Watch for it on Amazon in the coming weeks, as I finish the final galley proofing process and green-light it for sale. This is Book Two in the Dead to Love series. I look forward to having any and all of you who are reading this update buy it!
Watch for it on Amazon in the coming weeks, as I finish the final galley proofing process and green-light it for sale. This is Book Two in the Dead to Love series. I look forward to having any and all of you who are reading this update buy it!
And, NO, it has nothing at all to do with Tolkien or The Hobbit, i.e. Thorin’s map. This is not “fan fiction,” or derivative in any fashion of The Hobbit. The moon-related runes in my book have a very different connotation and meaning, conceived in no Tolkien-esque mindset or “tribute” at all. That said, fans of Tolkien should enjoy my blend of fantasy and contemporary reality in this follow-up to my second novel, “Dead to Love,” wherein our heroine continues her escapades as a human/avenging-angel hybrid globetrotting Earth like a unicorn-riding Kali.
I hope you all enjoy this excerpt, which was taken out of the heart and marrow of my current 55,500 words so far:
California materialized before me with its ragged mountains and disappearing lakes like some kind of geographical belly dancer who wanted to seduce me, but who looked a bit worn down, causing me to think, Why don’t you sit down and have a rest? as I scanned its territorial curves and wrinkles for signs of familiar life. I felt the now-familiar madness making overtures at surging through me again like an adrenaline sweat. My homing beacon zeroed in on a place that had Fiona’s auric imprint, as well as Sebastian’s, though no Jimmy. How odd, thought I, she and the cretin were inseparable. I traced the auric imprint line back like Gretel counting breadcrumbs, and noted where Jimmy’s biophotonic force field had last left its mark. I swooped in close, read the terrain and scanned-and-filed important data points like the exact geophysical coordinates of, I figured, “Jimmy’s last stand”. Too bad, I mused. The apes must have got him. Goddamn good thing my daughter got away. I had to admit that I liked her better with Sebastian, though I can even now hear her saying, “Oh, gag me, mom.” I had even liked and approved of Jimmy until he made his second dive into Loserville. I had also seen that any further attempts to “sway” the boy were lost—pearls before swine, as they say. So, I turned my attention north once again, and “tracked” Fiona and Sebastian, with the principal aim of finding where my daughter’s own auric trail left off. I found it—not too far north of San Francisco (actually near Santa Rosa), the odd thing being that Sebastian’s trail continued for many miles north of there still. Going to take refuge at your father’s Nazi cabin in the woods, eh? I thought, lamenting the sad state of the Earth’s children yet again. I also lamented and even felt scorned by the fact that while we were joyously celebrating, the bastards were hunting down my children. Yes, I saw them all as my charges. After doing my requisite detective work, I saw that they had killed Jimmy, and attempted to kill Fiona, too, but she was “saved” by Sebastian, who was able to get her to safety after he had come across the two of them just in time. Somehow they were able to make it all the way to Santa Rosa before the devils snatched her up. God only knows how Sebastian survived—the kid has moxie, it must be. I swooped far and wide over where the children had ranged, witnessed the aftermath of Jimmy’s killing and felt truly saddened, for my daughter had truly loved him, I knew. I saw the men dumping his body, then turned and flew north once again, and passed the place where my daughter’s auric trail vanished. My sadness burned deep as I realized that Fiona had simply vanished from the Earth. What did they put her in, a lead box? I thought, confused as to how I couldn’t see anything, even in 5D trans-luminous biophotonic aspect. I followed Sebastian’s trail, and saw how crafty he had been to hide himself from the devils. But…it must have been that they just didn’t want him. He got lucky, that was it. I followed his trail all the way up the different highways and byways of Northern California, to the cabin at which his father reposed, on a lake called, “Citadel”. Why did they call it that? Is there a castle at the bottom of it, or beneath it? Probably. The poet Rimbaud had said, “There is a cathedral that descends, and a lake that rises”. Funny how true his words seemed that very moment, so far removed from the place of his pithy declaration—and how embodied by this place—when I flew up upon the location where Citadel Lake sat. I locked in on Florian’s signal, and soared across the pristine alpine waters on a flawless afternoon when Creation seemed to have been made just for me and my glowing sense of wonder at it, and saw the lonely cabin amongst a thick stand of pine trees where rugged cliffs bowed down to a lowing place where the land seemed to curtsy to the water.
I watched for a while the familiar figures I had once come to think of almost as a surrogate kind of son and father for that son—Sebastian sitting a bit forlorn out on the end of the somewhat old and frail-looking dock, and Florian somewhere inside, assuredly—and saw them, by turns, as random motes in Nature’s great mural painting, and near-hallucinations…until I went to them, in my natural, human form.
It was a genuine surprise for Florian, who almost fell over with shock when he saw me at his front door.
“What the—? I thought you were out…saving the world,” he said, with affection and shock mingling nervously in his voice, his eyes riveted upon me.
“May I come in?” I asked, gesturing inside.
“Oh, sure…or, we could take a walk out in the woods,” he quickly suggested.
“I’m kind of tired, or I would, Florian. Do you have anything cold to drink?”
“Sure, come in,” he said, with a kind of forced smile. What’s he hiding?
“All I have is cold beer right now. Lager. I could make some iced tea…” he offered.
“I’ll have a beer, that sounds good,” I replied, thirsty beyond all imagining, suddenly. “I’ll probably drink all your iced tea, and water, too.”
Florian laughed—again, a bit stiffly. Quietly, he got us two beers out of the fridge, popped the caps on them, and handed me one.
“Thanks,” I said. I took a huge quaff of the apparently locally-brewed lager. Not half bad, I thought, as it bubbled down my throat. “So, what’s going on with you, Florian?” I asked bluntly.
“With me? Ha. You run off to God-knows-where, are an absentee parent…my boy runs off after your neglected daughter, and now you show up here—shock of my life that it is—asking what’s up with me? You need a reality-check, lady!” he replied with real passion and hurt, just as bluntly. He stared at me unflinching with those pale blue eyes, just standing there, challenging me for a response.
“Yeah, I heard that’s what you thought of me. Fiona told me. So neglected is she, that –” was all I could get out before he jumped all over me again.
“Yeah, damn right she is. Do you even know that I took her in for a while, because she was…well, worse than a latch-key kid—she was abandoned, okay? Abandoned…”
“I did not abandon her.”
“Now wait a minute here, will you? I need to say this, miss destroyer-goddess-angel, whatever the hell you are now…that while you were out saving the world from the demon hordes, I was taking care of your daughter. I was there, as was Sebastian, while she sat there, night after night, pondering ‘Where’s Mom?’. Do you have a good answer for that, or is it going to be more of this self-justifying, sanctimonious business about…”
“About? Yes, Florian?” I inquired as he struggled to complete his thought.
“Nothing. Never you mind. I just…had to get that off my chest, Connie,” he said, demurring a bit from his initial furor. I really tried to understand his fury, I scanning his mental and emotional centers for more insight on the matter. I realized, to my horror, that he was right.
“You’re right, Florian. I did, in a sense abandon Fiona. And, it breaks my heart that I had to sacrifice all that time with her in order to be this…Shiva-like being, but…there it is. It had to be done. I want to make up for my absence and neglect of my home and Fiona. And, I want to thank you for what you did there…with her, I mean,” I said, standing up and going to him. I wanted to peer as deeply into him at that moment as I had Quarus recently, but this was a different creature. A…man. And one I had been quite intimate with in the past but now felt a gulf a million miles wide between us. I nevertheless put out my arms to embrace him, and he hesitated to return the gesture.
“What? I want to thank you, Florian, and –”
“Seduce me again,” he figured, brusquely, and erroneously, looking away, out the cabin windows into the trees and shaking his head a mote. “I can’t even believe you’re here talking to me right now. I thought you were gone…on the moon, or the other side of the galaxy, or…”
“The moon? Why do you ask that? I mean…why do you assume I would have gone there, of all places?” I asked him, my suspicion-antenna going up. How did he know they took her there? He stared at me for a long moment.
“Because…it was an obsession with you. The moon this, the moon that…” he trailed off, turning his back to me and sucking from his bottle.
“Yeah…but that was years ago, when I’d thought, wrongly, that they’d taken her to the moon—no, was deceived into thinking that was so. And yes, in the wake of that experience, I was a bit moon-obsessed, but it’s been a long time since I was,” I said, even though it was in recent days that my moon-obsession—or focus—had come roaring back with a vengeance.
I heard him scoff under his breath. “A bit.”
“Florian, what do you know about it?” I inquired.
He spun on his heel and looked at me in disbelief. “About what? The moon?”
“I know that at one point you’d thought they’d taken her there, but then that changed to the Queen of Death in her underworld castle, which all makes a good fairy tale, and now in the last year or so, you’ve been in and out—more out, actually—and really abandoned –”
“You,” I finished for him.
He laughed again and shook his head.
“Everything all right, Dad?” Sebastian’s voice came from the back door area. We both turned to look at him. Wow, he’s grown up so much, I thought.
“Yeah, buddy. We’re okay. Just…talking things over. I’ll be out and we can go fishing or rafting…whatever you like, as soon as…”
“Mrs. Girard, is that you?” Sebastian asked in a surprised manner, standing against the screen door, shielding his eyes from the sunlight to see me.
“Yes, Sebastian. How are you?” I asked. He looked utterly perplexed, and not necessarily happy to see me.
“Oh, I’ve…been better,” he replied, sounding glum.
“I know. I heard that you –”
“Why don’t we all go down to the dock, or take a walk or something?” Florian suddenly suggested. “It’s a beautiful day out. I love this late spring weather. We’ve got clouds rolling in dramatically, the sun shimmering on the lake…”
“It’s pretty out, for sure,” I agreed. “Looks like a storm coming, though.”
“Weather report app says we’ll have thunderstorms later,” Sebastian said, still standing with his nose against the screen door. The play of light was indeed unbelievably pretty: one of those days when intense sunlight contrasts with intense cloud activity to make a ten-mile high and wide living painting of earth and sky.
“Well, then, maybe rafting or fishing is out, then,” Florian advised.
“I feel like I’ve intruded. I’m sorry for –” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
“No, no, no. Please. Let us sit out on the porch and watch the storm roll in. I have a feeling there are some…great forces of change at work,” he said, referring to the storm and possibly my Shiva-like powers to alter the elements. We exchanged a knowing look with wry smiles on both our faces. We all sat down on wooden chairs with cushions on them, as Sebastian loped out slowly to join us. I could sense his mistrust and even fear of me.
“Do you know where Fiona is, Mrs. Girard?” Sebastian asked, after a long, uncomfortable moment.
I didn’t want to reveal that they had—allegedly—taken her to the moon, for two reasons. One, I knew they would think me crazy, as that had already “happened” and yet had not happened; two, I wanted to see what they knew, as being possibly part of the “bait” for the trap, or just being in close proximity to her—and it.
“I don’t, Sebastian.” I did not feel that this was a lie, as I actually did not truly know of her whereabouts. Just that Uhlfaad and the chiromancers had seen that she’d been taken to the moon. Everything was up in the air. All things were possible.
