beating the odds when playing the
computer game you call Slots. I don’t understand the use of a personal
attachment in the phrases. I sense that human beings can change the odds with
their personal existence – that somehow when lucky sheorhe can beat the
statistical odds. Where does this unrealistic perspective come from, and more
to the point, why, in your modern age, does it still exist?
Pyl
breaks into a grin but quickly realizes Yermey is being serious. She takes a
moment to re-listen to his words. First, Slots is a game. It is supposed to be
fun, and part of the fun is seeing how lucky one is at the moment. Some people
believe in luck but I do not. Life is circumstance. It is still fun. You walk
into a casino and choose your slot machine and see how your circumstance is at
the moment.”
“So,
this computer simulation promotes a sense of hope and destiny? Doesn’t living a
life do the same thing without being artificially created like a game?”
What is this man talking about, she thought. Philosophy and
religion tied up in a computer simulator based on a game in which people hope
to win big money. I wonder what Justin and Blake are up to? I understand why we
are paired off but it appears Yermey is playing the odds here. She smiles.
“Why
the smile?”
“Friendly
mentioned to me about boxostats. Is
it a game like Slots or is it what you people call ‘machinery’.
Yermey
chuckles, “What did she tell you about boxostats?”
“I
don’t remember, but it seemed to have to do with gambling. Why do you people
want to know how we personally think about gambling? If it is taboo on
Homeplanets let us know. We don’t want to offend anyone with our casual
cultural propensities.”
“Boxostats is a bio-chemical computer
that reminds you of things you routinely do everyday. It can be adjusted to show
your consistencies, personality traits and sudden addictions. For instance, if
you suddenly appear to have a compulsive obsessive disorder, or an anxiety the
device will show you. It is a drop of a gel-like substance you place on your
body. We feel it is good to monitor one’s total health.”
Pyl
comments, “That’s interesting. A newly compulsive gambler would consciously
become aware of this before it became addictive.”
“Yes.
We are responsible for our own well being.” He thinks, ‘Pyl realizes Ship does
this sort of thing automatically, but I don’t want to get into a discussion
that will lead to human rights and responsibilities. This is about our culture.
We are interested in personal human primate traits but in this circumstance we
are the gamblers bringing these primates home and HomePlanets is gambling their
health safety and welfare that this is a
good call; that as these Earthlings say, we will beat the odds. Surely there is a better way for the primates and us
to have human contact without having human
contact. Living-reality is a strange
factor to consider.’
Pyl
declares, “What is really on your mind Yermey?”
“Pardon.”
“I
am married. My husband is here and so is my older brother, yet we two are
attracted to one another.”
Yermey
blushes.
“Cat
got your tongue?”
“I
am not attracted to you sexually.”
“Then
how are you attracted to me?”
“You
are interesting.”
“As
a species or as an individual?”
Immediately
defensive, Yermey states, “What is this about, Pyl?”
“Justin
told me that Hartolite slid his hand into her pouch.” She laughs. “He didn’t
know what to do. He thought she might yell, ‘rape’. Hartolite was suddenly out
and out attracted to Justin and she attempted to something about it. That’s how
I see it.”
“I
am surprised he told you,” responds Yermey while feeling strangely anxious.
“Why?”
She thinks, ‘I told Justin Friendly gave me permission to put my hand in her
pouch. It doesn’t appear to mean anything more intimate than a solidly warm
handshake between good friends.’
“I
don’t know,’ says Yermey. “We marsupial males play coy. We do not dominate the
sexual scene nor do we wish to.”
Pyl
asks, “Do you feel sex is beneath your station?”
He
shrugs and answers, “We males are not that interested.”
“Then
why do you secretly wish me to be more intimate with you?” Pyl waits patiently
as Yermey searches through five hundred years of personal experience and
knowledge for one honest and heartfelt response to meet this immediate
greater-than-life circumstance.
***
