tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36650354836330863102024-02-02T04:57:24.172-08:00Grand JatteA place for perspective, retrospective, introspection,
reflection, on things beautiful and bright...Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-64601861075356715962024-01-07T14:13:00.000-08:002024-01-15T07:35:42.363-08:00In Remembrance -- Christine Mandell 1958-2023<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj5hRAf2CCewL004m9YgFVvmSUQoxoeDrVfDIw3pURPugoNJ6w8W3f0Bp0Lc4JUsZ6C4LOvZwPpSFNsyPvcU8wSlFq8Kn-mdIs1OKb8iUzVcwM-03Nze7S6Cze3q8GkwFznpWHdCZfIP9PSga62YA8Hg4W7sa7Sx8RTLvkeDJbyIJUnkuOIt5zuSD6Q3g/s304/chris%20bw%20promo%20photo%2088.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="210" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj5hRAf2CCewL004m9YgFVvmSUQoxoeDrVfDIw3pURPugoNJ6w8W3f0Bp0Lc4JUsZ6C4LOvZwPpSFNsyPvcU8wSlFq8Kn-mdIs1OKb8iUzVcwM-03Nze7S6Cze3q8GkwFznpWHdCZfIP9PSga62YA8Hg4W7sa7Sx8RTLvkeDJbyIJUnkuOIt5zuSD6Q3g/s1600/chris%20bw%20promo%20photo%2088.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The recent passing of my former esteemed violinist and musical partner (1985-88) Christine Mandell on the 4th of November 2023 requires some sort of public statement, and gracious acknowledgement from me... While for the past two months I have been getting the logistics and preparations done to re-release our 1987 cassette only album "Home Delivery- Elmtree Street" as a CD, I only learned of her passing several days ago, two months to the day practically just as I am putting the master CD into production... ASAP, which was what it was meant to be, anyway, but it hurts terrifically I'm not able to get her own copy in time...</p><p>Chris and I met in spring 1985 thru a notice she posted at the Haight-Ashbury Music Center looking for a guitarist she could partner with, to work on an arrangement of Bob Dylan's All Along the Watchtower, and whatever else we could come up with. We turned out to be quite musically compatible, having both spent time busking, myself in the SF Bay Area and Santa Cruz CA and herself in Amsterdam,& Copenhagen. She even spent a night in jail in Copenhagen, which shows both her own dedication to the art as well as the occasional ignorance of the unmusical public. That aside, we found we had a particularly common interest in rocking up classical music some... myself with my own compositions for chamber orchestra I was concurrently working on, and the band I already had embryonically started with my San Francisco musician friend Derek Williams, and a former girlfriend. <br /></p><p>We played several places in Berkeley generally as open mic incidents- the Freight and Salvage, Starry Plough, and Larry Blake's, as a guitar and violin duo. We started working on some folk idiom based things, culturally working on ideas of Eastern Europe, Ireland, Scotland and Spain. We brought a recent acquaintance Larry Marshall in to play drums on the initial recording sessions and Larry worked our one actual <i>gig</i> as a four-piece with us, at the Ansonia Residence Club for an art party.</p><p>We got the Elmtree Street album together by that Halloween, people compared us to Camper Van Beethoven -who were contemporary but a bit younger, mainly merely because both bands had a violin.<br />I got some attention from some LA producers , but, after meeting them and discovering what they really wanted was <i>a take of my publishing</i>, I wisely backed out of that. Chris (and her later replacement) didn't care for the contributions of my ex-wife, and I had to agree with them. Larry went back to the reggae band he'd come from the Reggae All-Stars, and Derek and I decided to continue our songwriting partnership, as well as performing live in a duo structure, for the next 15 years. </p><p> Chris was a musician's musician, one thing I loved about her was she was <i>not</i> into it for the money, for while I would have preferred more to have come my way myself for it, I wasn't actually either. It's a life if not a living. She contributed to paying for the sessions and didn't want anything of the potential profits, but I was able to get something to both Derek and Larry, and that was as ought have been as well. We made music that was from the heart and meant for ears, so it makes me happy to finally be putting out a CD version of Elmtree Street (in a limited edition) I am super sad that I managed to get to it just a bit to o late to reach her. And that's the way it goes I suppose, life was built to break our hearts. I never had another more gifted and spirited collaborator again, but I think the world will be lucky and happy to hear what we managed to get together, for what it was. I am planning to have the CD available by Jan 31. </p><p>In fond loving memory, and may she be ever in that angel band. We'll play together again, up there.</p><p> Christine Mandell 10-30-1958 11-4-2023</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-22813417376764557802022-10-13T01:19:00.001-07:002023-07-25T20:29:05.037-07:00The War Nobody Wanted, But Everybody Wants To Watch<p><span style="font-family: times;"> Now almost eight months into things, the conflict in Ukraine has got many people upset. This of course is an understatement, but there are levels of upsetness which bear defining. One major level of upset, of course, are those in the West who believe the entire episode was "unprovoked," and don't remember there was a treaty put in place several administrations ago, with the Russians, in which the USA agreed they would NOT push for Uiraine becoming a part of NATO, and, that basically the West would leave Russia its basic sense of self-identity and security by advocating for a neutral Ukraine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">The interest many Americans seem to have in a country so far from the United States as to be nearly halfway across the world is apparently all based on video games. Youtube is filled with scenes from the war with brave Ukrainians shooting invader orcs out of the sky, and these clips get hundreds if not thousands of clips, meanwhile, nobody considers that, in that plane going down in flames is a human being, some mother's child, someone who probably didn't necessarily even wish to be in that situation, but for orders they received they were bound to follow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Death comes to all equally, and it hardly behooves civilized people to cheer on when another of our human family meets their end. Whether or not anyone feels the invaders deserve what they get, the entire episode seems to have been conceived from the mind of a leftover pint-sized ex-KGB cop who still feels it was a horrible thing that the Berlin Wall came down, and thousands of his people, and others living under the spell of the Soviet Union, became capable of entertaining freedom of thought for the first time in generations, if not history. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">On the other side of the coin is the lionized comedian thrust to the spotlight by circumstances who begs for "preemptive strikes" on his enemy by those outside his borders whom he's already begged and borrowed billions in armaments and other benefits from. It's not enough, apparently, to be an overachieving underdog working against an incompetent foe, but the rest of the world must risk nuclear conflagration by escalation -perhaps only military contributions from NATO will satisfy him. He's doing quite well by the looks of it from the help he's already received, and listening to the calls for mulilateral escalation ought to be cause for trepidation and alarm. But more or less, for any of the American public, they're not. They want more, and to see just how well all those rockets and and air ssystems really perform. Because hey they have a lot of stock dollars riding on them!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">In back of the Napoleonic ex-KGB cop you have not the Communist Party, they failed and gave up their part in The Center long ago, but the Russian Orthodox Church, headed by Patriarch War Pig. Resemblances to Osama bin Laden and Ayman Al-Zawahiri </span><span style="color: #141414; font-family: times;">are easy to see- all of them seek to sanctify spiritual suicide to give their sacrificial cannon fodder blessings in Heaven. Allah be praised, here's another bunch of self-satisfied patriots willing to send their younger generation off to the slaughter. These patterns are easy to see in every military society on earth, but, when it's religious leaders who are making the call to war, their religiosity has obviously been tossed to the winds.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">This blog had its second largest audience after the USA in Russia. We've been banned there, and we know why. Voices like ours willing to talk to Russian people without demonizing them, willing to hold to the idea that people are people everywhere, but governments are everybody's real problem, obviously can't be allowed to spread our "lies" to a population their government wishes to keep misinformed. But that's OK. The more ideas like ours get under the skin of the ex-KGB cop and the piano-playing Pericles, the more we </span><span style="font-family: times;">feel validated in our efforts. Frankly it wouldn't matter WHO the world leader is, since most of them are socio-psychopaths in the first place, seeking power in order to either apotheosize themselves, or manipulate large masses of other humans, or both. We are equal-opportunity critics, and if we've limited this current post to the two characters making a mess out of Eastern Europe, then its not like we don't also cast an eye to the nutcases running our own nation. It's just that at the moment, those people will have more of their own problems soon, and we'll have enough to say when the other shoe drops.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">The threat of nuclear holocaust should drive everyone to call again for peace between all nations. Give up the video console thrill of remote flame and destruction and ask yourself, how would you feel if the large population center you reside near were pulverized in seconds with megaton intensity, and that big grey cloud looming outside the window held nothing but the ashes of hundreds of your countrymen, and possibly, yes, maybe even your own. (And if so, well, bye-bye window). Gone, in an instant, and if anyone even remembers your name it'll be because someone outside the blast zone has records you once existed. Nobody wants to die in a nuclear war, and the people most anxious to see it happen seem to be riding the rail to be the front row cheerleaders.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">That is one reason why I say- militarism and religiosity are mutually exclusive. If the preachers preaching Armageddon would back off and allow the world to live (being as it is, we've pretty much set the planet afire with civilization's carbon footprint, already) and the politicians preaching antagonisms and throwing stones would sit down at the table and talk about working things out, just maybe we could all breathe a little easier. Personally, I hope I'm long gone before the world ends, and would prefer not to be part of the audience if and when it does. And I would hope most of the folks who read this blog will feel the same. "People are people everywhere. It's the governments that are fucked." </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-59660545048533097682022-04-16T08:42:00.004-07:002022-04-16T09:37:11.765-07:00What's Going On<p> Since this little invasion of Ukraine has been going on for fifty days now, and a good percentage of my readership over the years has been from Russia (2.54 thousand hits all time, ranking 2nd among nations) I figure it probably <i>is</i> time for me to comment about it. I recently received a note from Google that this blog cannot monetize if it "spreads any information deemed to be false about the situation in Ukraine." This blog has never <i>actually</i> beeen monetized in any fashion by me, having lost control of navigation into those Google advertising innards when I dismantled a lot of my Google connections some five or six years ago. Nonetheless, Google decides what you should read. And what I want to tell you is exactly what IS happening in Ukraine, and inside of Russia, for any of you still able to read this, in either location.</p><p>Well. We have the invasion of a soveriegn nation happening. All historical precedent Russia may claim that it holds Ukraine as something dear to its cultural bosom are false. Ever since the Holodomor, the enforced famine of the 1930's, Ukrainians have held a righteous grudge against Moscow, since Ukrainians have generally been treated as expendable units by every nation ever galloped across their steppes. Mother Russia, I am sorry to say, is a myth which has died as hard as the myth of the Soviet Union. There is no going back to things as they were 500 years ago, not for anyone- not for Muslim extremists in the Middle East and Afghanistan, not for the Germans and any Austrian Empire, not for the Brits and their never-setting sun. It's all over. Ukraine has been a nation of its own over 30 years, and in a similar position to that of the American colonies when they wrested themselves from Great Britain. They have a national identity conciousness which is not going to be eradicated by Putin's minions, his military, nor his hypocritical Orthodox war-pig priests.