“Well, aren’t you supposed to be like, all-knowing and all-powerful now?” he asked, straight-faced and level-gazed. Touche, boy.
“Well, yes, when I am in certain aspects of beingness or consciousness. Right now, I’m just like you guys.”
This drew stifled scoffs from the two.
“Really? You’re just like us…right now,” Sebastian said skeptically, challenging me like I’d never known him to.
“Well, Sebastian, I change forms—from my ordinary, mortal 3D form, to fourth and fifth-dimensional states of being, and even beyond,” I informed him like a grade-school teacher informing a pupil on a lesson.
“Where’s your…unicorn?” he asked me. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
“Pranu has joined the Hypholon legions in the Great War against Gog, Magog, Moloch, Mammon, Leviathan and the rest of the Behemoths,” I replied.
Sebastian laughed a reflexive laugh of disbelief. “Hypholons? Wow, that’s…”
“Incredible,” Florian finished with a somewhat enchanted look on his face, as he polished off his beer. He got up and went inside to fetch another one. Mine was only halfway finished. I felt like Eichmann at Nuremburg.
“Incredible, yes. But true. Look, I didn’t come here to be interrogated, or interrogate you guys. I just came to see…”
“What?” Sebastian snapped. “If your daughter is here, with us? No, she’s not here… now that you care.” He said that last part under his breath.
“You listen to me, young man, I did not choose all this, okay? It chose me. I don’t know what watered-down, third-party version of the truth you’ve gotten, but I and my star-friends just made some moves recently that have likely secured you a future on this planet we all thought was about to be destroyed. So…you’re welcome,” I shot back. His face looked like a mask of his own face imploding upon hearing this.
“Alright, alright, alright,” I heard Florian say, as he came back out to join us. “Let’s not fight. A lot of things have gone down that maybe none of us necessarily caused, or wanted. And, a lot of good has been going on, too,” Florian said in a diplomatic stab at smoothing things over. He was sweaty again, and getting quite drunk. The way I felt, it seemed like a good idea. I knew the shit would continue to fly. I couldn’t stand my own sober-as-a-dental-office-waiting room mind at that point, and so downed the rest of my lager in a flash. The two men stared at me, their eyes big with wonder.
“So, can I get you another?” Florian asked.
“I’ll get it,” Sebastian volunteered, running inside.
“You probably couldn’t bring me enough sacred ferment at this point. You don’t know the things I’ve imbibed, the wines I’ve quaffed recently, the mind-altered states I’ve been in, Florian,” I stated frankly, level-gazing him.
“Oh? Been hitting the bottle a lot, have you?” he jabbed, playfully.
It was my turn to snigger.
“We’re talking cosmic celebration. Mead, heady concoctions, Iceland bonfire. Faeries. Wizards. Other adepts. Quarus, along with emissaries from all over the galaxy. You know, the usual,” I said, cheekily, laughing at my own joke.
“Here ya go,” Sebastian said, handing me another kind of beer in a brown bottle. I read the label: Shasta Brewing Company I.P.A. “If we go for a short hike we can see the summit.”
“Thanks. Good enough if from the goddess of the grain. Hey, you know there’s a lot of cosmic activity happening there at Shasta. Glad to be drinking in some of the mystery,” I said, taking a good swimming gulp. So this is what the sacred mountain tastes like, I thought, smiling. I can feel your great, sacred mount holding sway over the land.
“Oh, is there?” Florian asked. A distant rumble of thunder punctuated the question.
“Yep. Interdimensional battles. Forces of light versus dark. You know, there are beings that live inside the mountain, and who visit it by starship,” I stated, not really caring how they’d respond. Predictably, the response was mixed.
“Oh, come on, you guys. You were there, and saw the fairy lights, the reality of different dimensions. Surely, you heard Fiona talk about it. Eh, Sebastian?” He looked down at his shoes, and then out towards the coming storm, the wind now picking up. He sort of shook his head slowly.
“I don’t know what to believe,” he said.
“Well, I’m not here to make you believe any one thing over another—or, anything at all. I just want you to be aware that there are higher realities out there, and that they do affect us in ways we are not yet attuned to, normally.”
“And you are. Well…obviously you are. But, how did you get this way, Connie?” asked my former lover and neighbor.
“What do you mean?” I asked him, genuinely unsure.
“I mean…there you were all those years…a fairly meek, easygoing wife and mother with whom I enjoyed talking from time to time, and then…Boom! Almost overnight, you are stalking and killing demonic forces, your husband dies, you take your child out of school, and go on this crusade, which has gone on now for four years…”
“What’s your point, Florian? Did I choose for those demons to run my town? To inhabit my husband, the school principal, doctors, lawyers, judges, politicians? Even TV and film actors, so-called pop stars…even the county coroner? Priests? The pope himself? Probably millions, judging by our battles with them. Did I?”
“No, you didn’t, but –”
“But nothing. I finally found my strength. My center, my self-mastery, that’s all,” I said forcefully, taking a swig of my Shasta ale. More thunder in the distance—a bit closer. A flash of lightning. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…boom! Wind picking up melodramatically. My wrath stirring the stately trees, and even Sebastian’s longish fair hair now.
“Okay. Fine, Connie—you’re right, you didn’t choose it. But, you can choose how you react to it,” Florian said, to my extreme incredulity. My face must have gained ten new wrinkles upon his saying this.
“And, how did you react, all those times we were facing the demon hordes, huh? Out on the road, the Owens and Brooks farms…and when they chased us down at your place? You were furious, and wanted to kill them all, like a man possessed! Don’t dare try to say that you’ve somehow been more reasoning or rational in all this!” I nearly shrieked, standing up to my full height of five feet seven inches and looking this hypocrite in the balding, sweating face. “You are all thankful for my wrath—my work against the devils! Don’t tell me you aren’t grateful that my group’s work has allowed you to breathe cleaner air, drink purer water, and eat better food, thanks to liquidating the trolls of industry controlling the weather and food supply! Don’t tell me that you’re not grateful my efforts cleared them from Sheldon Vale, among many other locales, allowing Sebbers here to go to school in a more kid-friendly and generally fear-free and demon-free environment! My efforts saved many thousands of dying animals—birds, whales, dolphins, deer, moose, fish, bears…” I trailed off, losing my train of thought due to another flash of lightning and almost instantaneous crack of thunder.
“We better get inside,” Florian said in his crisis-be-damned, coolheaded alter-ego. “Come on,” he said, standing and motioning for us inside. I went automatically in and sat on a comfy leather chair. Sitting down, I looked around the place remembering it had been Florian’s Great Uncle’s. Strange things populated the walls of the place: weird, framed objects and symbols, paintings, pictures of strange animals—cryptids, I think they’re called—and other things I could not swerve my fascination from. As Florian shut windows against the arriving storm, I scanned the walls of this supposed-Nazi’s domicile. Photo after photo, image after image, I just got the sense that this was no Nazi—at least, no conventional Nazi I’d ever heard of or read about. And then, there it was—a likeness of a double-headed dragon, gold against a red background. I’d never seen anything like it.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the image.
“Oh, that. I don’t know…some secret society thing, I think. I’m going to make us some coffee. You want some, Connie? Connie?”
“I was lost in that picture. It seemed like whatever it was, it was made in or had come from some other place, realm, planet entirely. I looked closer. In small, block lettering lining the bottom of the framed image was the word: HERALD OF TARTARIA.
“Tartaria, now where do I know that name from? Is that like…the Tartars? Tatars? Of the old Steppes, Mongolia, and Siberia?” I asked to the room.
“I honestly don’t know, Connie. I think it could be,” said Florian, as he fiddled with the coffee maker, Sebastian diddled his smart phone in the other room, and the wind rattled the wooden panes and some wind chimes that made a mousy, tinkly little noise.
“Is that part of your ancestry?” I inquired.
“I have some Russian, on my father’s side,” he said.
“Well, much of Russia was old Tartary, I believe. The parts east of the Urals. Siberia, that area. Hmm,” I said, my eyes moving along the wall, which was like a private museum of occult knowledge. Dragons, unicorns—and a flying one!—and what looked like old pictures of indigenous peoples during celebrations and rituals. There were small, framed photographs of, presumably, Florian’s uncle at the Great Pyramids, Macchu Picchu, and the Great Wall of China with some woman. What did you know? And, what do you know that you are holding back, Florian?
I sat back down in the chair and tried to mentally project to where my baby now was…No, I hadn’t forgotten about her. I just…needed her to realize I can’t run and rescue her from every situation she gets herself into. And, if it were my fault she was kidnapped, well then…the demons would end up paying a higher price than they could ever possibly imagine. I knew she was powerful enough to keep them at bay—whoever or whatever they were. I saw in my psychic eye once again that she was being held somewhere, and was doing exactly that. I also saw that she was crying. And, calling out for me. It was sheer torture. I wanted to dash off to the moon, find Xolmot Xul, and crush his demon head, but somehow I knew it would be premature or hasty to do so. I didn’t understand just yet exactly why. The angel-catcher on Iapetus? Could they move it to the moon, or build one there? Is she bait for trapping me? Probably.
“Here you are,” said Florian, handing me a mug of joe, and giving me a strange look.
“What?” I asked him as I sipped the still-very-hot coffee.
“Nothing,” he said in a blasé way, watching me. What’s his game?
“It looks like your uncle wasn’t the typical Nazi,” I boldly broached. Florian’s weird look jumped a bit.
“He wasn’t a Nazi. They tried to get him and his ideas many times, but he always resisted. That’s why he died broken, alone, and discredited in this cabin,” Florian said tersely.
“Okay, I understand. I’m sorry for your loss. And, I’m sorry for assuming –”
“You do that a lot, you know,” he retorted, giving me a square, penetrating look. He quaffed his beer again as another crack of thunder and lightning struck not far away. I actually jumped a bit at it.
“I know. I’m working on it,” I said, in a conciliatory way. “I’m working on a lot of things.”
“Like what?” Sebastian queried from the kitchen. “Getting your daughter back? Do you even know what we went through?” Here we go.
“I do know, Sebastian. I know you love her. That she ran off after Jimmy. That you found them, helped get her out of there. I know they killed Jimmy, and you and she escaped and made it to Santa Rosa, before…something happened.”
“Yeah,” he replied after contemplating that, probably surprised I knew that much. “Something happened, alright. She told me you pissed them off so much, they tried to kill all of us! But, you know what? I found my own powers, Mrs. Girard. I outsmarted those stupid bastards. Fought them with my smarts. And won. But, she…just couldn’t…or wouldn’t…” he said, his voice breaking, and tears rushing to his eyes. Ashamed, he buried his face in his hands. I suddenly felt like an ass. I was so sick of wrath, I gazed down at my bottle of Shasta ferment, and fended off rage. I wanted us all to reason this situation out.
“Sebastian, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault, dear. I deeply, deeply appreciate what you did—and tried to do—for my daughter, but her course lay along a different path from yours. Can’t you see that? Yeah? You were very brave to go into that pit of vipers and help them out, but no one can really ‘save’ anyone…”
“Yeah, but…Fiona’s gone. Jimmy’s dead. They shot him down like a dog, tried to come after us, but…in that melee, I got us to a safe hiding place as they ran around like maniacs…I mean…why? I just don’t get why this world is so evil,” Sebastian recalled, struggling for answers, tears streaking his face. He began to shudder and convulse as raindrops began hitting the windows like surrogate tears of sympathy.
“Sebastian, it’ll be okay. You’ll be fine,” I kept telling him, as he sobbed. Florian walked over and rubbed his back and was trying to console him.
“Will I? I’m next, aren’t I?” Sebastian asked, in a torturous cry. My heart melted for him, but his loss being my loss as well, it was a shared grief.
“No, you’re not,” I said plainly.
“Because Constance here is going to protect us from the big bad wolves, son. Isn’t that right?” Florian remarked with what I thought was some sarcasm, but I couldn’t tell. He looked back at me with the barest smile on his face as he comforted Sebastian. The wind really picked up just then, and the storm, which was now fully upon us, began howling like some banshee desperate to get out of its cage.
“Wow, this is some storm!” Florian commented, as he and his son stood looking out at it.
“You two don’t believe me, do you?” I said frankly. Trees whipped in the yard, their limbs furious green arms trying to wave doom away.
“What?” Florian replied.
“I said, you two don’t really believe me—what I can do. Even though you’ve witnessed it many times. You have eyes but cannot see,” I said.
“I believe what you are but not how you are,” Florian quipped. I thought it a pithy remark, but still that of a contrarian skeptic.
“That’s rich. How am I, Florian?” I asked, as debris flew up in the front yard, and a deck chair was knocked over.
The two men looked over at me—nervously, in their own ways.
“Uh, Dad, I uh…I’m gonna get the canoe in the shed,” Sebastian said, and went to go outside. Rain had begun pelting the house in a sideways fury, the drops about quarter-sized.
“No, Sebastian, it’s alright. Let’s hold up for a minute and let the storm pass,” he counseled.
“It’s not going to pass,” I stated calmly, standing and looking out the front window at the raging tempest.
“What?” they asked in unison.
“It’s not going to pass until…” I was trying to tune into the storm itself, which seemed to have some message for me—for us.
“It’s not going to pass until what, Connie?”
“Do you believe in me? Do you believe in yourselves?” They looked at each other as if to say What the hell is she talking about?
“Yeah, we believe in you,” Florian said after a long pause. Sebastian grunted his assent.
“Okay, then. I am the way, the truth, and the life. And what I can do, so are you able to,” I declared spontaneously and assuredly. I then opened the front door with great effort against the wind, went out onto the porch in the howling gale that was now dropping huge hailstones and stared out across the tree tops where the blue sky had only shortly before quietly held puffy clouds aloft. It was now a violent, slate gray, with mottled whitish areas of stormy disruption. I held my hands out, palms outward, like I had at the Owens Farm, but this time had even more energy, wisdom, and informed power behind me, and almost instantly the wind, rain and hail that were blowing against the house rushed away from it, nearly pulling me over as it sucked away, creating a vacuum. I held firm, closed my eyes, and began repeating this mantra:
“I am the master of reality,
I am the master of the skies;
I have ultimate power –
I make the storm abate or rise.”
Saying this morphed from simply words into meaning which I could truly feel in every cell of my body. I said it twelve times, and palpably sensed it drawing away from us. I then said this:
“Storm, I control you; I bid your fury abate. I turn this tempest to light rain, and the sky to blue from gray slate.”
As I said this, continuing to hold my hands up, visualizing energy exiting my body through my psi-charged hands, within one minute the violent tempest that was threatening to blow the cabin off of its foundation, retreated back across the lake, the scene becoming exactly what I had invoked: a return to soft, warm blue sky with a few rain clouds. A few raindrops hit my cheek and arms as if to say, “As you command. We are guided by your hand.”
I looked up into the now placid sky now dropping pleasant raindrops straight down, smiled, and said, “There, that’s more like it,” and looked in the kitchen window where Florian and his son stood in rapt wonder. I made a gesture and shrugged, as if to say, That’s me. That’s my power. I picked up the overturned deck chair and sat down in it, looking out at the scene of tranquil summer beauty before me. Shortly following, Florian and Sebastian joined me out on the porch.
“Looks like you can go rafting now,” I said, smiling. I can do anything.
“Yeah,” Florian said, with a mix of anxiety and impressed wonder.
“So, can you use that power to get Fiona back from the bad guys?” Sebastian asked, breaking the tranquility with his hoarse baritone.
“Yes, I plan to, Sebastian,” I replied, looking square at him. He looked away, out onto the now becalmed lake which now reflected shimmering sunlight.
“Good. Hey Dad, I’ll get the canoe.”
“You go ahead, son. Why don’t you head out by yourself this time around? I’ll go with you later. I think Connie and I have some things to discuss, okay?”
“Sure, Dad,” Sebastian said, with some disappointment, but also understanding.
We watched the tall, somewhat gangly young man retrieve the canoe and take it down to the water. The weather had turned positively Edenic.
“So…” Florian said.
“So,” I replied. We gave each other a deep, knowing look.
“I don’t think you know what you did to me, Connie. You shook me up, turned me upside-down…” he added.
“Well…I am sorry about that, but you have no idea what I was doing, do you? Well, you may have some idea, but you really don’t know what I have been called to do here on Earth. I mean, I’m sorry that it was to the detriment of you and Fiona, but—she has the same powers, did you know that?”
Florian sort of winced and took a deep breath. “No, I didn’t. I knew she was some kind of special being, but no, I didn’t know that, Connie.”
“Yep, she’s a chip off the old block, I’ll say. Soon she’ll be just like mom—chopping demon heads off and returning light and hope to the world,” I said, to a somewhat skeptical countenance from my opposite.
“Say, do you have any wine? Honey wine in particular?” I said, changing subjects.
“No, I don’t. We’ll have to go down to Miller’s Country Store. Hey, I thought you…never mind,” said Florian.
“What? That I what?”
“Nothing, really,” he said, giving me a weird look, then averting his eyes.
“That I, as an avenging angel of higher-dimensional…abilities wasn’t allowed to drink? To get drunk? I told you how it is. I have my 3D form still intact, and can raise my vibration to higher levels that transcend mortal flesh…”
“Right. Right,” he said, a bit nervously. Or, as if he didn’t quite believe it still. I guess binding demons, stopping bullets and quelling storms hasn’t been enough for him. “I’ll uh…go run and get us some wine, Connie,” Florian said in a stentorian burst, fiddling for car keys in his shorts. “Honey wine, did you say?”
“It’s called mead, but yeah. If they have it. They probably won’t. If not, just get a few bottles of whatever,” I instructed him, my head thrilled by thoughts of all those bees, all that pollen, all those bottles of fermented bee juice.
“Will do. Don’t go anywhere,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye, then disappeared out the door.
I spent the time he was away having a look around the place. If he had anything to hide, he certainly wouldn’t have left me there in the cabin alone. Stacks of papers, some very yellowed, were crammed in piles into bookshelves along with the many titles that the old man had stuffed in alongside the manuscripts, documents, and other papers. Sifting through unashamedly, I discerned that he had been some kind of member of a secret order. Multiple orders, evidently. It was a fascinating collective sheaf of telling and very esoteric, occult documents talking about “degree-rendition requirements for membership applicants,” “development of undetectable substances or messages for mass manipulation” along with a hundred other mind-blowing things which mostly confirmed my long-held suspicions about secret control-mechanisms and “committees” in the world, but also gave birth to new ones. There was a letter apparently written to “Hans” regarding Nazi UFOs in Antarctica and the Hollow Earth entrances at the poles. Sifting through those rustic shelves holding god-only-knows-what secrets, I found a book called “The Kensington Runestone” about the famous stone tablet that apparently was like the notebook or shopping list of a 13th Century Viking, only it was found in Kensington, Minnesota. It was a small gray book which I immediately grabbed up and began flipping through fascinatedly. It seemed to leap from the cosmic library right into my hands, pre-ordained. My eyes roamed the runic glyphs, parsing their archaic idea-forms, and intuiting their meaning. I held the book in my hands as I continued perusing Hans’ (now Florian’s) shelves. I poured through sheaves, books, folders and files like the cosmic detective I was. Then, I pulled out a wrinkled manila folder with “Maria” scrawled on the front of it. I began pulling out letters apparently sent to Hans from “Maria”. Then, a picture fell out into my hands of Maria Osric of the Vril Society, with writing on the back, apparently in her hand, saying, “My dearest Hans, If we cannot be together at the research station or in Berlin, we will be together in some other time and place. Perhaps another life?” Who was this man who refused the Nazi’s attempts to get a hold of his work as a chemist, and who was a member of secret orders, and came to this remote place in a Northern California forest to live out his years?
I was staring at the picture of the beautiful Maria Osric when I heard Florian’s car hitting the gravel driveway. I tossed the picture back in the manila envelope in which I found it, and kicked back relaxedly in the leather chair, the book on the runestone on my stomach. I closed my eyes, visualizing an image of my life being in perfect peace, and once again what exactly “moonfrost runes” might be. The bones of the damned letter the words and names. I also tried to picture what Florian’s country store looked like, and how often he visited it.
“Yeah, they didn’t have much. Didn’t have any mead, but I did get us some…other offerings,” said the tall blond man in the khaki shorts who intermittently captured my fancy.
“Ooh,” I said, as he unbagged the various bottles and placed them on the counter. “What did you get?”
“Let’s see—another six pack of IPA, a bottle of Napa Chardonnay, a red blend called Happy Hills, and a bottle of one of my favorites…” he said, holding up a bottle of Jagermeister. I rarely engaged in hard alcohol, but something inside of me burned bibulously like I’d never known. I could, also, with my powers, either increase or eliminate altogether the effects of alcohol. I think I had tapped into a mainline leading to the god of alcohol’s frenzied splendor.
“Oh, I also got a bottle of tequila,” he added.
“What, are you planning a party?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he replied with a smirk. Just then, Sebastian hit the door, sort of nodded his head at us without saying anything, and made his way into a back room. I turned my attention back to the Teutonic man who’d procured us the party favors.
“A party of two, then?” I said, trying some softness and charm. Our eyes locked like eagles in a mating spiral, as Florian busted the cap on one of the screw-top bottles. Holding my gaze, he took a pull off of the Jagermeister then offered it to me.
“Trying to get me drunk, monsieur?”
“Hey Dad, you should see this!” Sebastian hollered from the back room.
“What is it?” he barked back.
“This video. A huge hole opened up in the earth and it’s swallowing cars and people…and spitting out oil and purple fire. And…a sort of…river of slimy garbage or something,” he replied.
“Wow, that’s something. Lots of that kind of thing happening right now in the world, son,” Florian said, taking another healthy swig.
“I know, but…not like this,” Sebastian answered.