</p><p>Putin's military is going noplace, and nobody needs to fear their invading them anywhere else, since their ineptitude has so blatantly exposed the weaknesses within Putin's heirachical strategies. Not telling your troops what they are doing, where they are going, or what they are expected to do when they get there is no way to guarantee any sort of victory, and many of your Russian troops are righteously deserting, in the face of overwhelming losses in the tens of thousands of their comrades. </p><p>Anyone with any sense would have fled the area to begin with, but the people who have chosen to stay to defend Ukraine have every right to do it. As a pacifist I cannot condone anything other than a worst case survival scenario but people have a right to defend themselves and their territories, especially when their invader seeks to obliterate any sense of individual and collective identity other than that imposed by the "insane Tsar," as he has been so recently and rightly proclaimed. </p><p>At one time it looked, truly, as if Putin was one of the only real rational world leaders. Any of the early advances like the Crimean takeover could be explained out of some historical precedence, yes, but what has been lost on the Russian leadership and "thought-influencers" is just how weak and paltry and in-effective their conservative imperialism is against everything that brought down the Soviet Union from the West. Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll, forever, my friends. Patriarch Kiril vows a holy war, and does not sense himself the sheer hypocrisy of a Christian leader advocating for war, violence, and murder of one's brethren.</p><p>The Ukrainians and Russians have along way to go perhaps to sorting out their pasts and collective histories, but one thing is absolutely sure- Russia has not defeated Ukraine, and are doomed to defeat. Putin's "special operarion" is one of the stupidest, ill-thought out, and ridiculous chauvinistic ventures of any world leader since the fall of Stalin and Mao. And it's no joke, people inside Russia are <i>only hearing Putin's side of it.</i></p><p>Your biggest battleship and troop transport ships have been sunk! Six of your generals and an admiral are dead! You cannot assume that your navy can nor will overtake southern Ukraine. Your troops have been defeated as they tried to encircle the capital! The best thing to do is urge upon your leaders a quick and hasty retreat to where you were before hostilities began, since those hostilities were intiated by your leaders, and rest on specious and unsuppported suppositions of the intents and values of the leaders of the Ukrainian nation. Your nation has to learn to live with itself, within itself, and go back to sucking its collective navel in shame, for the criminal destruction of the landscape and population of Ukraine and the deaths of tens of thousands of your sons in battle are not worth the ugliness they have created in the eyes and hearts of the rest of the world.</p><p>Those of us who have tried to express brotherhood between nations, as I have myself with persons living in both Ukraine and Russia, can only watch and be horrified by this return to the barbarities that characterized Europe in the 20th C. I have a young friend in Russia of draft-age for whom I have great fears and hopes, that he not be sucked into Putin's and the Russian War-Pigs' machinery- machinery every bit as evil as was that of the American conflict in Vietnam- wars fought by people with no urge to take part in them are wars that cannot be won, either. The values expressed by Patriarch Kiril and other Russian writers echo the same lame quacks of American conservatives of the 1960's- national "honor and pride" forbid them from seeing the tragedy of defeat taking shape before their eyes. All is not as they lead you to believe. Always question what you're being told. World freedom begins with each of us making up our own minds.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-13427655066026318762022-02-12T18:21:00.003-08:002022-02-12T18:22:54.879-08:00 PIGPEN'S BLACK FOREST BLUES<p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> available at Smashwords.com</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> FREE</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgokoNhVCfWHqBwRYALkVEkQhPGh2wxYiERWmapC2fPZvlbg1-ER_owh2nc7OMalkhNw7lgGL2if2gAKNil8jMTGAnqYmvt_i8w_9cuzuRu5noKosVF6eBTKqKN8OpqdUeqf7VviqssbgS_H_cuvWrMaEFF2JhoSUgObaCwFGOhkS-UoIwyNshh6Ei9=s480" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="334" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgokoNhVCfWHqBwRYALkVEkQhPGh2wxYiERWmapC2fPZvlbg1-ER_owh2nc7OMalkhNw7lgGL2if2gAKNil8jMTGAnqYmvt_i8w_9cuzuRu5noKosVF6eBTKqKN8OpqdUeqf7VviqssbgS_H_cuvWrMaEFF2JhoSUgObaCwFGOhkS-UoIwyNshh6Ei9=s320" width="223" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1124824?fbclid=IwAR1z6AHjYJYWBAevUACo2ia7YxrFvqSWcbR_AhZiBiKzZyajPLW7eNVUsvg</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-10587935924222484922021-09-16T06:57:00.001-07:002021-09-16T06:58:17.259-07:00FROM A STARLIT SHORE a novel<p> <u>AVAILABLE NOW</u></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHGpGD5Jw2F1dM9Cqnrb8fCI7KMAfo_o1w4Qdspa947UXyjbeOeTmcOW2XtXe2eZ6_aDu-K5xiw-CI_yL81Q_Q_fC-ckaskYbsjPLQTyzzKdMqT-NzhCFRfcqL6SZBGS46buidC7Z2qY/s2048/starlit+shore+cover+draft+1+%2528sunny+day+woman+orig%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHGpGD5Jw2F1dM9Cqnrb8fCI7KMAfo_o1w4Qdspa947UXyjbeOeTmcOW2XtXe2eZ6_aDu-K5xiw-CI_yL81Q_Q_fC-ckaskYbsjPLQTyzzKdMqT-NzhCFRfcqL6SZBGS46buidC7Z2qY/s320/starlit+shore+cover+draft+1+%2528sunny+day+woman+orig%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1104366</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><u><br /></u><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-12655442682040082472021-06-09T21:22:00.002-07:002022-02-12T18:24:05.896-08:00From A Starlit Shore (Excerpt)<p><br /></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">AND
NOW HONK HONK and the others found themselves at the very Gates of
the Games! It had been a bit of a push, getting one or two of them to
hurry along, with so many interesting attractions along the way, but
they were now at the Gates of the Arena, two kilometers away from the
city and town of Sil, and the children gazed in awe at the grounds
that lay before them – from the vast, deep amphitheater holding
thousands, to the deep pool that lay off to the let, where rowing and
swimming competitions occurred, Or maybe the wide track that ran in a
circle roundabout the arena, with guards at the entry points to
assure no spectators could interfere by accidentally walking out into
it while a race was being run. Banners flew from poles at precise
thirty meter lengths. On the stone seats of the amphitheater, workers
had spent the day laying programs for the events, so that the seats
were covered each in large white paper. On the seats of the well to
do VIP section, these workers had also each lain a rose, as a memento
they might cherish later for years on a dusty mantelpiece.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tomorrow
was the Day of the Game Song Sing. At the occasion, groups of men and
women from the different provinces all grouped together at the start
of the ceremony, and sang the Anthem to Tudops, the Anthem to
Palacha, and the Anthem to Corocovo, now in his twelfth year or
ruling. Of course, it was yet unknown whether or not the King might
actually appear at the Games this year or not, being out of his
league in the matter of his boudoir and Lady, but yet it would be
certain that those charged with upholding the traditions of the
games- the Sponsors, the Maintainers of the Arena, the
Boroughmeisters of Sil- all these forces worked in concert so that
when the King would decide whether he came or not all things would be
under control and proceeding to plan with or without him.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All
round the Arena nestled in little niches were statues of past
celebrated champions -of decades past- and representations of various
sports that took place therein. Huge torches blazed from cornices in
the arena’s pavilion stands, and at the time of the Song, their
would be groups of athletes chosen to represent, gathered in the Pit
of the Arena, all hoisting their respective banners, and singing the
Praises of their benefactors- Sun, Nation, and King.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
children were not as anonymous as they had been left to feel however-
for the news of the missing children had traveled to Sil at the time
of Orodam’s departure, and there were a crew of town dignitaries
assembled not far from where the kids found themselves. The leader of
this bunch, one Glanza, approached Honk Honk with three of his men.
The staffs they carried were imposing, as were the men’s gruff
appearance and clothing. Obviously they had been targonid hunters at
one point in their lives, thought Honk Honk. But if I get a chance,
I’ll show them I am just as tough and fierce! </span></span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;">“<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ho
there! You must be the Ransomed Ones! We are here for your behalf! As
members of the town council of Sil, we have made all accommodations
for you! You will not need sleep in the fields this evening, nor any
other as long as the Games are on! Won’t you come with us? We have
a celebration planned for you at our favorite tavern!”</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.05in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Honk
Honk didn’t speak. He looked at the others. It would be just as
well with him if the girls went with this offer, but he and Rlok and
Matim and Jonc better be left out of this! He had big plans- of the
chickens he could steal, of the apple orchard he knew would be just
ripe enough at this time, and the idea of sleeping in some house in a
bed at a time like this- what sort of adventure was that? </span></span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.05in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yoni
made her way through the throngs of the streets of Sil. Everywhere
preparations had been made, and people were in the process of both
welcoming the tourists like herself, or putting the finishing touches
to the town’s decorations. Coming here as a single woman, she would
not be looked upon in any ways different from so many of the others
who came, although there was no need in her life for partnering, nor
parenting. And so there would be little reason for her to be involved
in so many of the different games that went on with the women of
Palacha behind the scenes, at the Games. She had no rivals, no others
who were obvious competitors to take the one man she had set her mark
on. </span></span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.05in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Although
when she left that morning she barely thought it, by the time she had
made her acquaintance of her taverner for the night, she had put her
mind on the Duron she had known as a younger nymph. Back when there
was little to wonder about about anything other than, how was that
man built, beneath his toga? All the same, it would be only a matter
of time before she would run into him somewhere here in Sil or the
Arena, and she made herself comfortable in her room going through the
various spots around where it might be that she eventually did.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.05in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Duron
had been twenty two and as the bulkiest and strongest man of his
cohort, the Farmland Champions of so many years past, and Yoni had
been two years his junior but speedy and primed for marathons. The
attraction had been mutual, and so had the parting. Or so she had
thought. On the morning of the Games Song Sing, however, he was
nowhere near.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.05in;"><br />
<br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Duron
had begged off from Craald about getting themselves a Sil slut to
share like they had the other night, and booked himself into a small
room near the great Ovens of the Games, where the targonids were
roasted, and all manner of food for the thousands of spectators
primarily prepared. At least, that which came on the public dime,
that of King Corocovo. He settled into his own dreamless pillow,
thinking only of how the next day he would have to go to the King and
report on the episode of the children. The children were free, but
safe? He laughed. When he was young he had runaway to the games
himself, only two years before he had met that … <i>usbanler</i><i>
</i>Yoni. He didn’t think about her but how he had won at darts and
made his way back up to champion and in such a position that he was
in effect, one of the King’s most trusted outriders. And what sort
of things could he say to his liege?</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes,
the children were safe, but no, we did not catch the rapscallions?