“Alright, I’ll come take a look,” Florian replied, walking to the back room of the cabin. “Ooh, my God! Wow, that’s awful. Those poor people. Where is this?” he said, disgust, pity, and astonishment commingled in his voice. I ambled back there to check it out as well.
“The video title is ‘Giant Hole Swallows Cars and Spits Slime in China’,” Sebastian said with a chortle of disbelief. “I guess there are more of these slime holes cropping up around the world,” he added somberly.
We all sat or stood there and watched a few related videos to that one that blew our minds. Indeed, it was the worst of the “World Going to Hell” series or style of videos I’d seen on ViewTube in recent years, when I had time to tune in. The hole grew and grew, and little by little swallowed up the outskirts of some small town in central China with a thousand-foot wide sinkhole that spewed back up rivers of slimy gunk. I got the impression that Mother Earth had had enough of being spat on and shat into, and was giving it all back to us, here and there, in larger and smaller doses. Each day, for me, the world (humanity) was redefining insanity. You were never able to say, “Now I’ve seen it all,” because the very next day you would see more that would floor you and reinforce the belief that Earth humans were the most depraved, victimized, ridiculous, and sadomasochistic species of sentient life in the Universe. Sure, they—or, we—could also be quite heroic, lofty, and supremely wise, but those stories or instances seemed to be having diminishing returns of late. I need a big drink. I could quaff a Citadel Lake full of heady wine right now; a true wine of ruddy strength! Then I’d really be ready for the moon demons…
“I’m getting a big glass of wine,” I announced, and went out to the kitchen. Not even wanting to bother with uncorking, I grabbed the one with the screw-top, cracked and unscrewed it, then looked through Florian’s cupboards for a wine glass. After finding one, I poured a large glassful of the “Jackrabbit Vineyards Red Blend,” then turned to look out the kitchen window at the lake.
I nearly dropped my wine glass.
There was Pranu, peacefully grazing in the front yard. Oh, my beautiful one. My animal soul-friend, how was your war? I guess it went well and this is good news, for you are alive…Of course you are!
I went to the back room to tell the guys, and they were enraptured in some ViewTube vid about “Scary Prophecies” or something.
“Hey, Pranu is back,” I said. Either of them hardly batted an eye. I got a monosyllabic grunt of recognition out of Florian as Sebastian oohed and ahhed over the crazy shit being said and illustrated in the video.
“Hello? My Unicorn is back, did you hear me? He’s standing on the front lawn. I think I’ll go for a ride.” This time Florian just said “Oh,” and Sebastian threw me an odd, bothered look. “Do you want to ride my Unicorn?” I asked, however implausible or irrational the scenario, to amused looks exchanged between them and thrown back at me.
“Sure,” Florian said, with a wink. “But, should you be riding a Unicorn in your…condition?” His wry smirk rising…
“Me? I’m just fine. Perfect. I could ride that thing to Alpha Centauri right now.”
More curious silence.
“Okay, you guys…just watch your boob tube videos all day, blah blah blah, whatever…” I do admit I was getting quite tipsy, carrying the wine bottle around with me and taking healthy swigs off of it as I went into “gobbledygook land” as Alf used to call it in my heavier drinking days. At the time, I am quite sure my wine-soaked rantings made perfect sense. To me.
I went back out into the kitchen and set the bottle down on the island in the kitchen. I still had the book on the Kensington Runestone in my hand, and flipped it open and began pouring over the images in it once again. Moonstone, runestone, are these the runes of moonfrost, lo? I thought, gazing back out upon Pranu, who warmed me so deeply, the fact that he’d sought me out again—I knew he would, but the simple fact of it is what amazed me so. I imaged what his rune would be. Simple—a four-legged sigil with wings. I watched that imagined glyph take flight from the pages of the book and ascend into the sky. A raven just then came soaring in over the pine trees right on cue.
I walked out to him, wine glass in hand, and petted and stroked his soft, silken fur. He turned his head lovingly towards me, and seemed to impart in a few tiny gestures the gravity of his recent battles. I just kept stroking him lovingly, twining my fingers in his silken mane, and sipping the blended ferment—the blood of the vine. I could swear a moment later I heard him speak to me telepathically:
Take me for a ride, and we’ll stem the demon tide together, again.
Yes, I no longer required him for the “zephyr ride” as I called it. It was two friends coming together again in essence, not necessity. So, I dropped the wine glass in the grass, had Pranu bow down, mounted him, and said, “Okay, let’s go. Take me to where the healing sword in hand must go.”
****Notice to unscrupulous readers: This communication contains content which is intellectually copyrighted material. Any unauthorized reproduction or usage of such material is expressly prohibited, and will result in the exercise of author’s rights under copyright law and UCC provisions guarding copyrighted content/intellectual property, and action may likely be taken against any violators of said provisions.
This essay will serve to posit to the reader, and hopefully a majority collective of liberated thinkers, that there are clear, pragmatic, practicable steps that an individual, a society or societies, and even world entire, may take to free themselves from the fetters of fascism, the tethers of tyranny, whether real or self-imposed, and which are based on inherent law, or common law, and established socio-political and even religious tenets and codes which provide a set of maxims or axioms that are, ipso facto, proof of the already-liberated man, woman, child, and humankind itself, and which can be accessed, utilized, and supplemented by the individual’s own research and establishment of a personal version of such tractates, laws, tenets, etc.
I will outlay a methodology of personal and societal liberation from so-called Draconian and fascist laws, codes, and other usurpations and subversion of the human spirit, and human rights as codified, commonly-accepted codes of conduct and laws of the land. I will include in this essay examples of codified, established human rights documents, case law examples, moral and religious tenets and codes, along with a personal viewpoint or philosophy regarding social, legal, and moral codes which help us keep a sense of “law and order,” but also keep us free from egregious assaults upon individual and societal liberties.
It should also be stated that the word “anarchy” (particularly related to its use herewith) merely denotes a social or political condition of being “absent of a ruling body,” or more specifically, according to the Oxford Dictionary, “absence of government and absolute freedom of the individual, regarded as a political ideal,” i.e. self-governing. As a political philosophy more accurately worded as anarchism, it advocates a very reasoned embrace of self-governing, anti-authoritarian societies made up of voluntary institutions, helmed by ultimately self-responsible beings. And who could not regard this as a “political ideal” in light of decades of fleecing, deception, enslavement of and outright genocide being perpetrated upon mankind? We are already living in a state of anarchy – -the “lawlessness, disorder, and chaos” (as anarchy is defined by other authoritative sources) practiced by the out-of-control, murderous junta that directs entire armies to kill; or, one could say, an international, predatory military-corporate caliphate which seems hell-bent upon total destruction of Earth’s people and resources entire, and which sits in the highest seats of political power in the world today – namely, in the G-7 and G-20 nations.
Our collective survival as a species absolutely depends upon all of us employing the methodology of pragmatic anarchy as a very viable social and political philosophy, in order to kill the vicious parasites who are killing us en masse in countless, obvious (as well as not-so-obvious) ways.
May humanity live long and be free to become itself, which is a liberated, dancing, dreaming, innovating, inventive species unhindered by despots who parade as our leaders but who constantly plot the extinction of not only human beings, but life as a whole upon Earth.
Part One: On The Human Being Becoming Him-Her-Itself
The belief in human freedom is exactly that (in the mass consciousness) – a belief, not yet a reality, for all of its representation in history and mass media as being a fait accompli and being taken for granted by society at large in the so-called democratic, developed lands or nations. The hedge upon the general bet or delusion that we are in fact, free, is the greatest impediment to an existentialist-ontological rebellion within the collective and individual human psyche and spirit, and must be obviated at once, if we are to survive the next generation as a species.
Let’s begin our delving into current-day political philosophy with a word lesson.
It should be a well-understood fact by all who live under any national flag anywhere that the word “government” literally means “mind control”. This is not “conspiracy theorist” conjecture, but an etymological verity. Broken into its constituent syllabic etymology, “to govern” is to control, and –ment comes from the root word mental – specifically from the Latin mens, meaning “mind, understanding, reason” – i.e. to control the mind, understanding, and reason. So, we can deduce from this etymological fact that anything anti-government is saying NO to mind control and the systematic control as well of reason and understanding. As the song says, “We don’t need no education. We don’t need no thought control”. All we need is for the obfuscations of truth, information, reason, understanding and the means to true mindfulness to be removed, and we can obviate draconian government (mind control) in a pragmatically-anarchistic way.
To me, this is one of the first (political) steps to enlightenment and liberation for anyone living under government control today. Aside from the political, there are the religious, educational, institutional, bureaucratic, social, spiritual, intellectual, and even physical areas of liberation. But if we are to see the taking of the political first steps all the way through before moving to the next steps, I would follow up the liberation of the mind through word meaning with the recission of one’s self from any government or bureaucratic “benefits, services and privileges” of licensing, registration, or any other way that an individual hands over their free and unfettered rights and property to the state and even foreign banking and bureaucratic interests who rule the United States of America and other states via subversive means like corporate holdings of the Federal Reserve. Other agencies to completely rescind one’s self from are the IRS, DMV, and anything involving the courts or banks, which are one and the same. This includes marriage license and registry, child registry through the legal trust account involving a “certificate of live birth” which they use to hypothecate the debt you will owe them over the course of a lifetime as their putative slave, or chattel.
If some of this is going over your head, then I would suggest doing some creative web searches on the aforementioned topics which you are unenlightened on; if you are nodding your head along with me, then obviously you are at least aware of this stuff, or have even done something like rescind from any ABC agency’s “benefits, services, and privileges” (which amount to nothing more than handing your power, property, and sovereignty over to some bureaucratic or pseudo-bureaucratic agency via (improperly-disclosed or non-disclosed) contract with them as a benefactor of their nanny-state “benefits”). You may begin your return to self-recognizant reserving of true rights over privileges by stating something in writing to any of such agencies as, “I did not understand at the time that I unwittingly contracted with you that I was giving up my inherent rights for your so-called program of benefits and services. I did not have proper disclosure from your agency that I would be handing over my sovereign rights in favor of your doling-out of “privileges,” which are nothing more than thievery which I have unwittingly consented to. I wish at this time to rescind from your system permanently, as I no longer wish to receive your questionable and confiscatory “benefits and services,” instead choosing a path of total sovereignty and self-responsibility which requires no agency oversight whatsoever”.
This language is but one example of many ways in many occurrences or interactions whereby one may take the “reasoned steps towards human liberation” mentioned in the title of this essay. The first step is to know what agencies to rescind from, followed by how to state your recission from their bogus programs of “benefits”. Control of knowledge equals control of reason and understanding, and this is the biggest way they control the masses, leaving us believing lies in every part of life and human action. In fact, such control or outright obscuration of human reason and understanding almost completely obviates human action, giving them their quotidian fait accompli perpetrated upon the whole of humanity as one of Hannah Arendt’s banalities of evil. It is so pervasive and invisible that one cannot even see it without knowing what it is, what to look for, and even how to look for it. This is the illuminati’s or new world order’s “mission accomplished,” some of the effects of which are the ridicule of those who do discover the truth and seek to liberate themselves and others; the policing by one human being of another, even when friends, neighbors, associates, or even spouses and other family members. Their uniformed, murderous gestapo hit-squads are just the icing on their cake of tyrannical control, for if the other modalities of human control fail, and one of the sheep breaks free of its enclosure, they can now just cut you down in a hail of bullets in a summary, de facto execution. They are criminals. Murderers, plain and simple.