For now he knew Corocovo could only put a bounty on the heads of both
Congulula and Llnash – a bounty which would likely be sneered at by
the peoples of Loronam, but no less, bound to gain the interests of
the King’s loyal subjects.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<br />
<br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Loronam
itself, originally an outpost of explorers to the west of the great
dividing range of Gwala, located at the side of a river which flowed
from springs high up, home to all manner of outcasts from Palacha,
those who had either neglected to join in the Ondinian revolt, but
only moved over the hills, or those who came there, like Congulula
and Llnash, as fugitives- a center of anarchy in the King’s mind, a
haven for a free marketer and profiteer on another’s.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Duron
then had to rise early, and make a round trip journey from Sil to
Palachina and back, in the company of the King when he returned. For
the King not to be present at the Day of Song Sing would be a
blasphemy of a kind, and Duron was, at least in his own mind, pretty
sure that it would be a priority of King Corocovo himself to want to
be ready to ride to Sil when he came to furnish his report.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So
sighing wearily from his bed, he took to the small kitchen that lay
on the first floor of the inn, next to the bar. Here, he made himself
a breakfast of targonid rump and gorgoz, and so feeling heartily
prepared, he began the long ride back, taking care to feed and water
his horse Blue Willow before leaving.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><br /></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
found the King just as he would have expected- all the palace guard
and courtiers arranged ‘round a King ‘dressed to kill’ for the
great ceremony of the Games Song Sing was the most regal presentation
of his Majesty conceivable to the average Ztamian peasant. Duron
could have laughed out loud at the number of small children from the
Farmlands who also had come to gather at the feet of the King’s
throne, for some of them were the sons and daughters of men he knew
and had oft rode and plowed with. The gang of children laughed
cackled burbled and made various eruptive noises as Duron bowed to
the King.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;">“<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Your
Majesty, I report to you- the children are safe, they are free from
the kidnappers. But they themselves- we were unable to apprehend.
It’s our feeling they rode east to Loronam, and if we wanted to, we
could go after them there...”</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;">“<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But
I see no point in that at the moment, Duron. We have these other
matters to attend to. And you say they are safe? What of the
parents?”</span></span><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;">“<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
parents paid the ransom, and they are in attendance at Sil. Where, I
have my expectations, we are soon about to return?”</span></span><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;">“<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes,
Yes, yes“ mumbled Corocovo. “We’ll get on soon enough.
Meanwhile, look what we have here!” </span></span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
nodded with a light point off to his side at the children huddled and
sitting Indian-style around him. </span></span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;">“<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">These
little sprats are off to the games as well. It’s my hope we shall
bring them with us, with the other children at the Games? Perhaps
some accommodations can be made for them all.”</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Beaming
generously, Corocovo laughed and took up his royal staff and thumped
it three times on the floor.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;">“<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
ride, we ride to the Games! And we will bring along this little
throng, and everyone will have a song to sing along at the Song
Sing!”</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With
fifes and drums and squires with trailing headpieces, the retinue of
King Corocovo III’s court began the trek to Sil. They could arrive
in an easy five hours, and by that time, Tudops would hang suspended
at the top of the sky. And all the Games players and spectators and
the hundreds of different craftspeople of all kinds who lined the
roads of the approaches- all the King’s majesty was emboldened now,
as Duron rode beside them, and a mob of raggly children followed
merrily behind. </span></span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><br />
<br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
process of the Games- the week of the contests, fetes, feasts, and
orgies, took a week. Each day was demarcated with special attention
to some aspect of the variety of attentions which could call people
from the countryside from all over the kingdom.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
first day was the Day of the Song Sing.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"> <span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It
was followed by the day of the Targonids, the Day of the Bakers, The
Day of the Harvest, the Day of the Virgins, the Day of the Champions,
and the Day of Tudops. To wit- the Day of the Targonids was devoted
to targonid completions, athletic and culinary. From roping and
riding to barbecuing with relish, the Day of the Targonids meant that
many, many of the crowds around would at least get a good plateful of
the succulent meat for their supper, whether at the terms of the King
at the end of the afternoon, or the Queen’s judge, comments on
chef’ prowess, where free samples were ranged to the first three or
four hundred who could pack the square near the great Targonid Ovens
that lay on one portion of the Arena’s exterior.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Bakers utilized their own ovens, on the other side of the arena, the
following day, It would be a give that Rolot the baker would be
conniving to get one of the various patrons who made up the panel of
judges to taste one of his creations. The Day of the Harvest featured
a ceremonial parade with a cornucopia drawn on a long low wagon, with
marching bands and proud farm boys in line as the King and the Queen
gazed over them in reverent praise. For it was hard work making the
crops grow. The Ztamian winter was fiercer than would have been
Earth’s, with four months of bleak cold edged with terrific rain
and lightning storms. The crops needed be in before all that
commenced, and it was so that these rude laborers could feel honor in
their efforts that a day was given over to them.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Day of the Virgins was one the reasons all the children were
hastening to get to Sil. For to be the first among their cohort to
lose this proof of innocence was nearly always some sort of contest
for many of the runaways who came of their own to the Arena and the
Games for Games Week. A king and a queen virgin would be nominated
from among the scrabbly bands of runaway kids, by the acclamation of
the children themselves. While it may or may not have been something
of a status symbol to be the King of the Virgins, Honk Honk however
would rather ready himself for the sacrifice of that detestable
title, and more for the Champion of the Bed. He thought that title
would suit him a hella lot better, anyway. Once the King and Queen of
Virgins had been picked, it would be their due to have to consummate
in copulation in front of a thousand mainly elder Ztamians. The old
beefy men in their greasy togas kneeling behind their wagons to
ejaculate at passerby were always guaranteed to get their jollies, as
were the matronly cougars who prowled the amphitheater rows, seeking
out tousle- headed young studs for their flattering gigolos.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Day of the Champions was when the winners from the competitions- a
fair majority of which took place on this day alone- were named and
celebrated, with crowns of laurel and orgofam, and as well, champions
were named from among the semi-official competitions which took place
in the many venues of sexual pleasure. That male and female champion
were almost always, but not in all cases, called upon by their peers
to fornicate in a special grove which had been unofficially created
in a vale about two kilos from the Arena- there, in a ceremony lit by
torches and on a bed made of orgofam briars, surrounded by dozens of
their admirers, the winners would copulate, sometimes for hours,
while cheered on by these friends … Who themselves turned to each
other, for frolic was the name of the game whenever the races and
trysts of the day had been completed.</span></span></p><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.1in;"><span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
final day, the day when everyone took their bets on how they were
going to spend the next five days, five months, five years, or a
lifetime, with any conceptualized idea of a partner, was the Day of
Tudops. This was given over completely to the cult of their star, and
all the many different sorts of sacrifice were made. The Song of
Tudops was once again sung, lustily by all, for at the completion of
this final day would also conclude with another very serious mass
orgy. Couples of all kinds made their selves known as such, for in
this humid climate, there had never been any impetus for those
attending the games to wear any sort of dress. Special houses had
been erected in different spots round Sil and the Arena where
Games-goers could shed whatever they had come wearing, and have them
safely secured and returned when they departed.. It was most people’s
hope not to make the return trip alone, for another great benefit of
the Day of Tudops was that it was the traditional day of final
choice, for women to pick what man they had best been pleasured by
over the last week, and for men to make vows unto the women who had
chosen them. This was the way things usually went. In most years. But
this year, with the King’s situation at the palace with Queen
Aashon in such a state, it was unclear if the King would be staying
at Sil long enough to hold forth over the great finale Sing, or cast
his blessing over the thousands of copulating subjects who were
in every position imaginable when he would take the time to take leave
of them all.</span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-59915988220766882012020-11-18T14:52:00.001-08:002020-11-18T14:52:43.923-08:00E Pluribus Pabluminium<p> The two party system is taken as more or less an icon of our American politics. It's driven into most of us by an early age that the two main political parties in America are the sine qua non, the be all and end all of American politics. But it's actually unusual for a nation to divide into only two political parties. In many other countries, there's often four, five or even more putting up people for election. And perhaps, that itself might be an incentive toward a more fulfilled democracy, in those places.</p><p> For it seems to me the primary purpose of both of America's most national parties is merely to drive and focus voters in one particular direction. They have been at it for so long now, that the two polarities seem to be straining the population to the point of maximum saturation, in terms of propaganda and rhetorical frenzy. Extremes at the far left and far right begin to coalesce into blocs of more respective power, until those moderates who controlled "the center" of each are marginalized themselves, and the parties transformed beyond recognition. The liberal "Democratic" party toward more "cancel culture" and intolerance of opposing ideas, and the right "Republican" party toward more jingoistic and even authoritarian law n' order tropes. When I grew up it was more a given that Democratic presidents initiated more wars and supported the Blob, or M. I.C., as it's come to be known, and that while Republicans rarely if ever started any, they merely set the stage for the next incoming Democrat. But now the Republican party are both the staunchest defenders of military blob spending <i>and</i> the most vocal about pulling troops out of wherever we've managed to send their poor souls. A Democratic peace movement at the moment seems like merely a 60's memory.</p><p> These divisions of American culture in to these two and separate factions- an intellectual "elite" that looks down their nose at "plain country folks" and ignores realities and grievances, while still claiming to support "the working class", and the other, a population that see outwardly only greater and greater government and corporate intrusion on their personal lives and "educated fools" who want to tell them how and what to think-these divisions are the product of two parties, and two parties alone.