So, we have a moral and ethical, as well as personal and spiritual obligation to counteract, contradict, and combat this system in whatever ways we can. We have a moral, ethical, and even civic obligation to disregard and disobey the “laws” made by these globally-syndicated madmen and criminals. And make no mistake – these are indeed certifiable madmen and criminals at the collective helm of world power, who consider anyone not in those positions of elite power to be “groundlings,” sheep, cattle, and expendable slaves which they can use and throw away for any purpose they can and will sacrifice us for. Forget any noble, patriotic notions of “fighting for freedom” and justice, or whatever excrement their jingoistic propaganda machine has fed you on. If you go to war, it is only to fight for their freedom to continue to exploit and sacrifice YOU, the aforementioned cattle – there is simply no evidence to support any argument against this absolute verity. Saying “No, I will not fight,” and “No, I will not pay taxes and feed your draconian system of barbarity,” and refusing assent or consent to their specious war machine via the tactics espoused by Gandhi, i.e. non-violent non-cooperation should be the personal and political manifesto of each and every conscientious, clear-thinking, reasoning individual in not only the developed world, but also the world entire. And once we are all leading by example, the rest who have been living their so-called lives in a state of drowsy, brainwashed stupor believing everything they are spoon-fed, will have their own epiphanies and enlightenment, and awake to the higher cause and greater reason for their lives, which surely must rise above the station of being cannon fodder or meat for their Satanic grist mill. The curtain of tyranny will finally, ineluctably be torn down, never again to be hung up by the power-mad artificers.
As a pragmatic anarchist, one needn’t kill anything or anyone – just one’s dependency on government, religion, mainstream media and medicine, and other outmoded institutionalized absurdity which can never ipso facto have your upliftment or enlightenment as part of its cruelly avaricious aims or ends. You need only throw Molotov cocktails of the mind at such entities and organized enslavement which have lorded false power and authority over the all-too gullible human race and called it “leadership”. One need only graffiti the storefronts of the representative institutions which exist in the mind to lull the unwitting into lives of maligned, abject folly via false and poisonous belief systems and doctored truth and history. One need merely embrace the ironic or juxtapositional ironies or dichotomies of positive negativity and what we could conceive of as “good and needed deaths”.
Let us consider for a moment all of the ways by which we arrive at perspective, assumption, and human wisdom.
All of human endeavor is falsehood found out (whether nixed or believed-in), assumption thwarted or carried forth, immaturity embraced or discounted, and wisdom denied or tenanted – if all goes well. But, what is well in a world which is insensible, irrational, and collectively mad?
I have a glowing image, or vision, alive within me now. It is of a belfry, its windows aglow with a sickly though persistent light. It is a belfry in the tower of Man, which is a pale mimic to a belfry in the tower of God. I see writing on an otherwise blank wall as my mind’s eye passes through the windows of this belfry, spying inside. The writing says:
Nature vs. (written in a black mold stain on the wall)
Each phrase reinforcing the next and former, in an inexorably circular, cyclical whirl of confrontational conflict and tautological certitude, so fixed and centrifugal that we become dizzy, perhaps nauseous, in the existential sense, and we must look back out the window for a delicate tree branch with a spring finch or songbird upon it to regain our senses – Nature, in the end, being our only conceivable master and solace in that dizzying whorl.
From this belfry emanates a pale, cool blue light (which sometimes flashes bitter red, then flips back to its steadier, more operant blue), atop a tower as white as bone or newly-scrubbed tomb, or deep winter snow, and as solitary and distinct from the surrounding natural environs it inhabits as a craft from outer space would be. But it is strangely alluring and familiar, this tower of solitude with its palely-lit belfry hiding its graffiti-scrawled wall within – it is warm, inviting, a sentry and haven for human perception and insecurity. It is not, seemingly, gaudy or irrational (on first glance); neither is it, similarly, a rude and differentiated outgrowth of the land which it occupies. It is a distinct and separate expression upon a chthonian stage that complements it only in so far as it holds it up from collapsing and plummeting into the void. It is, we can say, an anomaly of the first order.
And this is Man’s lot and nature in regards to the particular planet, home, orb, sphere on which he resides: to be anomalous, distinct and separate from Nature per se, and decidedly not of, from, or for his blue-green promenade of endless abundance and refulgent surroundings. There is here an air of mystery to the light which radiates from atop this tower of Man’s, but he is not an oracle. This is the stray, wandering elder child, lost in the wilderness of a fickle and far-flung, non-verbal Creation. He is that which seeks, not that which is sought. He is the endlessly traversing pilgrim, never truly arriving, and propounding a very dubious “progress”. He is the end result of a concatenation of forces which have coalesced to create him, either by deliberate design, or, more likely, by eons of trial and error, and biological and experiential addition and subtraction – or, one may say, subduction. He is a symphony composed and conducted by the mad, wild, and even chaste daimonic urges and passions which exist in his mettle and fold. Many hands have been in this pie, one suspects, with ample evidence in the anthropological and metaphysical realms to support the contention. He is a soufflé, long in the oven, billowing and spilling over the top of his pan, perturbed by the frictional forces of gravity, and his false sense of proportion and measure, intrinsic make-up, and elements of unnatural, non-conformist valuation. He is vigor and protest, dominance and subservience; here is all that can be found flowering or floundering in Nature – outside the gates of Eden. He carries it all on his back – his, her, its, man, woman, child, masked, unmasked, created, conjectured, caricatured, creatured, castrated, allured, inured, redeemed, forsaken, fellaheen, verbose, vulgar, noble, heroic, and insensate – and like Sisyphus, bounds in repetitive ritual at his eternal labors.
Valor and treason also haunt this belfry in a kind of antithetical dance – as do all the other forever-married opposites of this duality of uncanny savagery. There is also music; at first serene, like a cygnet taken to first spring waters. Soft and subtle it comes to us, then which builds in tension and contrapuntal dynamism, dotted by accents which are by turns graceful, scornful, insightful, noisome, building then to a straining, boisterous, troubling, and explosive crescendo that, in the realm of music, perhaps only Beethoven has adequately captured. Some poets and painters have truly captured it; some architects; a few novelists, and perhaps only one or two philosophers have heard its lines and rendered or reproduced it. A few madmen (or women) in the streets, besotted to the bone marrow have expressed it (though in far cruder but maybe more realistic terms) – but ultimately the music of the belfry is inexpressible, in that it cannot be properly transmitted to and transplanted into the soil of its surrounding environs; its non-existent garden (or, shall we say Eden?) of “ideal development”. It was, likely, not meant to take root but in our souls, which are eternal and ethereal in substance, and which are expressed in the emotional-physical-intellectual bodies as a modus operandi of metaphysical and abstruse means and influence. Indeed, here is evoked Man’s “fallenness”; here is his ineluctable and unmendable fallacy; here is the tomorrow that at once is ever-promised, arriving, yet which never comes.
The central image of this belfry has been expressed throughout the ages accurately in the arts: it is the “ivory tower” of pejorative lore, and a frequent haven for the pragmatic-anarchistic type; it is the lighthouse guardian against rocky, unforgiving shores; it is the outpost on the utterly stupefying way, bereft of companionable answers or complementary or sympathetic characters along his cold journey. It is the tower with the light on in its topmost windows which is a hushed outcry of both loneliness and indifference. Is he to be pitied, shunned, aided, admired, or simply ignored? Does his fragile light draw like ones from across the Universe to his aid or commiseration, or is it the warning beam of a cautionary tale? Is it the simple glow of a “home fire burning” that acts as perennial sentinel to other travelers, or is it the heat and light generated by an aberration, a kind of Frankenstein-esque monstrosity which was (unwittingly or not) unleashed on an otherwise (mostly) innocent cosmos? Was he the product of a great corruption of that mostly, or ostensibly innocent cosmos, rather? Is he the ignorant stepchild of perpetually-warring factions of good and evil – they themselves the product of a Creator of dualities set forth toward a Hegelian conflict-synthesis construct – who spawned a primate race which has been the ages-long testing ground and Petri dish for some mad, gross, existential experiment? Or, is he simply the lost offspring of uncaring progenitors, having proffered this tower and belfry of abject aloneness, wherein he scratches out the preternaturally solitary rhythms of a specious scion who is subconsciously tapping out an SOS to a void he cannot or will not comprehend, to idols of artifice he cannot conceive or fathom?
No other creature on Earth celebrates the irrational and unfathomable (as well as unspeakable) with such hopeless zeal the way Man does. He cannot even collectively see the petulant, immature beast he is, enough to envisage a cure and catharsis for/from such colossal, insensate savagery as is indicative of the record and character of mankind. Poets, playwrights, painters, scientists, inventors, and even a few statesmen (Marcus Aurelius, King Solomon, and King Arthur come to mind, but there are surely more on this short list) have attempted to put their fingers on it, put their paintbrushes and pens to it in categorically anarchistic and pragmatic fashion, but, remember – this is, at last, “a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” as the Bard of Avon said (more recent provenance showing it to actually be the work of Sir Francis Bacon, but that is another essay entirely). So, it might be asked, what is this “idiot” doing flailing about in his flatulent sea of nothingness (and thing-ness), surrounded by verdant, lush expressions of “something-ness” (in that its tautological imprimatur has meaning, purpose, life, and fulfilling endeavor)? Even tavern owners and cow-milkers have attempted to grasp it (no offense to the great tavern owners and cow-milkers – I could have said ditch-diggers and manure-carters).
In the last century, some quite anti-establishment, and “pragmatic anarchist”-type film directors and other artists have tackled the subject to moving effect – Kubrick, Tarkovsky, and Malle are the first few directors that come to my mind – and have given us as humans, beyond being mere filmgoers, a mite more than just negligibly-satisfactory exegeses on this, our eternal and most persistent conundrum of “Who Are We?” Specifically, Kubrick, in 2001: A Space Odyssey perhaps came closest to successfully penetrating and explicating the seemingly insurmountable mystery and even symbolism of human existence and destiny. When we hear those grand, plaintive notes of Also Sprach Zarathustra by Strauss, combined with those otherworldly images of man first discovering outer space, we feel the pith, grandeur, and momentousness of it in our synapses and DNA, if we are so attuned. Even the ignorant must feel something when beholding a piece of art such as 2001. Louis Malle in Black Moon (1975) hit upon it in a much more Earthly, pastoral setting, though utilizing symbolism regarding the human condition, to more muted effect. Andrei Tarkovsky in the films Stalker and Nostalghia show us slow ballets of Man vs. God and Nature which show unequivocally that we are far out of naturalistic alignment and are in existential danger because of it. All of his films are remarkable to an extraordinary degree. And, I cannot leave out Alejandro Jodorowsky and his body of anarchic, surrealist cinematic poetry; he continues to make films better than most all living and dead directors at age 86, evidenced in particular by films such as The Holy Mountain (1973), and, astoundingly, the unmade film of Dune he attempted in the 1970s, and which now has attained its own mythic status as something which would have been psychedelic, anarchic and phenomenological where concerns man’s outward, cosmic questing to a great degree. Other film directors who embody this kind of pragmatic-anarchistic métier for me include Gus Van Sant, Lars von Trier, and perhaps Chantal Akerman, all of whom seem to me “on point” germane to this study of the human condition, character, and mystery. Chantal Akerman may be the only film director searching for meaning in this regard – but only where women and the female character are solely concerned. Her camera asks, “What are women doing?” or “What are women to do?” as well as, “What is a woman?” better than any other. Jeanne Dielman, made in the mid-1970s at the height of second-wave feminism, is a “stab in the light” rather than a “shot in the dark” at what the answers to these questions might be, and the results are shocking-to-the-core of what we think of as acceptable or respectable ideas of class, lifestyle, values, social norms, etc., as the film lulls and hypnotizes us via a very bourgeois-appearing protagonist who goes about her daily, mundane business with all the joie de vivre of a postman ready for retirement. Man (or, Woman) is not at all what He (She) appears to be, says the film. S/he is a wildly rebellious flower of thorny tendrils and veiling petals, in the final analysis. His/Her belfry (and they are as separate as individual sexes as Man himself is from Nature – the feminists could rightly argue that Woman is interchangeable or synonymous with Nature, accounting for the insurmountable gulf betwixt the sexes) radiates an unknowable light that surges and dims, blinds and yet provides elucidation, but never indicates a pattern germane with or at home in Nature. I maintain that it is less our collective, conscious will that this be so, than it is the aforementioned innate, a priori corruption (aka original sin) – either in the cosmos or himself, or both – which has caused him to become so askance and astray from that which would term him/her morally innocent (him more than her, though we do have our Catherine the Greats, Elizabeth Bathorys, Lizzy Bordens, Margaret Thatchers and Hillary Clintons, too). Man has been, I contend, both created and led astray by the same demiurgic, demagogic forces which formed and laid him on this earthen ground like the out-of-place, weirdly-glowing tower that he is. One can discuss Satanic and Luciferian conspiracies and “abandonment by a deaf, uncaring God” all day long, but after the debate, will he be end up being his own rescuer, or will he end piping his lonely tune in the weirdly-lit belfry of his tower for an inconceivable eternity of “long-suffering night”? Let us hope he awakes to his pragmatic-anarchic compulsion and finds (we find our) rescue and redemption before his/our home planet is completely poisoned, denuded, destroyed, and made void of life; not one more plant, animal, woman, child, innocent suffering or perishing needlessly and unnaturally, due to his or other, darker forces’ unabashed, unashamed ignorance and arrogant skullduggery and folly.
So, in art, the force of pragmatic anarchy is a return, inevitably, to a naturalism which man has lost. It is the profound search for meanings, gestures, symbols, and expressions of man returning to Nature.
I name films of these renowned directors – as well as the medium of film in general – because it appears to be our most pragmatic-anarchic art form, in the right hands. It is a potent outlet for spellcasting upon the human heart and imagination, it being the most highly-visual medium. Humans learn and are moved primarily via visual mediums; this is why TV has been so grotesquely effective in shaping the human mind of the last sixty years, or so. Film, however, makes the leap into the mythical unlike its counterpart-in-a-box, which exudes a certain sense of limitation and novelty, however popular and effective a propaganda tool it has been.
But, why are we still so afraid of the word “anarchy,” given now what we know about its etymological reality and potency? Knowing that the word can be translated to mean ‘self-governing,” shouldn’t it then be the rallying cry of all who seek freedom, truth, and justice, and who seek to abolish the runaway junta of globalist agendas of “governance” and “law and order” which are hostile to life? I say that it must be, if we are to survive as a species. We must take rational, reasoned steps to become self-governing, self-responsible people and societies should we wish to see our grandchildren – at all.
But it is other art forms which have celebrated or expressed the pragmatic-anarchic urge – dancers, such as Nijinski and Isadora Duncan have expressed it and lived it; Buckminster Fuller and Frank Lloyd Wright broke us out of a utilitarian hell of cookie-cutter sameness and short-sighted monotony in the realm of architecture; even now quantum physicists and other scientists are helping expand humanity’s urge to self-govern, by allowing the light of higher knowledge to break through the curtain of false beliefs and misinformation. I say that the revolution of pragmatic anarchy which must sweep the world and enlighten every mind and life must take place in all areas of life: social, political, scientific, the arts, religious and spiritual, medical, legal, educational, financial, and in the workplace – where we would again see the rise of labor unions and the empowered worker, earning living wages at the bare minimum. And to say this last is to say we as a species which is in its entirety on the “endangered species list” must take control of all these areas with full individualistic oversight and input in them. no longer will we be the long-suffering cattle being fed on a diet of lies and “arbeit macht frei” as the motto that never died out with the Nazi Third Reich, along with its tenets of fascist exploitation and “power for the few” credo, but rather, we will be a truly self-liberated species, at last.
Man must make his own myths, and mythological image, instead of having it made for him by shadowy, unknown demiurgic forces who have no interest in seeing humanity liberated, or even knowledgeable or conscious of its true history and origins. We have been lulled into a (not even restful) sleep by symbol-wielding, demon-possessed overlords who enforce their imposed laws and codes of meaning, belief and “order” by means of brutal, hidden hands who foment war, chaos, pestilence, and every kind of division for the end of divide-and-conquer, Hegelian synthesis of social control. Man, then, must be his own liberator: he cannot wait for some Biblical image of dubiously-proffered, redeeming savior descending from a cloud to take his hand and lead him to Heaven. It is beyond obvious that if there were any compassionate deity watching from on high, he is a Sadistic devil who enjoys the specter of war, death, with primarily children and other innocents being the victims of this constant genocide. Non-violent non-cooperation, alas, only goes so far. Gestapo thugs in the United States will gun you down now for jaywalking, being a paraplegic, young black man, refusing their criminal orders, etc., so I would side with Jean-Peal Sartre on this point, who began advocating violence against the establishment war machine beginning in the early 1970s. I only advocate such violence as being or arising from a self-defense stance, or “fight fire with fire” ethos, in step with the framers of the Constitution and Bill of Rights.
Sartre, to expand upon my reference of him here, was the father of existentialism (though truly it was Schopenhauer, by way of Nietzsche), as well as, indirectly, my theory of pragmatic anarchy, although I maintain that he did not go far enough in his anarchist philosophy or critical theory. Perhaps it was because, as a quite specific zeitgeist, the need for “reasoned steps” had not yet reached the emergent, critical urgency in his lifetime as it now has. Fair enough – I have nothing but the highest esteem for Sartre’s brilliance as cultural critic and anarchic, philosophical theorist. He sowed the seeds, like an early prophet of the looming age which we now find ourselves enmeshed in and intrinsic part of, for the “ultimate revolution,” if you will – the one to end all fascist empires and imperialist hegemony in all its forms
The baton is passed to we, the new founders of critical theory of our age, subsequent to our predecessors who also saw and foresaw society’s principal shortcomings, agitators and pathology, and who now must rise en masse, in one voice of dissent against these brutal hands and methods of madness, to put an estoppel upon it, to use the legal term.
And with that, let us segue into more of the practical, “reasoned steps” side of this tractate, which prominently includes legal (amongst other) means to remove one’s self from “the system” successfully – or at least to the point where one can successfully argue one’s self out of, or away from the overlording tyranny dispensed by the only-revenue-seeking courts in most nations on our decaying, dying Earth.
The odd, blue light in the belfry flickers, flashes red for a time, then flashes out, the tower now completely endarkened, its silhouette a blackened mass in a dark chaos of Nature…
Part Two: Pragmatic Anarchy as Modern Concept and Context
What lights the tower of man’s peculiar existence here on Earth? And what seeks to snuff out that light?
It can be seen that the idea of pragmatic anarchy is a purely modern concept, by counteractive necessity and arising in solely contemporaneous context. It could not have been a product of the backlash against the scientific age of the 19th and 20th Centuries; nor could it have arisen even from the Rousseauian and Voltairian ideals of the Enlightenment, at the advent of Industrialism. No one even a generation ago could have conceived of anarchy as a pragmatic, reasoned, common-sense political ideology. I believe this is why it was painted in decades past as being the province of a few disaffected malcontents throwing Molotov cocktails and sporting spiky leather and mohawks, spewing epithets and espousing random chaos. Well, the lords of misrule and chaos who prop up the governments don’t like any competition, now do they?
If Thomas Paine and Sam Adams were alive today, they would surely be pragmatic anarchists. Probably, so would Mahatma Gandhi, and perhaps even Yeshua-ben-Joseph, or Jesus Christ. As a societal, humanist, and even biological imperative, its analog or diagrammatic metaphor would be healthy T-cells in an addled or compromised immune system – the T-cells of course being the pragmatic, realist, self-governing, tyranny-eschewing anarchists. To wit: those opposed to vaccination programs which are becoming steadily more Orwellian and Draconian have been labeled criminals; just as those who seek the true story behind systematic media disinformation campaigns are labeled terrorists – the so-called malcontents being, in all actuality, the equivalent of healthy T-cells devouring parasites, viruses, and pathogens which have been introduced into our collective bloodstream by nefarious, “Archontic” forces (to use the Gnostic term for usurping, demonic overlords) who are categorically opposed to human liberation for a number of reasons.
As mentioned earlier, one need not use any “on the street” violence whatsoever to fight tyrannical means and methods of perpetuating its odious stain upon the collective body politic. I said also that I side with Sartre on using violence against it as well. Both are contingencies, and both should be open to we, the people, to be able to ensure and promulgate a world free of the true potentates of violence – violence which is causal, not reactionary. I say that violence need not necessarily be used, i.e. one can withdraw one’s self from “manufactured consent” (Chomsky’s term) and legalistic, “implied consent” which the courts and judiciary use to imprison us in the land of our “guaranteed” rights and freedoms.
So, we can define pragmatic anarchy, then, as corollary of our thesis here, as “a practicable self-governance”. This idea, of a practicable self-governance, really amounts to the human individual declaring independence from the corrupt bureaucracies of the world, whatever form they may take. It is the human individual adhering to common sense, common law, self-recognizance, and self-determinism over the endless false “benefits and services” as well as the so-called privileges of government-bureaucratic doling-out (which is well-disguised as social services, such as social security in the States, but which are simply a front for nanny-state monitoring of their property, their chattel, their children).
Our modern context for and of pragmatic anarchy is that it is simply the most immediate, potent, and efficacious antidote to the brutality and civil rights-obviating modalities of statism. It is the ideological counterpart to the “last lines of defense” such as the right to bear arms and other Bill of Rights Amendements that safeguard basic human, civil rights. It is the attendant philosophy which has been missing in the argument regarding gun-ownership rights, and all the other modes of self-defense, whether legal, physical, or otherwise. Armed with the political philosophy of pragmatic anarchy, as well as its subordinate tenets of immediate practicable application to all areas of life, one can navigate a modern world which cruelly holds his liberty hostage and demands ransom paid in endless taxes, fees, and the ticket prices for his quotidian frivolities and distractions which bribe him into the mistaken belief that he is in fact not a slave, a tenant on the birthright of his own “divine trust” of the very land which grants and perpetuates his life.