</p><p> For what do other political parties add to the discussion? Quite a bit. There are always a large portion of Americans in any election who have been made to feel so tired of the cant and rhetoric of the majors that they deign to remain outsiders. Third parties never collect more than about 6-7 % of any national vote, but what they do and do well is serve to remind the major parties of just where their programs, platforms, and candidates are lacking. Without third parties, how will either Democrats or Republicans manage to improve on those arguments and grievances their own party is ignoring, often much to its own peril? That is why I believe that acceptance for third parties- the more the merrier! would be better for our democracy than joining one of two herds of lemmings, each streaming past the other to an indefinite coastal cliff, from sea to shining sea.</p><p>This common complaint of our national seeking unity blinds itself to the reason we can't seem to find it- because these two political organizations, with no real other raison d' etre than to get, maintain and keep control of power, are the very source of the disunity itself. Free yourself from party affiliations, labels, and all the various silly constructs of ego that help to keep you confused in this age of more information-than-you-can-eat. Think for yourself, believe in yourself- & be the change that you want to see.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-38043237312442729422020-10-20T07:04:00.000-07:002020-10-20T07:04:05.010-07:00For No Rhyme Nor Reason<p> Sure looks like one of them "real barnburners" we're all stuck with coming up to the Erections in a couple weeks- and never before have we witnessed the actual underbelly of the American Mind coming unhinged and blasting off in so many directions... Bad Cops popping off randomly, but with much more frequency, across the nation; President Stumpy daring the Virus to come get him, which it does; goon squads volunteering to "oversee" the polling places.... I mean hey what's not to like about the USA this year? I'm sure glad I don't live in some backward place like Bolivia or Bosnia-Herzegovina! </p><p> Obviously President Stumpy most wants to appeal to those Americans of whom Ben Franklin said because they desire security over liberty deserve neither, and if populations get the government they deserve, then perhaps this was all just as God planned it, because Those Americans have gotten noisier and noisier over the years, along with Stumpy. </p><p> Well it would be one thing if I had happened to respect what his profession was before election but since Real Estate is anathema to the Indigenous outlook (along with the importation of the European and Oriental concepts of "wealth" and "money" and "commerce") but since I know Real Estate is one profession where everyone must present themselves as exceedingly trustworthy (when their whole industry has been built on theft from the first) by dressing in best "business formal" for PR presentation... I never liked Real Estate people nor even the idea you can buy or sell the Earth Mother itself. Goes to say I couldn't care less about people such as Stumpy himself.</p><p> Sigh. So many things went wrong in that going forward of Manifest Destiny over the original Americans and so much of all them are tied into the future demise of our Earth Mother herself, all rapped up in those civilizational tropes. I see and watch as the Arctic sea ice retreats, Greenland and Antarctica's continental ice shelves unmoor and unglue, as wildfires wreck what used to be everybody's ideas of idyllic California Summer dreams... </p><p> But why go on? It's duality anyway and more of the Games of mice and men. </p><p> Me, I think things are gonna get better. They always do, since "even this too shall pass away..."<br />The karmic pendulum can never remain on one angle anyway, and so, go vote, or not. It's your freedom and how much you value Life maybe. Things won't get better presto change-o and don't ever kid yourself buster that any new president is ever gonna be the Messiah you keep expecting them to be. </p><p> But you know, you can choose to go under in the onslaught, or you can "resist" by ignoring it, and the loud voices of hate you hear coming from left and right, of a country armed to the teeth ready to take each other on on an issue where the only sensible approach would be nonviolence, period. Those loud voices of hate want to eat out your substance and grind you down until you are in the same hole that they are. Don't listen, if they knew anything in the first place they wouldn't be down IN that hole looking up.</p><p> Think with your heart., and walk your right dharmic path.</p><p> Free your mind and your feet will follow.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-41604248955739608602020-07-29T07:45:00.004-07:002022-02-21T09:02:45.388-08:00Score 2 for the Indians<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This last month has seen 2 refreshing developments in the ongoing struggle of indigenous people to reclaim what once belonged to them, stolen by custom or treaty. In the first, a federal judge ruled that a portion of Oklahoma granted, by treaty, in the 19th C, to the Creek Nation, was still to be officially considered a reservation and under the tribe's, neither state of Oklahoma nor federal jurisdiction. It didn't mean that "Injuns are comin' - t' take away our land!" but it does mean that the tribe is allowed to adjudicate certain cases outside of any "constitutionally formulated" whiteman-style jurisprudence, set up since the great land grab of 1888. The judge ruled that since Congress had never said otherwise since the treaty was set in place, that the tribe still retains its sovereign dominion... over quite a large area of the state, including the city of Tulsa. This can possibly also mean that other tribes such as Cherokee who were removed by Pres. Jackson with the Creeks and Choctaws may themselves have righteous claims to the same opinions.<br />
In the other development, a ranch that had been out of Indian hands for over 250 years on the Little Sur River in California was purchased by the Essalen tribe, the original inhabitants, and will be a preserve for endangered species such as red legged frog and California condor. In this case, the land itself has been returned from the clutches of the 'wasichus" and every small step forward like this only serves to help to rectify the immense injustices done to the native people in my native state, and country.<br />
So score one for Sitting Bull and the good guys. Wouldn't he look so much better than Andrew Jackson on the $20 dollar bill?</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-7191220993515082762020-07-07T08:44:00.001-07:002022-02-21T09:03:20.442-08:00Long Hot Summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The latest national mood crash centering around race and police violence doesn't escape me, no matter how apathetic I choose to be toward most developments in my nation.<br />
The fact that cops are violent is no surprise. Neither is it a surprise that so many of them act like goons and bullies, since "that's their job." To be goons and bullies.<br />
To train for this , they often spend a term or two first in the military, and when they get out, no further ahead than they were before, they are given preference as veterans, in hiring- especially within police departments, where military hierarchy is a simulcrum of "service" life. These folks are trained to see things in confrontational shades, and so, we end up with a country that appears to have been overrun by an occupying army, where those paid to "protect" us bully, intimidate, harass, and kill us with impunity instead, since, of course, the man at the top "has their back." And we still want to think we are a "free country."<br />
We could go on about "the man at the top" but one thing strikes me as noteworthy at this point- he seems immune to the voices of actual protest against police violence whether directed at minority groups, or just the population in general. I notice he gives great credence to those who fought tfor the treasonous cause of slavery and secession as if they were "braver than you" and yet where's his own bravery to even match those? And why is a representative of the federal government so opposed to excising remnants and souvenirs of an abolished evil?<br />
Partly because he pays evil no mind, and swims with the likes of evil kings and dictators himself, and having long ago sold his soul (for whatever reason at the time- becoming most powerful man in the world seems to have been an afterthought) sees no moral turpitude in protecting his "friends" from moral and international justice.<br />
Well I sure would not want to drink a beer with either him, or most cops on the beat for that matter. The only way a President of the United States could ever be received in my home would be on the other end of a search warrant, thank you. And I never listen to his speeches- I only read abut them later, that's how little I think of the "msjesty" of his imperial position.<br />
<br />
Someday, and soon, America will get is head together about the Great Disease, and also, about Racial Equality These things take time and evolution, and often one step forward can mean two steps back will be required. However, since I happened to grow up in one of the world's great cultural melting pots, Honolulu, I could never understand why people on the mainland were so hung up about race, social status, class, and all those other things that go into making up "white privilege"- something I've <i>never felt much of myself</i> being both<br />
a) a longhair and on the "wrong side" of the War on Drugs"<br />
and<br />
b) my partial native American ancestry, dating back to before the Trail of Tears, which gives me a sense and perception of being part of a community established much earlier than 1492.<br />
I can't yet, figure why people have to hang on to their stupid ideas that there are "races" when there is just ONE human species, our brains are grey, our blood is red, and when our hearts stop beating, we die.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-10722959964255484142020-05-11T19:01:00.006-07:002022-02-21T09:03:39.866-08:00The Great Pause<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
What’s not to like
about this situation? The Rat Race has shut down, although in fits
and starts, it will come roaring back soon enough; the government is
sending everyone money (after stealing it from us, and profiting off
of us, for once we get a share of the take) and the natural world has
had a chance to take a breather from the relentless Assault of the
Seven Billion upon it.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Times like these
were built for those who get a little kick out of seeing things driven
into extraordinary situations. For once, soldiers have not been
forced to duke it out, although some continue to do just that; for
the most part, the industrial nations which rule the world’s
hegemonies have for the last two months been forced to freeze in
their tracks. Politicians have had to face watching some of their
dirtiest secrets exposed, and the Deep State revealed itself to have
really blown it for once in instigating the whole Russiagate
brouhaha. And while most musicians who depend on entertaining and the
gig economy have been hurt, the sheer proliferation of folks just
making their own noise coming out of homes across the world means
that music isn’t suffering this so badly as some might have
claimed, after all.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are always
bright sides to things and silver linings and unicorns still play in
the sunshine meadows of frolic.</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-38780036295720466472020-03-27T13:26:00.001-07:002020-03-27T13:26:13.811-07:00MYSTERIES OF THE PAGE Collected Chamber Orchestra Music 1988-1997<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
MARK LIND HANSON </div>
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AVAILABLE NOW</div>
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"It took only twenty years to swim to this desert island!"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4Lo2n_8VqX9b6FhhzjUbtcecel8SBWj-1fqv2o2w5Zu1kYY_lqFKJj6pPPSvMHGm6WKkSTraXPgNgDAhfVIkRmSKBcjhyDPvb1docR_4U56qbsOnnbBiZ336056pDu-f0ulJwHL29vI/s1600/MotP+COVER+FRONT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4Lo2n_8VqX9b6FhhzjUbtcecel8SBWj-1fqv2o2w5Zu1kYY_lqFKJj6pPPSvMHGm6WKkSTraXPgNgDAhfVIkRmSKBcjhyDPvb1docR_4U56qbsOnnbBiZ336056pDu-f0ulJwHL29vI/s320/MotP+COVER+FRONT.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">CONTENTS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Mongolian Baiti", cursive; font-size: 9pt;">DISK
1</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">MANTRA
(Adagio) (1988) (6:30)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">ON
THE GRANITE PLANET (1990) (Allegro con Brio Giusto) (2:27)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Mongolian Baiti", cursive; font-size: 9pt;">HERE
COMES EVERYONE (1995 ) (Allegretto Alfresca) (5:22)</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 9pt;">PAINTED
DESERT (1996) (Allegro) (6:24)</span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 9pt;">SLIPSTREAM (1996) (Allegretto)
(3:57)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">DISK
2</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">SPACE
MEADOWS (1995) (Allegretto) Aubade au Breton (4:19)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">MERCURY
TERMINAL (1996) (Allegro) (6:44)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">SYMPHONY
#6 (1997)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">1.
Indo-Celtic Pastorale (Allegro Moderato) (14:58)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">2.
Ghandarva/In the Garden of the Gods (Tranquillimento) (35:27)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Mongolian Baiti, cursive;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">3.