Therefore, anything which abridges or seeks to vitiate such birthrights can and will be seen as criminal, and subject to prosecution under the common law. Again, we have an ethical and moral obligation to disregard the laws of the land which have been made and ratified by criminals, and their criminal junta, or government by force, or might. In the case of these criminal governments, the people shall rise as one and say, “Might makes wrong, we shall make it right”.
When one begins the laborious but rewarding process of liberating themselves from “the system” or establishment, one witnesses the gradual way that the layers of counterfeit legitimacy fall away dramatically, like crashing shards of a malignant glacier giving way to the sea, revealing a green valley beneath its once-held sway. One sees ever-clearer how corrupt and illegitimate are the many-tentacled arms of government, corrupted to the core as it is in most places – Iceland, I will tip my hat to you as a standout paragon of what the people can collectively achieve with a sense of pragmatic anarchy under their wings – with every discarding of each layer of embedded tyranny. One gains ever-more clarity and elucidation on just how oppressed humanity has been as these layers of obfuscation slide away. Once one shuts off and shuts out all the fake, corporate news TV shows, TV in general, and all “popular” modalities of media as they are doing this in and for their lives, an individual will gain much more in the way of individuation, as Carl Jung termed it, and a much more reasoning, Stoical, calm-center-of-the-storm tranquility (as Marcus Aurelius imparted to us), as opposed to the constant mechanistic buzz and white noise of Distractions, Inc., subsidy of Murder, Inc.
The idea and ideal of pragmatic anarchy also has its roots with Nietzsche, and his “transvaluation of all values,” as well as the fundamental eschewing of mundane social codices laid out in works such as Beyond Good and Evil, Human, All Too Human, Thus Sprach Zarathustra and The Antichrist. Germane to Nietzsche’s attempts to script Man’s liberation from stale and pernicious moral and social codices, I contend that humanity must rise up and be its own “ubermensch,” i.e. Superman, overman, or, one may say, overlord. His idea of the “will to power” was not, as was wrongly interpreted or inferred-as by the Nazis and certain literary critics or cultural pundits, some kind of call to fascism, but was, instead, a Promethean rallying cry to humankind from the “bracing heights” of Nietzsche’s transcendent perch for us to liberate ourselves. As well, his “God is dead” statement was antithetical to man-made doctrines of hate and divisiveness done in Christ and God’s name which had rendered the idea of a loving God to be dead on arrival. The phenomenological existentialists followed Nietzsche’s lead in the 20th Century by making their own calls for revaluations and re-evaluations of humankind’s aims in the areas of religious, political, and social and educational institutions. Surely, Sartre’s atheism was a product of Nietzsche’s declarations that Man had killed God, leaving the thinking, reasoning (wo)man of intellect and reason to make his/her transvaluation of all values as s/he saw fit.
To wit: take the path of least resistance, and bury your head in the sand, and wake up one day to find that that simply allowed the criminal tyrants in power to drive you to ever-dimmer and smaller areas to even have a path, to the eventual point of being painted into a corner by the gradual onset and burgeoning of totalitarian, fascist, corporate plutocracy that has taken control of every aspect of your life. Satisfied, bubble-world people? I think not! It is high time to get the whole pragmatic anarchy thing into your very bones and declare your personal independence and just say no to draconian juntas that steal your freedoms and life-force and make you pay for it! Taxation without representation has become taxation without human designation. Taxation without peace, progress, common sense, civil rights, freedoms of all types, and even sanity.
I will take the modern context of my argument back to a 1971 debate between Michel Foucault and Noam Chomsky in which Chomsky calls the state (of the United States) criminal, and calls for “federated, decentralized system of free associations” to replace the capitalist-imperialist system of the then already-corrupt and war-profiteering Nixon administration, which he called “anarcho-syndicalism”. This call by Chomsky parallels my own call for actions against the criminal state of the U.S. (forty-four years later!), as well as any state which so profligately and readily and systematically violates human and civil rights and calls such actions the needful prosecution of enemies of the state, or terrorists, as they are quite fond of labeling those who seek in earnest (and all-too often in vain) for human justice. I do also agree with Mr. Chomsky that we can go a long way and achieve more, perhaps, via acts of civil disobedience, like Gandhi’s self-styled “non-violent non-cooperation,” and also agree with him that violence as a means of a defense of social and political justice, as well as the prevention of further immoral acts by a corrupt, criminal state, cannot be completely ruled out by the proletariat, or those portions of society embedded in civil disobedience and revolt against criminal statism.
In Common Sense, Thomas Paine says, “But it is not so much the absurdity as the evil of hereditary succession which concerns mankind. Did it ensure a race of good and wise men it would have the seal of divine authority, but as it opens a door to the foolish, the wicked, and the improper, it hath in it the nature of oppression.” In saying this, he was acknowledging broken and counterfeit nature of man’s hierarchical constructs ab initio, or whereby his corruptible and corrupted state is the side that leans toward or chases the seats of power. Here again, the people find that safeguarding their freedoms is an ongoing, everyday endeavor, and straying from that vigilance for one moment is like looking away from a toddler who is roaming near to deep water. It is to succumb to the perils that surround us like vipers constantly. Surely, Common Sense was written more for posterity, and our own times in particular, than for Paine’s own time period. Here we find yet more pragmatic anarchism catalogued in historical writings that endure, fitting into a modern context. Paine also said, apropos of our current times, “Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness; the former promotes our happiness positively by uniting our affections, the latter negatively by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The first is a patron, the last a punisher.” Paine was a pragmatic anarchist, to be sure, and should be read by every 10th grader and individual in the land.
Part Three: Reasoned Steps and Practical Applications
Know the difference between “citizen,” “person,” and private individual.
Know the difference in conveyances of transport and travel, and your inherent rights therein; this area is where fascism operates the most vigorously.
Remove yourself from the book and record as subject to any king or bureaucracy, i.e. as being chattel for purposes of commerce and revenue, and declare yourself a sovereign. Basically, this means withdrawing your consent to or participation in any and all contracts with the state which exploit you as chattel, instead of guard your rights and liberties, like the IRS, DMV, and any other abusive bureaucracies.
Know and practice the difference between common law conveyance and that of admiralty or maritime law. In the former, you are a flesh and blood man or woman; in the latter, you are commercial property of the king and queen, or proxy rulers, i.e. the U.S. Corporation, or any other hegemonic government construct using you as collateral for its debt.
Get rid of “nanny state” thinking completely. This is where leftist liberals fail miserably, thinking there has to be a government teat in everyone’s mouth for anything to happen, or for human life to flourish or occur at all. Do whatever you can for yourself. If you can’t DIY, then find others in your community to help you with it, or build it. If it can’t be done either of those ways, then it probably isn’t worth doing.
Don’t wait for the government to do for you what you can do for yourself (as an adjunct to the previous tenet).
Arm yourself against ignorance – especially your own. Knowledge is the highest form of power – this is why they guard it so covetously, and feed society on lies and half-truths. Dig, research, find out for yourself the facticity of things. If all else fails, go within, where Yeshua ben Joseph told us the kingdom of Heaven lies – kingdom of knowledge that it is.
Make daily affirmations that back-up and reinforce these tenets. Say them aloud. Gird your loins and your wits alike. Guard against the slow, imperceptible incursion of hatred, jealousy and tyranny upon goodness, forthrightness, and common-sense vigilance.
[Updated 1/13/16, 12/27/15 and 12/21/15; further excerpts forthcoming, essay in its entirety to be published in book form available via Amazon]
See through death –
– oh, there you go:
New bones prancing upon the old.
A foreign wangling of joy
The skeleton tried to recall
(Celestial trumpets peal
Like silk in elapsed ears)
“We can take care of our own here” –
The capillaries and rivulets
With Source-aerie sparkling still.
The sun on the leaves today
Could make a barn-burner cry
Or street man sing or do magic
or swim all the streams
as Heaven slowly unlocks her fire.
But high on those wood-roads
The duchess of leaves is dying
The dryads of ease are hiding,
Enshrouded by Maeve’s hair & bones.
In the stern beds of the past
Cold queens did scoff and gasp,
And lift lanterns to indoor skies
Of future-guessing eyes.
Silent fire dropping down
Still descends on amnesiac lands –
Children swimming the confused waters:
Angry sons and cloying daughters,
Wondering where to shine their light.
I am the King of Siam.
I am Johnny Appleseed,
making fertile the tired land.
I am all the great and forgotten poets
And I am a fire in which you cannot believe
Nor quantify; that is so.
Yet here on my island does my flame
Disappear nightly into the sea’s claim.
Twined in shadows, I may restore
Because I am ready for the moon.
I contain the world in my
Submerged heart, and in my
Laughing wilds, twinned, parlayed
On such difficult shores.
Where my sip of eternity
Was as bitter as it was alive;
Where I thank all your arms
Showing me the way
Through busy twilight
Toward the high strength
Of towering mornings.
Probed bounty had a sun
Sidled in pods of leaf –
The needed stain then splashed where
Life crawled expanses of green.
So massed was root of take, as I
Held it to my breast, life total;
And was cat-groove to what
Young table brought us through:
A sheaf of epoques where music
also swam & smiled heroic
A priori to what now defines,
But could the crimson cap truly see?
Where I walked in padded age
The archetypes spreading clichés
And romantic epiphany becoming passé?
Where a man in his currents blows
Howing a world dark in its shows
Identity of how he goes a-where
To come to this or that shore or share;
Could an electric beast sing in its times
Of things unknown he says must be?
Wilds of good could you, stepped along
In the courage of colors meant to spend us long?
The guest o’ little time
Has finally been let through…
Intifada du Jour
Stay in country – see
How wicks of wonder light up for thee!
Observe how freely the air bides
In darkening time where you need no license
Or name or rhyme. Mountebanks have fled!
Scoped in murmur riding their asses & jackals
to where warm hammers glow.
Bright regions rise and collapse
In the time it takes to breed an asp
(in the unshorn grove there is an answer)
But how do fallen seasons grow?
The stately stream is steered
by wolf-habitude (true)
In the seedy ranks we devalue.
The trustless fob, curling his lying trap
Squirms as the human fog burns off.
No Marys of “The Way”
Need virginal to be;
What’s left is churchless sanctity
& now coffins for songs like black hearts,
Gold-buckled, lay like dead soldiers
In powder-blue sarcophagi
And unfettered calm.
Somewhere sick and empty feels
A girl or planet or camel or eel
Where beheadings feed the trauma’d ground
And old shadows twine and reel.
The sour door now craves an entrant
And echoes such a child, my child –
In coming rooms like I just yelled
Across a golden canyon, and does
Grandmother-sight give bells to this wisdom?