Electric Rose in the Forest (Andante) (13:47)</span></span></div>
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Inquire @</div>
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mlindhanson@yahoo.com</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-24163584359725664372020-03-25T06:43:00.002-07:002020-03-25T21:13:32.295-07:00Rat Race Goes Down Under the Weather<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The appearance of clean fresh blue skies (under an unusually long pattern of cloudy weather) and green mountainsides ought to be a inspiration to our neighbors- this is what our world looks like when we don't drive our cars so much. The Bay Area is experiencing unprecedented views, generally impossible since the 50's and the coming of AutoSuburbia to the West Coast.<br />
Here's one example (and my apologies to the local photographer whose name I did not note):<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEjQ3cQj2yAtBVJvXYHZDfAsDtdaZlj1G22upe0zImsgmpzGpQJDE-K2n-VNJQgIFlMe98VuI6b5Vju0dQe1D344fxrNnicdKwp0PzI3h7GXjGtV9SKXsLuMF8gj4palOb2KwWU060OY/s1600/unprecedented+view+sf+from+pa+radar+dish+hill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="1163" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEjQ3cQj2yAtBVJvXYHZDfAsDtdaZlj1G22upe0zImsgmpzGpQJDE-K2n-VNJQgIFlMe98VuI6b5Vju0dQe1D344fxrNnicdKwp0PzI3h7GXjGtV9SKXsLuMF8gj4palOb2KwWU060OY/s320/unprecedented+view+sf+from+pa+radar+dish+hill.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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As you can see, situated on the MidPeninsula the photo shows (with great clarity) a view from the Palo Alto foothills all the way to The City and beyond. Usually we can't even see across the bay! Now, we could all enjoy more views like this, if people could only slow down and not drive their Rat Race machines so often. </div>
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The forcing of the Rat Race to slow down to a standstill or crawl at this time is greeted by many with horror. They are too trapped within it see anything but a negative outcome to their personal quality of life, meaning they are hard-pressed to see what a positive it is for all the rest of us to be able to enjoy and appreciate nature for what she is. And without the daily, impeding presence of humans, the natural world is able to reassert itself, as this next photo shows...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWIGy0-mfvKGiBaKCRFZ2FkO2z_Mt3KWXDHIS7SlHiEUYlfDHuL5Rs738cpfcm6YgLqr8LDdeekjdBaPzdJtQLBnf3tgYUwNdCFNi-3d0H1kUyI-dTAiMwe8sOmv72jrwn3Sy_KOma9Q/s1600/taking+the+world+back.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="628" data-original-width="495" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWIGy0-mfvKGiBaKCRFZ2FkO2z_Mt3KWXDHIS7SlHiEUYlfDHuL5Rs738cpfcm6YgLqr8LDdeekjdBaPzdJtQLBnf3tgYUwNdCFNi-3d0H1kUyI-dTAiMwe8sOmv72jrwn3Sy_KOma9Q/s320/taking+the+world+back.JPG" width="252" /></a></div>
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How badly do you really, honestly, need to get the Rat Race back into your life? Many of the folks I know are welcoming this release from a daily grind of commuting and spending hours in a place which, were it not for being employed there, they'd quite probably ignore in favor of the other places in their lives which have a more lasting & meaningful value.</div>
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For what good is our Rat Race in the end, if it leads to high stress, hypertension, heart attacks, and a sense that everyone else is just out for themselves and exhibiting it in the meanest fashion?</div>
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So there are silver linings to this current world pandemic. Not the least of which is, we get a break from our species' constant efforts to deny our place within the ecology of our planet. Take some time to breathe this new life freely and appreciate it for what it is. Your job, title, and position in society are pretty meaningless when you comprehend your place in Nature and in God's World. All that other stuff, from politics to sports to the economy, are creations and interventions of the human race. And in the end, what can they matter for a soul seeking spiritual freedom?</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-28782396462206850232019-09-22T12:26:00.001-07:002020-01-25T20:31:01.300-08:00The Seven Days of Re-Creation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;">I’m
heading down the main street in Cincinnati. I mean, nothing looks
familiar to me anymore, and I’ve lived here thirty years. I suppose
sometimes we can’t see what’s right in front of us too clearly as
if we have dust on our eyes all along. Well I was walking down 4</span><sup style="font-family: "mongolian baiti", cursive;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;">
Street, and at the far end I could see the first of the two tallest
buildings in the city, the Government Panopticon, which rose to a
height of 30 stories and was equipped with heli-pad, radar receiver,
transmitting beacon & antenna, as well as a network of cameras
and microphones all over the city placed in inconspicuous public
places. The better to keep an eye on us all.</span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
it’s just me, Steve Pissoir, and I am on my way to a very important
date with a friend of mine who works over at the university between
the government tower, and the Nollij Corporation tower.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
folks in the Nollij Corp. tower could give a rat’s ass for a toad
like me, but what I want to do (with the help of my good friend) is
to get a signal out, over the cosmos, using the radio telescopes of
the university (tied together with seven other large array and wide
beacon telescopes across the western hemisphere) as a transmitter to
send a serious SOS from our planet to any civilization within earshot
and get their help to preserve our living space before it all catches
fire- as it has been doing for the past fifty years.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
don’t know about such things & all except that my friend at the
university does, because he is an undergraduate exobiologist with a
minor in astrophysics, and he is just as interested as I am in
getting the word out, out of our society, out into the universe,
where perhaps creatures of mercy can bring us to heal the planet….</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
know, it sounds like I am whining. But you weren't there when the
final ice shelf left Antarctica, and the last penguin croaked at Cape
Horn, and the seagulls of Carlisle ate the rotted flesh of a hundred
thousand Englishmen whose fortunes had been tied to the Humble river
when it overran its banks and filled fifty thousand acres of cropland
into desert of salt.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">No
I suppose you were not there.<br />
</span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
my friend and I, we need to work on this thing without the university
or the government discovering we are doing this. Our network of other
conspirators, for conspirators we indeed all are, across the globe
are well aware of the risks we are taking and have left no stone
unturned in keeping our work on this project undetected by an
investigators or superiors or government agents… </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Because
we know that the government and Nollij Corporation are working
together to keep the fires fueled, and keep all the cars fueled, and
keep us all choking in an atmospheric soup of contaminated lead,
ethyl and premium. I suppose I can’t let on even to you but I think
you will believe me better once I get to the point of all of this.</span></span></span></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Steve
Pissoir, and I am on my way to the observatory at Cincinnati U. I can
now see the tower of the Nollij Corporation, the people who instruct
the world in what knowledge we are to know. They are the largest
repository of the world’s information, but I know for a fact myself
that they have kept a large portion of it hidden like an iceberg,
deep in their AI brain’s recesses, and these truths are dangerous
and self evident… someone wrote them long ago. If the government
won’t try to contact the aliens out there, then it’s up to us.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m
now passing Nollij Corp. Tower. The glass windows reflect a blue sky,
blue in the ultramarine, rows of them, that continue on down the
block and just three blocks away I’ll be able to meet up with
Jorge.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jorge
Torremolinos, my partner in this grand cybercrime we aim to commit in
the name of humanity, despite the thwarting bulking hide of the State
thrust before us. Jorge, with his degree and recent work, has got
connections to Chile and the Atacama VLA… along with our friend
Pieter in Johannesburg, we have got the ability, once Jorge gets his
Trojan horse into the mainframes of all three observatories, & we
can focus X Kw of power to send our message out to the stars for
exactly two and a half hours. Any longer, and there will definitely
be feedback loops from inside each country’s national security
cyber-defenses- they will not notice it is their own computer
networks hijacking the world’s most powerful radio telescopes….</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Such
military secrecy! Well it had to be that way, since Jorge and I feel
there is little to lose (but our lives and liberty!) and a world to
gain for humanity if we succeed. That is, if we can even yet still
regain our world. I don’t really know any longer if we have even a
wing or a prayer to cast upon the waters but all I now is, that our
government has not done a single thing but contribute to the general
misery and malaise…</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
government and the Nollij Corp both have a vested interest in keeping
secret any contact information they might have about any visitors
from outer space, any civilizations out there which might have -or
might yet- attempt to contact us. The goal I think is to continue to
shrink the population of earth through eugenics and possibly even
cannibalism to get the earth back down into a sustainable population
of humans. As it is now we have shore stacked on shores of humans
distributed around the coasts of our continents, and every year more
of them are forced to withdraw for higher ground, pushing the already
burdened nation sates… but I digress. My mission comes first.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
University’s observatory is but a mere four and a half blocks from
the Nollij Corp tower. It is entered through a small door on the side
of an auditorium (actually, it’s the planetarium, but it serves its
purpose for the student body to hold rock and roll concerts.)</span></span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jorge’s
office (and the telescope, and the controls) are just beneath this
large congregating hall, and the signals are relayed by means of
transmission wires to the antenna and satellite dish on the rooftop.
Ingenious, actually, it was the best the university’s cash-strapped
astronomy department could come up with. Whatever it is, it works.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
we are hoping to hijack the network. With 790.000 Megawatts of
broadcast energy, the sum transmission, traveling at the speed of
light, will reach the closest star at 6-11 light years. The next best
habitable stars come in the 20-50 light year range. But if there’s
anybody out there?</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
are betting there is. The sheer number of viable exoplanets, Jorge
assures me, is enough to wager the risk is low that we will perform a
pure miss, and nothing will come of our efforts, except, perhaps for
all of us, a term in our local prisons.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here’s
Jorge, and here I am, and I hand him the slip on which I have written
the message we will be broadcasting in binary formula out in hopes…
we can reach… them.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; widows: 2;">
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<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hello!
Please understand who we are, we need help! Come to our star and help
us- our planet is choking and we need oxygen and other elements to
mitigate our existence! Help! Please come soon!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">You
will never believe what happened next, but I am here today to tell
you. Within three hours of our shutting off the transmitters and
resuming our nonchalant roles in our respective countries Jorge,
Pieter in South Africa, and Alejandro in Chile had gone back into our
regular everyday positions, I in finance, and them just turning their
backs in their white coats - within three hours the most amazing
things happened.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">First,
the sun hung in the sky at about 2:00. It remained at 2:00 for more
than fifteen minutes, then, a half hour, then, for yet another hour
it had remained in that one spot in the sky. All the world seemed to
come to a halt, as people everywhere could not help but notice that
the sun had stopped. Taxis and freight trucks ground to a halt, horns
bleated, tempers flared. Road rage broke out simultaneously in over
fifteen states on seventeen federal interstate highways. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was as if the sun had become a magnifying glass, and we humans were
little ants.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Smoke
and steam poured forth from the exhaust flumes of over three hundred
coal fired power plants in the Eastern Seaboard grid. One by one,
these began to black out. With that black out, lights and electrical
outlets all over the east coast went out too. Stereos and computers
died. Radios fell silent. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It
was but the beginning.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
was a great sound like thunderclaps, and, lest you think I but jest,
the sound of a thousand trumps blowing in great arpeggios of glory.
How else can it be said. And we saw it. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was just like more than a hundred science fiction movies, above us
all in the sky, a gigantic alien spacecraft. It had lights all about
the perimeter, and- cross my heart if I am lying to you- it had a
little ramp that came down, and down that little ramp walked a little
man, clothed in a simple robe, and from it the music that was playing
as he came down the steps- something like a country-funk rythmn &
blues bop shuffle- he was snapping his fingers and grooving. And I
swear to god it was like a hundred angels came down out that
spaceship behind him, trailing their clouds of glory, and we all knew
who He was.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was up to Him to announce himself, though. All the world stood still
in awe. Just as the sun, now freed again, continued on its way down
the horizon, so did the Son of Man return to the planet he had called
home 2000 years ago, but that prophecy should actually come true? Had
the Messiah actually come just at the time when we of the scientific
community had been asking for help from any outside force, here it
was in all its force right in our faces?</span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; line-height: 100%; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">My
God, I said to Jorge in a text message, I think this is the Second
Coming of… Jesus Christ.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">About
twenty minutes later, I get a knock on my door.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
go to it…</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">and
shit, there’s Jesus!</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Steve
Pissoir?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Steve,
I’m here in answer to your message.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
but, yes?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
nothing. Hey, I bet you get a lot of shit about your name, hunh?</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Um.
I think I am used to it by now, yeah...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well
hey, anyway. Look- see what we gotta do-”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">What
we gotta do is, we gotta have a Press Conference!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">A
what? And blow our cover?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“”<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">No,
I got your backs! C’mon. We gotta have a press conference so the
leaders of your planet know this shit’s come down for real!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I-
yeah, right, I guess.. we gotta… Yeah, OK, what do you need me to
do?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Go
to your university there and get the Astronomy Department head to be
present at our conference. We’ll present the case just like it was
some kind of scientific event, you dig?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Umm…
sure.. uh”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
who is not to take us seriously anyway! You know who I am, come on!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was obvious that if Jesus himself was in on our conspiracy I had to
concede perhaps we were invulnerable. It might have been a mistake,
but I guess it was just a step I had to take.</span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; line-height: 100%; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
called Alejandro.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Alejandro
Tiene, our man at Atacama. He was in charge of a program checking for
the Hubble Constant amongst a number of Messier objects which had
been classified first as white dwarfs, but we now considered to be
“sub atomic neutron fissile factories”- happening about ever 16
parsecs or so across the sky…</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway
Alejandro was the brain who got the link up happening with the
telescopes becoming a transmitter, and his job and ass were as much
on the line as any of us. In fact, it was really possible his
government cold pursue an espionage case against him, if the hacking
were discovered.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
as Jesus said, he’s got our backs…</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Are
you kidding, man? It’s all over the tv and the radio down here,
man! -That bigass old alien space craft? Esta Jesu Christos, los
Salvador del mundo! <i><u>I know it</u></i><u>,</u> too!</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
turned to Jesus. “You see? He already believes!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tell
him, we have to coordinate...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
know, I know, a press conference! OK -I am now posting to the
University Bulletin board--- and also to several local television
outlets, and a couple of national and international… carbon copies,
you dig… We can face the reporters at… 4:00? OK?”<br />
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">OK.
That will be fine…</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
will be available on sat link whenever you want me...” </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Alejandro
had a pleasant, happy boy expression on his face as I blinked off the
stare-screen.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Roger”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">OK,
so we have about an hour to get ready,” said Jesus. “I suggest
you hold it in the concert hall upstairs...’</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">You
mean, the planetarium.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">No,
I mean the concert hall. That’s the only function it will have for
the duration as long as Dad and I are in charge...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dad?”<br />
</span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">“</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Dad?”</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Yes,.
You know. The Almighty. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Ou</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">r
Father. You didn’t think I was just gonna try and set this up by
myself again, did you, after what happened to me the last time?”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Umm,
OK, right. But please explain...”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Yes?<br />
“So
many questions! Sorry, I cannot actually think straight enough right
now to ask you the right one…</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">think
of an important one to ask...h- how did you hear our message?</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Hear?
You think we needed to </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">hear</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
it? But, me and Dad been working on you guys for a whiles now. We
sort of have a “6</span></span></span></span><sup><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">th</span></span></span></span></sup><sup><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span></span></sup><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">sense”,
you might say, of when and where we’re needed most...”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Ahh,,,”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">But
just one thing. You know, we can’t just keep coming here and
bailing you guys out like this all the time! You need to learn and
take the lessons to heart, because we </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">can’t
</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">always
be here for you!”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Hmmm...”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Does
it make sense?”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Yes.
But … What are you going to </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">do</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You’ll
see. Let’s get the press job set up.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
University’s Public Address crew spun into action, setting up a
table, a dais, a large flat screen pulled down from the back wall,
stanchions around the sage to hold back the reporters, most of whom
would leave that space for the cameramen. At 3:$5 the first reporters
began showing up. Me, Jorge, and JC were all seated at the table, to
begin.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"> <span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
rose to the dais.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"> “<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Good
afternoon, members of the press. I’m sure all of you have many
questions, but I’ll explain, first.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"> “<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">My
name is Steven Pissoir...” (Immediately, several reporters began
laughing and choking on their coffee. The slight disturbance was like
a ripple in the little room.)</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"> <span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
began again.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"> “<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">My
name is Steven Pissoir, and I am just a </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">bank
</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">clerk</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">for
</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Frosteez</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
But I had a vision one day that I would be called upon to send a
message out across space, to some superior civilization, to come to
our aid and help us with our great current climate catastrophe. My
partner here, (I pointed to Jorge) -is an exoplanetary biologist who
works here at the university. We set up a satellite link with our
brother in </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Chile</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
Alejandro Tiene, who will soon be joining us on the wide screen above
and behind me.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"> “<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
sent a transmission just three hours ago, toward the area of the sky
where we know the nearest habitable stars are. We know it was an
abrogation of our duties as paid employees of science agencies and
universities, but we felt that -in the absence of any action by our
governments- that it would be up to us to try and get this SOS out.
And look what happened.”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"> “<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Much
to our surprise, the result is what you have seen here today-</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It
is my proud pleasure to introduce to you, the man many of you have
been waiting for all these years, as did your parents and your
parent’s parents parents… without further ado, Mr. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><i><u><span style="font-weight: normal;">Jesus
Christ</span></u></i></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">!”<br />
</span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">There
was a mixture of baffled humor, shock, awe, and even a little
applause, which I swear had not been planned but apparently, the
campus PA guys had cued up just especially for the moment.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now,
Jesus took the dais. His hair was immaculately curled into
dreadlocks, and a bright orange-yellow halo nimbus surrounded his
head. He had a great wide smiling grin on his face, and his eyes-
well, they sparkled, sparkled like trillions of star-seeds would
launch from their orbit.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hi,
y’all”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">A
pregnant silence followed, interrupted by the coughs of some newsmen.
He was obviously stalling until he had their full attention.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hi,
y’all. You know, it’s been a while, huh? Last time I came by you
were all in a horrible way about what’s sacred & what not, &
I thought me & Dad had fixed you all up, with Moses and Noah and
the boys, but you didn’t get the point.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">-I
did. No, sorry, I meant that as a joke.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">See,
from where we are outside of space time, you would think we do not
hear your prayers, your cries for mercy, when you are in pain, on the
edge of a nervous breakdown, and more?<br />
“Well, of course we do.
Me and Dad… well I know you have more questions about “last
time,” but I am not here today to answer any of them. I am here to
help you NOW.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
was silence, more coughing and muttering in the press corps, and then
he turned to the screen behind us and pointed to Alejandro’s face,
which had as wide a grin as his own, and dominated the entire back
wall of the hall.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">This
man here, Alejandro of , is the first of you to acknowledge my
authority. As such, I will make him and his friends here-” he
nodded at us, staring at our shoes, or fidgeting with a water glass-</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">My
deputies in the great project we have ahead of us, which is called,
once again, coming-to-help-you fix your-mistakes.” Jesus he could
be sarcastic!</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"A
lot of you are not going to like what we're going to do next, but,
lest ye see miracles, ye would not believe…."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">There
was silence in the hall for a minute or two, since nobody knew what
to expect, and since nothing happened in the hall, it just made the
reporters all more nervous.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
this is what happened. We later called it “La Milagro de los Autos”
because of what it was, and how sudden it was, and how it affected…
all of us.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Across
the planet, motorists who were just tootling along merrily one moment
were sprawled out on the pavement the next, 2 billion bottoms
scraping asphalt, their automobiles… gone.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">From
the dais, Jesus now continued. <br />
</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like
I said, some of you will not like it, but Dad and I decided this was
the most important thing all of you could do, and none of you wanted
to do it, so we were forced to put it upon you all. I know, many of
you are without your radios now… but we will allow the use of cell
phones for the next three days in order for you to contact your
family, your friends, and your business associates as to what you are
going to have to do next...”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jesus
stepped aside, and came over to my chair to whisper.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Allow
Alejandro to talk to them for a while, it will keep them distracted.
We got a big problem going on with this, and I am sure Dad wants me
to be available...”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
got back up and turned the wire over to Alejandro.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Greetings
my brothers and sisters!”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Across
the planet, those who were on the streets now, their belongings
somehow left in place, but their autom</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">o</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">b</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">i</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">les
now missing, began to form up in groups around those with radios and
cellphones. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jesus
is back!”<br />
“Jesus did that?”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Jesus
Christ- that goddam motherfucker, where’s my fucking truck! I had a
load to get to </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">t</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">he
East Coast by tomorrow, now my boss will kill me!”<br />
“Let’s organize! </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yeah!”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
on freeways around the globe, these strange, bedraggled armies of
commuters, pleasure travelers, day-to-day deliverymen, and big rig
drivers formed into long lines and...walked their ways back home.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Greetings,
Brothers and Sisters. We are on the cusp of a great new astrological
age! Those of you of other faiths, be assured, we are not going to
persecute you for your ways. Nor even you, atheists. But just rest in
fa</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">it</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">h
that El Salvador is going to help us, and this is all for the good,
esta bueno, si? We will all get along! After all this is the New
Kingdom…” </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Alejandro’s
connection must have broke, because the screen behind us clicked
black.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jesus
stepped back up the dais.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Yes,
this </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">is</span></i></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
the </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">N</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ew
Kingdom of which I once spoke, in another mind, but it is also a work
in progress, and it always was. Thos</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">e</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
of you who are missing your cars… I know, I know, I can see you
even now, in your legions, marching homeward so you can go get your
wea</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">p</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ons
and come after me with your pitchforks…</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
I already paid that burden for you once, and I will not again. I want
you to know you WILL all be compensated! What you should be doing now
is, go home, get your shit together, and wait for our next phase.
This will begin as soon as Dad and I are assured that there will be
no insurrections among ye.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Insurrectionists
will be rooted out and cast unto the bottomless pit! Heh heh heh.”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
could not but wonder- but of course, God and Jesus are
authoritarians! Why, they are the highest authority, how could they
but not be! Was all the philos</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">o</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">phical
wondering over “free will” and “determin</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">is</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">m”
now all moot? It looked like the boss was back. But rather than being
mad, he seemed…more like gently amused. <br />
Nonetheless, they
often warned me that fascism might come wearing a happy face mask and
waving a handkerchief someday…</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
could only wonder what he means by the next step...</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">W</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">hat
was going on inside the planetarium was not passing unnoticed by the
powers that be, either in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">the
P</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">anopticon,
or the HQ building of the </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Nollij
</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Corp.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Inside,
bureaucrats, investigators, detectives, cops, generals and squares
were all debating how they should respond to the gigantic seizure of
power by “the God Bros” as one Pentagon wag called them.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What
the fuck are we doing messing around? Send in a SWAT team!”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Actually,
they did attempt it, but when the SWAT team arrived at the university
planetarium, they were met with a strange occurrence. Every single
one of them collapsed on the floor outside the auditorium door,
laughing and jagging into fits of euphoria. Dropping their weapons
and laid back, spaced-out, against the walls, they resembled none so
much as victims of an LSD-dosing experiment undertaken by someone
else’s army.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">So
that did n</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ot</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
work.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Over
at the </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Nollij
</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Corp,
where Splendor Bendix ruled everything with an iron fist and
burrito-filled glove, he saw his own blood pressure begin to spike as
the teletype gave him a c</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">a</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">reening
stock </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ma</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">rket
and just like that, Seven trillion dollars had been debited from his
estate. Rather than commit suicide, Bendix decided that he would have
his revenge as well on the “God Bros” in due time.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">But
even Bendix was not prepared to see the entire financial structure of
the planet earth, all its intricate networks of trusts and fin</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">a</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ncials
and regurgitables and vegetables disa</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">p</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">pear,
</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">J</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ust
like the cars had. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Sent
into another dimension, Poof.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Which
was what Jesus had meant when he s</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ai</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">d
“our next step...”</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
press conference broke up with the reporters yelling and screaming
madly for Jesus to comment or answer a question, but JC had already
split and headed back down into Jorge’s lab. There, me and Jorge
found him later in the afternoon, his feet propped up against the
back another chair, arms folded behind his head, and that same
shit-eating grin plastered all over his face.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">See
how they like it now.. no cars, no money… no more rat race!”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
smiled. I knew I had to talk to him a little more about the speed of
these things taking shape, but he seemed so pleased I dared not
disturb him.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
stuck my hand down the pocket of my jeans and where I last remembered
having some change, it was there no more. Just like Him, I thought,
he’s gone and disappeared all the money too. Just like the cars.