Her private vicissitudes have branches, too.
(My naïve years having broken the ruse)
Where crescent moons stabbed thunderous sides
And calamity aches in closets denied.
A burst of woody care
wears before us the Atman that dared!
Laden with death-church flare,
My pink-fingered joy deepens the room.
Where the laughing brook washed me to center,
A home, youthful zeal trimming the
Wings of awe, amongst novel treasures.
Today, the escapes were internal measures.
Flushed down the mother-delta
Into a florid garden gone to pot
Where vision scorns power-abuse
In the battle to proffer the altar abstruse,
I opened my windows to October’s
Banners, the colors of a dying world
Just beginning: annihilate the poison
Spew on lake-cirque trek, oak-hewn
as cask arrives to ferment our libation
Of truth. Hale and home-grown are the wares
Of our eternal health, and strong are the bowers
That grow our germens’ stealth.
Love is a many-creatured thing
Solaced in a tarn of Spring;
My soft engine beats
In a relish of vigor
Where this darkness remakes me
In Quixotic rigor.
Is this the very structure of joy?
As again the axe of evil hits me
And I swing the wand ‘round
And exculpate them from the realm.
Once more, can you sense their collective
Perishing, that their shadows can stand no more,
And that only the bubbling love-light pours?
This, the place where infant gladness restores?
What good, then, if your:
Books are balanced
Insurance’s paid up
Mortgage is paid up
Yard is trimmed
Taxes are paid up
Cupboards are filled
Charities are gifted
Friends gathered ‘round the punchbowl
Cubicles & homes are nice & tidy…
…if your freedom, dreams and children are lost?
Ancient intrigues spill their jars into the staggering sea;
My foaming blood bubbles up from earthen spring.
As fishermen drink away their troubles at the Sea Hag;
The crashing sea at our window serenades our wanderlust.
Tigers prowl for escape among the jetties and the capes
Donning their misty crowns, forgetting petty apes
Their vulgar homage;
A man in a darkened doorway chastises his dog
As I roll the nautical highway wearing night’s corsage.
The gull’s stark morning greeting is delicate custom,
As Ondine’s moons resound off the storm-riven cliffs
That beckoningly rumble.
You stood there, looking serious-faced at the sea,
Just like the nautical wanderers who’ve gone before thee.
But the sea hag, jealous of your beauty, turned your love
Into a watery leviathan, and now my days are spent
Wandering the whale-spouting vistas listening for your
All night the howling gale did pound and thrum
Like Thor’s hammer upon nail or human drum.
The stolid ground, though a-tremble,
cradled still the coastal vales; as all day, still
it kept on, the tempest, and sandblasted
were our faces at Neskowim, the falling branches
on the highway showing the peril, where we
put our whims at risk, though feral; and rode
the nautical ranges – the breakers spraying
fifty feet high over the precipices above…
We cut short our after-lunch drive when the
Sea-witch, angered, swept us from beach and roadway,
Now to rest back upon Arch Rock,
Arrested in our wandering ways.
All night the raging gale did our dreams assail –
Only now calming in late afternoon to assay
The land-lubbing sea-gazers who on the
Roiling whitecaps do stare, to see if the
Salty spume’s blowsy signature’s from the deep’s
Now streaked, our window on the briny churn
With saline tears that cloud the ephemeral turn;
Now have guests of the sea-witch wandered;
Now found they rest upon the pounding surf
Unhindered. Where portly dowagers and their doggies,
Asian families and angry-looking men vie for a table,
A room, a lane in summer’s bosom to gaze from;
In these nautical nests the chaotic tides
Never given their rest or absolution.
The vestal virgins of the sea, green-blooded and free,
Scare away any threatening fang or poisoner’s glee,
That may etiolate this Neptunian estate,
Leaving stark eyes to contend with this
Thrashing torrent, wave and rock to battle it out
With the late question: which kingdom doth
Move the globe when man’s hands have
Muddied the elements up to Jove?
I go out once again to listen for your song…
You soared around the world in your dream – that dream, the dream of the world entire. Your spirit, caught by a concatenation of sparkling towers and bridges bunched on a nearly invisible island, wavers in a thronged spur of excitement, surges through the concrete-and-steel canyons of crushing commerce and cashed-in-on dreams of solidity in an ethereal meme, and merges with a wild burn of ambitious and dazzling aspiration, though free of its game.
Your spirit’s eye slips into one of the towers’ loftier transparencies, spinning down the affluent staircase where Macbeth hath murdered sleep and Jezebel still awaits her marching orders. You float through a door and see a man. Is he fretting? Is his conscience bothering him? Is he waiting for a friend to call? Does he live alone? He pours a glass of some dark ferment and sips without joy, watches light flicker on a squarish plane a while, dozes off, then rouses himself, or is roused by his own startling dream, shades of light still flickering upon his sleep-drunken face.
He rises up from a wide couch and paces the apartment some more, then begins to notice something strange. Has he lost something? Misplaced a prized item – or items? He throws books and papers around – he is in a rage, but you cannot look way. You come closer – you can read his thoughts: Where are they? A thousand-year old Chinese bowl. My Persian silk robe? And…what the hell? Where is my Matisse? What’s happening here? Is reality slowly just blinking out? The man is losing his mind, his spirit not far behind. It has happened before. The opulence of his urban palace suggests a prominence – in the community, in occupation, or as a form of elevated deviation. Hard to be sure. He’s long since given up the healthier tricks for escaping or perfecting reality like yoga and meditation for whiskey, beer, and the occasional pill-form panoramas.
His emotions grind and stir in a red-shift cauldron. He seems so utterly alone, though surrounded by the faces in paintings, by masks, statues, books. He lives in a joyless place, filled with things that, ostensibly, could provide some measure of joy to the right mind, ego, or personality. You realize that that place is him – as each one is the heart of place they make, the space sacred or profane. You watch, spellbound, as he makes a whirlwind of his own possessions, treasures, emotion, and solidity itself, no longer “looking” for objects per se, but swinging his own daimonic or wrathful wrecking ball around his own domain. At last, he relents, exhausted. He sits in a reclining chair a while cursing himself, past lovers, old friends, those who rule with hate, those who steal with love, then at last, dozes off in the late, wee hours in the “city that never sleeps” enfolded in the heavy thoughts that compound like some sadistic math formula and never stop.
His eyes flutter open a few hours later, his head pounding with a headache that feels like an aneurysm, and his first thought is I’ve been robbed. Burglarized. Ripped off! But who could it have been? Some cat burglar, while I was sleeping? He goes to stand and the existential pain is too much to bear. He cries out. He falls to the floor, rolls around, crawls to the bathroom where he manages to stand, pry the top off of a container of something or other, down three or four of whatever it is, cry out to whatever petty little god is there to hear this, as he puts it, then prays, curses, roils, makes his way to the kitchen, feeds himself, makes some phone calls to, apparently, colleagues, associates, perhaps, friends, then sits at the kitchen table and broods, frozen, like the statue of some robust, wild animal, thickened by self-abuse instead of the heroic labors of Hercules.
Then, he sits in wait – at attention, no more booze or pills! – for the next three nights, standing watch, on patrol of this little kingdom of his, this museum away from the museums of the world he had sanctified and poured all that effort into. And so, he waited, watching, no hard stuff to numb his consciousness and leave him, evidently, open to such cat burglary and violations of trust.
That’s it! he thinks. Someone who knew me or my ex-wife at the MOMA, who knows my ways, tendencies, vulnerabilities. Ah, I will get you! I know you will be back, because you know of my self-pity and negation…you don’t think I deserve such anthropological delicacies and masterful strokes! Well, ha ha ha, I’ve got you now! I will wait, and while I wait at night when you cat burglar creeps crawl out of your crypts, I will look for my pilfered items on the street or black market, and I will make you wish you’d never been born into this sorry world!
And so he hits the streets of Manhattan – second hand art shops, galleries, pawn shops, art dealers, friends, acquaintances, former colleagues…
“Sorry, we don’t know anything. Can’t help you. Good luck” seems to be the consensus. He is hapless. He wanders down Fifth Avenue and into the Park and watches a group of pre-teens playing games. He envies their endless energy.
You followed him all day through the busy, dizzy streets and his muted flurry of activity and quest of recovery. He arrives back home, grabs a cold beer of some esoteric label or other, and as the plucky, hoppy concoction ameliorates the dry throb of thirst deep in his bones, blood, and being, he thinks, Maybe it was Martha. Would she? She very well could hire someone out, maybe. Cat burglar for hire? Married five years, and all that trust, respect, and adoration down the proverbial tubes?
He couldn’t resist drinking the rest of the lager-style beer down in one misery-extinguishing quaff. A buzz wafted quickly to his head as he ambled through the wreckage of the night before strewn about his quarters. He rifles through another shelf, pulls a black disc out of a large envelope of some kind and impales it on a metal needle, drops an arm upon it and turns the sound way up. It is some kind of jazz – frantic, throbbing, jaunty.
The next night comes, and there is nothing. Then, night number three. His senses are sharp: he is ready. He can almost feel the burglar preparing to come for him now. Some blues albums. A couple of “art films” on IFC. Some sketches of the demons he sometimes sees in his bedroom doorway upon waking. He hasn’t slept much in days. He is preternaturally exhausted, but he keeps watching the window he is sure the crafty burglar will return through.
He is nodding out a bit, now. He catches himself. He has his pistol in his hand, has turned all the lights off, feigning a sleeping household, but remaining awake, on a small couch across from the window that sits ten stories up on a fire escape.
And then, there the awaited bandit is: a sleek, black figure, stealthier than the midnight wind, quietly lifting the window and entering the room. He watches in rapt surveillance for a few more seconds, letting the tiptoeing, hated figure get further in and away from their escape route, then – he leaps up and hits the lights.
“Aha!” he exclaims. “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!”
He jumps on the thief, grabbing him forcibly around the neck, wrestling him to the ground, and getting little to no resistance, as he is a large man and the thief is rather wiry thin and small of stature.
“You bastard! You stole valuable things from me, and I will make you pay!” he shouts at the thief with unabashed hostility, pushing the gun to his temple and pulling off the thief’s mask. To his great surprise, it is not some scrawny little worm as he’d thought “him,” but instead a stunningly beautiful young woman with long, silky brown hair who is revealed to him. She gives him a shy, sheepish look, like “You got me”. The man is stunned on many levels, and simply gazes dumbfounded at the girl for a tense moment, wondering what on Earth could motivate such a gorgeous creature to violate him so.
“Why have you done this to me?” he asks her. She is unresponsive, caught.
This is 1,400 words of what will likely be a 10,000+ word story, or even a short novella. Feedback appreciated, and thanks for reading.
Finished in 2005, and having floated somewhere in near total obscurity (but for one or two supporters who even read parts of it at poetry readings), my experimental epic and “verse documentary” Thanatopaeia, which was conceived in the wake of 9/11 and the rush to making war on Iraq and Afghanistan, has been published in paperback form, and is available on Amazon for you epic poetry aficionados. Proceeds go towards the writing of more epic and experimental verse.