Are these really miracles for our own good? Or will civilization
collapse? I gotta try and stay on his side though- never know if he
might even decide to throw <i>me</i> to the bottomless pit.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
let us rest up, and I did that at my own home, walking there as I
did, surrounded by dozens of other people, some of whom lived nearby,
and most who did not. It was a funny feeling walking amongst all my
fellow people, and none of us had a dime in our pockets. Like, the
world could go on, and somehow, even us humans with nothing left at
all- no car, no money, maybe you saved the coffee mug from the last
car trip and are wearing it like a pilgrim’s badge by now- </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
every single man and woman on the streets had been suddenly
de-statused, or perhaps, I hoped, “re-statused”- as would be the
primary idea behind a move like this by Jesus and Dad.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
sort of resented not having the money or the wealth any longer. Now,
we were all just serfs in Jesus great kingdom though I am sure he
would rather prefer to call us his sheep.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sheep
or not, I know there are still plenty wolves out there. Like,
Splendor Bendix and his crew, and all those long haul truckers out
there who sat, defiantly, beside their cargo loads, as they waited
for company representatives to come, inventory the goods, and release
them back to their family and homes.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Where,
just like everyone else, there was not even a single article to be
found related to the fossil fuel industry.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">From
nowhere, thousands of kitchen sinks had their underside cabinets
scoured of plastic bleach bottles, garbage bags, weed killers, and
air fresheners. Everyone would still have their phones, but sure as
shit, I knew that, come tomorrow, Jesus would be up and at ‘em
early in the morning wanting to get the new Kingdom off on a good
foot for the First day.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On
the First Day, the Food Panic had set in almost immediately. Once all
those multitudes formed their long lines off the freeways and began
their homeward treks, those who’d been waiting for their return
panicked. No car! Most then began walking for their local
supermarkets, and predictably, these started selling out their stocks
before closing, Many shopkeepers marked up signs reading “Closing-
Permanently” but were shocked, when in the morning, they returned
to their shops to begin the process of making the adjustments, when
they saw their shelves had all been mysteriously resupplied! There
was nothing amiss, at all… except.. the food was all “generic”-
there were only a little tag at the end of a bag, or on a box, to
tell what it was, although every item was in the exact place that the
display merchants had slotted it.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was truly a miracle…</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As
for those multitudes on the highways, overnight, Jesus had sent out
an army of angels armed with reusable water flasks and loaves of
bread, (and cookies!) at way stations along the roads There was no
reason anyone with a healthy body could not return to their abode
within a day or two, and unless they were far from home, there was no
problem.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jesus
keeping the cellphones on for longer than he first had planned had
something to do with the fact that, by the end of the third day,
there were very few cases of madness, insurrection, or
disgruntledness.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "new york" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Except,
of course, in the halls of Power.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">On
that first morning, when I had finished my last cup of specialty
Columbian coffee, and had steeled my mind for the worst, I headed
back to Jorge’s office, which of course, was now the command post
and HQ for all of the Good Lord’s Earthly Operations.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
was seated in the same chair, in the same way, with the same smile on
his face, when I entered. Only behind him now, standing, with stern
looks on their faces, were two large angels.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Steve,
meet Gabe and Mike. They’re my bodyguards...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Umm,
how do you do?”<br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">They
stood silently and only nodded in my direction, an indifferent
acknowledgment, I felt.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
did get some overnight reports about some problems, mostly those
interstate truck drivers. What a tough breed they are! I can
understand how inconvenienced they must all feel. Listen, I sent out
squads to every large disturbed region- you know, the ones where
there’s the most freight just lying out on the road, you know? Told
them that my angels will guard the shit so nobody can rip them off.
Then I sent all the truckers home. That sort of nipped their anger in
the bud. They weren’t happy with the loss of their wallets, either,
but, I assured them that their wages <i>will</i><i> </i>be made up,
when we have the final edge of the operation functional. And you,
too- you will miss your coffee, too, I know! But hey- remember what I
said now! Take no worry for where or how you shall eat or what your
raiment shall be, alright? We’re all gonna be in this together, and
every last jot and tittle will be accounted.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now
Steve, I want you to be my ambassador, intermediary, or whatever you
want to call yourself, to these others, the seven billion of you here
on this little blue rock of stardust.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">You
are my PR guy, my go to for questions of which of course, I <i>might</i>
know the answer, but, maybe also I don’t, you know? Being only
half-human and half-Holy Ghost, I can’t actually see past a certain
fog in my own perspective...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Got
a log in your eye?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ha,
ha. No really, there are things you will have more familiarity with,
you know? I only get to check in here every couple of thousand years,
and while Dad’s crystal ball shows him and me a lot some days it’s
all cloudy… too many bad vibes going on here with you guys all
fighting between yourselves! When the problem here is Everyone’s. Can you grok that?</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
grokked. It was one thing for Jesus to be an omnipotent omniscient
being able to create miracles at will, it was another for him to be a
<i>visitor and </i> just <i>a visitor to</i> Planet Earth. Clearly
someone who understood decorum, diplomacy, and the various madnesses
of Earthlings would need to handle the job he was pegging on me.</span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
sighed. It was gonna be a long week.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Splendor
Bendix, as his name implied, was a man born to opulence and
convenience, and used to having his way. As he stared at the blank
screen on his desktop PC, while it still <i>existed</i>, (it had not
been transformed into some hyper-string dimension, as the
automobiles) It did not seem to <i>function</i>.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">While
the power light went on, the screen remained blank, dark. He pulled
out his cell phone and punched the fast dial number that would summon
up the phone of Fenstermeier, his number 2 and CFO of the Nollij
Corp.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
was no answer</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
was not even a <i>ring.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">For
all intents and purposes, the hour had come “of which no man shall
know.” </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
cell phones of billions were now not much better than cheap storage
banks for their pictures and videos.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jesus,
I knew, had anticipated this <i>new</i> panic, too. Because, in fact,
everything which had relied on either a satellite relay or “the
cloud” (as it was quaintly referred to four decades past) was
non-functional. And might as well have been just another piece of
junk to clutter up the landscape.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Goddamn
those fucking GOD BROS!” he stormed, tossing a paperweight so hard
against the glass front wall of his office that it shattered into a
pile of fragments.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">A
secretary came running at the sound.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Is
anything wrong, Mr Be- uh -oh- OH!”<br />
She stared at the
pile of glass.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes,
Diane, <i>something</i> is. <i>Everything is broken!”</i><br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
kicked hard at the pile of shards, stopping just before the tongue of
his shoe slipped beneath a large one.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Can’t
do well without my <i>foot</i> now, can I?”<br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Splendor
Bendix- fifty five years old, captain of industry, the picture of
health, wealth, and success, once known as “the richest man in the
world” (before his company was forced to cede certain patents to
the Government Panopticon) -reduced to mining cryptocurrency for the
past three days and nights as he attempted in any way possible to
recoup his treasure…</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Was
now without even <i>that</i> remedy for his anxious and bitter greed.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
paused.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Is
<i>your</i> cell phone working, Diane?”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
checked.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Why,
no!”</span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thought
so. Looks like the GOD BROS have struck again, Goddamnit!!!!”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">We’re
now well into getting the heavy lifting over with...” </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jesus
smiled. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
stood in front of Him, Gabe and Mike looked rather bored, but at
certain points in the conversation, they might nod, shake their
heads, or in some way let me know that they actually did take note of
my presence. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes,
the heavy lifting is over. My Family Reunification Squads have been
busy the last couple days, but they report that everyone’s back
home, safe and sound. Of course, nobody liked it that first night,
when there wasn’t any food left in the stores. But the shopkeepers
all sang a different tune Wednesday didn’t they?”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Freed
from the bondage of money, most communities now reverted to the
barter system, or the shopkeepers, attended by other angels, would
distribute food to all and any who wanted it. Some greedy people
tried stockpiling it, but it was soon obvious there was no need for
that. Every morning the shelves magically refilled by themselves.
Nobody was hungry or thirsty.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of
course, being all generic products, nobody could get Just Exactly
what they were used to, but the absence of competition in the food
industry actually hurt nobody but the market research and advertising
industries, who had made their own fortunes picking on small
differences which were, for the most part, so miniscule to begin
with, that having all the food be “generically packaged”
presented no real issues.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Most
of the world’s population, in fact, were happy campers now. Had
Jesus been a politician, I am sure everyone would have elected him
King, at that point!</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
laughed again.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">So
now we are into the other phase. Now that we have the worst of your
-madnesses- controlled, we’ll get to work on the- Chemical
Problems.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">From
what I could tell, Gabe & Mike weren’t just JC’s bodyguard’s-
or obvious “heavy muscle”. It turned out they were in charge of
the millions of angels who now composed the world’s police force.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
nation-states, powerless now in the face of the Divine Authority,
were doubly confused and insulted why the fact that, around the same
time the cell phones had all disappeared, so had all insignia of rank
on uniforms, medals, & standards of Officialdom. There was left
in fact, only one flag- that of the United Nations. Some of its
appointed representatives took issue and umbrage with this. For what
had all these smaller nations combined into the USA’s One Hundred
Stars to begin with, if not to enjoy the rights and privileges
granted by the US Constitution?<br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
didn’t come all the way here just to pay my obesiance to the Ten
Commandments and the United Nations Bill of Rights,” thundered the
ambassador from USA/France.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s
also insulting that we have had to ditch our free markets for this
undiluted- Communism!” echoed his USA/UK counterpart.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Part
of their problem was that with all those angels watching the highways
for “poachers,” they were also on nearly every street corner
doing good deeds, like, helping old ladies across the street, preventing stray dogs from being bullied or tortured, watching over
children on their way to school- it was also noted inside the great
Government Panopticon- just nine blocks away from where we were, at
Jesus’ HQ- that the angels apparently had a better take on mass
surveillance (as well as the local kind) that the business of the
government keeping tabs on everyone was now redundant.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
As
they lunched, lonely in their cubicles, the employees of the Nollij
Corp. had their own beefs. <br />
“Now there’s a greater
intelligence at work than even our own AI!”<br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">As
it turned out JC’s “Chemical Problem Project” would involve
much more than a gang of angels and omnipotent wisdom. JC needed some
actual scientific help, and he got it.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Remember
Pieter in South Africa? (Almost forgot about him- you thought!) He
was called on by JC to do some leg work by traveling to Antarctica
and taking measurements there of the ozone hole, as well as an
atmospheric examination. How quickly was JC’s “oxygen insertion”
taking hold in the lower atmosphere, and how soon would the actual
CO2 /ppm measurements fall back to the level that JC, Dad, and all
the angels sought? (This had been fixed at 1790 AD, a reasonable
enough place, thought JC, before autos or the practical applications
of electricity…)</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
so happened that the employees of Nollij Corp, disallowed their usual
lunches of catered food of high and mighty artsy-fartsy cuisine, now
forced to eat generically wrapped tuna sandwiches and fruit salads,
sent a memo to their boss complaining about the loss of morale it had
engendered.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">When
Bendix got it, he agreed.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">This
bullshit about the grocery stores is too much. We <i>have</i> to have
a way to get back to the way things were, to monetize appetite, and
have diversity in menu choice again! There’s got to be a way I can
manipulate everyone under our platform into choosing <i>our</i> way
over the God Bros!<br />
“Hmm. Maybe if I had a chip they
could implant into the consumers, that would allow them access to the
things they’re <i>used</i> to having again, they would all go for
it. For who wants this generic crapola every day anyway! I don’t!
And I like my oatmeal to be made from steel cut rolled oats, not
whole oats! Even if they <i>are </i>organic!”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">So
it was, that Bendix announced the new chip, and anyone who wanted one
could come to the Nollij Corp building and get one implanted, for
free.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of
course, there <i>would</i> be a monthly usage fee. Six dollars and
Sixty Six cents. And that since Jesus had suspended monetary
currency, Bendix said that the Nollij Corp would hold all these usage
fees in abeyance, until either the “Tyranny of the God Bros is
overthrown, or we’re all cast into the Bottomless Pit.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Most
citizens, being unaware of how the Bottomless Pit actually functioned
(one could not arrive there unless Jesus himself had adjudicated it, on a case by case basis) were afraid enough of it, but there was,
yet, a sizable portion of the population for whom all these changes
wrought by the New Kingdom At Hand were the worst things that might
ever have happened. <br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not
just Splendor Bendix, but, speaking of your average man in the
street. After so many centuries and generations of humans coming and
going, leaving their descendants a world that was exponentially more
complicated than before, the loss of -free movement (no cars) free
markets (generic foodstuff!) and no tv, computers, or cell phones (No
social media! No business!) they had, in fact, begun to organize. And
the same emotions displayed by the long haul truckers were patched
onto every fifth man in the nation, and his children and dog as well.
Everyone who got the implant was now marked, in more ways than one.</span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">For
those who had accepted the Bendix/Nollij Corp offer, they met with
scorn and derision from the angel guardians on their block.
Everywhere they went they would be subjected to laughter, for the
angels could tell who had the chip and who didn’t, with merely a
glance. And the citizens who had gone under to the angels would
merely go about their business as nothing occurred otherwise, for
they were happy in their material guarantees already, and saw nothing
but oddness in the ones who deemed to make trouble for JC, Dad, and
their Plan…</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">On
the Fifth Day, Jesus met with me in the planetarium HQ office. <br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Steve,
I gotta really good one for you today. Today’s the day we put in <i>my
own</i> public address system. We’re going to be checking it out
at...” He looked at the clock on the wall...”10:00, just three
more minutes. While we wait why don’t we go over some of the stuff
I’ll be layin’ down in our first broadcast...”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
looked at him. That same smile, those same shining, confident eyes.
The halo about his head that was really only his aura, but which
always seemed so magnificently radiant… radiating serenity and an
easy seductive calm.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">One.
I did not really want to involve <i>Mom</i> in this project, but,
seeing as she’s really just a sort of keep-to-herself sort of
person, but she insisted. Mom’s in charge of all the… Other
Animals.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">You
see, ever since the time of Noah you guys have actually had all the
advantages. Who’s to speak for all the other species here?</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mom
decided <i>she </i> had to be the one, and Dad, he just said, OK and
went along.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mom’s
put everything else except you guys on the Endangered Species Act
list, and THEY are being protected by angels now, too. But we’re
working on letting you guys <i>gradually</i> bring their populations
down, when we are talking about your usual food stock species-
chickens, cows, pigs, fish you know. Eventually, in another year, you
will all be vegetarians, but, you can’t really blame me for that. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway
you can still get your ground beef down at the store for a while
yet.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
is it grass fed? I asked I knew immediately he could easily see
through me and take me for a fool.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of
course, silly, just like the organic whole oat oatmeal!”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two,
we have adjusted your atmosphere to a particular point in your past.
You guys better not blow it this time! And start all that crap back
up again! Mom promises punishment anyway for those who molest or
torture draft animals, or who fin sharks, and as it is, there’s too
few of the actual Endangered Ones left to sustain them much longer,
unless our changes can help them too.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Everyone’s
got to work together to keep it together this time! </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">OK!</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">10:00!”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">At
ten, it was the most amazing sound. Louder (or loud <i>as</i>) a jet
takeoff, it began with a sweetly pitched note like a flute, which
revved into a very low note as from millions of horns in the lower
registers. But then he spoke.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Testing-
one two, check, check...”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
voice was coming from every point in the sky and was heard
everywhere!</span></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Alejandro,
on the stare-screen, gave Jesus the A-OK sign with his thumb and
forefinger. JC was transmitting to those other stars we had tried so
hard to reach!</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Angels
had been hard at work in this “Oxygen Insertion” program. For it
had not been just brought in, from God Knows Where, but they were
busy planting trees and grasses in many places which had not seen
them for centuries, like the Sahara and Gobi deserts, the tundra
lands of Siberia and Alaska, and even so far south as Tierra Del
Fuego. Everywhere where new plant life could be set in, so it was
done, for the only real exceptions were those mountainous regions
which had never had enough topsoil to sustain them to begin with, and
they filled in the gaps in the Amazon Rainforest.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pieter
was overjoyed with the results. From his phone in Antarctica, he
spoke to us on the stare-screen.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hey,
Steve! Hi Jesus! Hey- look, I think this is going to work. In just
the past 24 hours we have seen the ppm’s shoot up over 4000
percent! I think we’re all on the right track finally now!<br />
Jesus
looked at me and again smiled, <i>that</i> smile.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">So
Steve, looks like this is almost a done deal now, eh?”<br />
“I’d like to think so, and so would you, but there’s still
these forces...”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh,
you mean the Incorrigible Ones? (this was his new nickname for all
the Bendix-types with the chip implants & the $6.66/mo
memberships)- “that’s nothing. Listen we can have off with them
in a matter of another day.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">What
do you propose to do?<br />
Well, since I ‘d probably be up all
night checking the process papers on each one of them, I tell you,
I’m farming that work out again to Gabe and Mike. They’ve done
such a swell job already...”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
Splendor Bendix? Isn’t he a power to be reckoned with?”<br />
Amazing
how scared you all are of this one dude! Sheesh. Anyway, no, do not
fret, like I said, his day will come. And soon.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was at that point I shrugged OK and turned, and again headed back to
my place, where I could at least have a cup of generic coffee
(Mountain Grown- the richest kind!) and a few pieces of toast. <br />
I
wondered just how he was going to do it. The next day- Day Six- I
brought back the same question.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">So
what <i>are</i> you going to do about Bendix?”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
would not be so worried! Listen, most of his “chippies” are
actually willing to come over to our side, all they need is the right
encouragement, and to see the error of their ways. Of course there’s
quite a lot of them who would refuse to leave behind the old ways.
But when has that ever stopped human progress, huh? </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Perhaps
the time has come to give Mr Bendix his justice due. I seem to think
there are a lot of things about how you all thought we were going to
act when we came back, which are highly amusing to us and not at all
necessarily what we mean to do. For no man could know that, not even
John the Writer. No, I suppose the time has come to uproot the evil
branch. I summon him before me this next hour!”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gabe
and Mike were off in a flash to go apprehend Splendor Bendix. Sitting
in his now valueless penthouse, stripped of class status and just
another Neighbor on the Street, he knew when the angels came to get
him that this was <i>not</i> gonna be good. I didn’t really want to
stick around for the interrogation & all, knowing while Jesus
would not resort to torture on poor Bendix, but that in his mercy he
was bound to let Bendix himself decide if the Bottomless Pit was for
him, I split back to the pad for a highball and a joint. The rest of
the day would probably be all taken up with tribunals and angel
kangaroo courts, and I figured the best thing to do would be to hide
out, kick back. And dig the new world order in my own way, out of the
way of all that angel action going on outside. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">For
sometimes even that would break into my solitude as morning turned
to afternoon. There were screams, yes, but these were only
individuals not masses huddled together as such went to the Nazi
death ovens. I knew that out there, individual rebels were coming up
against angels, but always finding themselves defenseless against
them, no matter what sort of weapon they meant to take them on with.
And it was not gonna look too good if when they got to Jesus himself,
the o so bad ones, they had a 50 50 chance of the bottomless pit,
lest they chose it as a means of suicide.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
Which
was what Splendor Bendix did. Nobody missed him when he left us all,
and even if he had not been the great Antichrist of the Patmos island
scribe but just another greedy capitalist slob underneath it all, the
choice he made to jump into the Pit was one offered by Jesus not as a
condemnation, but a protest of Splendor Bendix’s free will.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">So
it goes, my dear friends,” Jesus thundered out through the clouds.
When all is said and done, the best plans of mice and men come to
naught, eh? That’s why the changes we are making include allowing
the Other Animals even twice the predatory powers they had over you.
I’d be more afraid of taking in house cats from here on out, if I
was you, since we have the bird populations to think of. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">You
wouldn’t want to go the way of the passenger pigeon yourself, would
you, O Man? </span></span>
</div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.00pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
think sometimes back to the days when I was here last. When I spoke
of not the water but the fire next time, I meant that, the fire is
your air! And so. I was warning y’all. I had no idea it was <i>Dad’s</i>
plan all along to make me die like that back then, but since those
days, me and him have gotten to be good buds, like a good father son
relationship. Sorry to have seemed so pathetic and disraught at the
end on the cross, but, if Dad hadn’t sent me that message of “tough
love,” I don’t think we’d be the good pals we are today.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was late afternoon. They’d spent most of the day tossing evildoers
into the Bottomless Pit, and the angels had started up talent shows
in the neighborhoods which had been most particularly afflicted by
thugs, miscreants, and plain ornery a-holes. They’d finished
mopping up and now they wanted to party. Kids were break-dancing on
street corners and tabletops, karaoke singers croaked calypsos of
palpitating hearts, and wannabe folk singers sang odes to the moon,
the stars, and the planets. You could even hear echoes of it though
JC’s cosmic PA!</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The
angels partied on well late into the night. You could hear the shouts
of joy, random blasts of trumpets, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , cursive;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">loud
guitars and drums, tribal dances, and choirs of hosannas. I ventured
out for a short stroll and the neighborhood parties were all really
swinging by then. Everywhere I went there were crowds in the streets,
celebrating with wine and beer and an ever changing array of costume
and mummery. Would this be what our future looked like? I wondered
about how he meant we’d “all be vegetarians within a year, but
that’s none of my doing?” Whose would it be then? Were the
animals going to bully everyone into it? That was certainly a
possibility, but I also considered that the Other Animals also now
had the Holy Mother and all the angels on their side. If there had
been a cosmic police force, then they were it, and it did feel to me
like things were definitely going to be different in the days ahead.
And Jesus’ idea to give everyone who’d lost a car a free bike!
What did he think that would do, when so </span></span></span>many
who had loved their cars were still a little more than wary of his
motives?</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I couldn’t spend much time though on the future. He’d set it
all up so that I’d have to be the one to explain it all to
everybody, and I suppose I just surrendered to the idea when I
returned home and began jotting things down in the order they’d
need to be addressed, when he’d ask me to take them all before the
folks at the Panopticon and the Nollij Corp Tower. Now those two
buildings loomed ahead in my life again, and it wasn’t because I
chose them. I guess He chose Me...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And on the Seventh Day, He rested.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-50522023213708156212019-08-07T09:02:00.005-07:002019-08-07T09:03:27.910-07:00On Bicycling 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Well I figured I would take a little time and revisit the topic, since the last time I wrote about this, I was still beholden to my analog bike (a Raleigh Mojave 2.0 mountain bike) - I upgraded in late 2016 to an Emazing Daedalus, which served me well until earlier this year, when an inept mechanic made it generally un-serviceable & the need arose to replace it (with a sister bike, the Emazing Artemis).<br />
The first of these two had a throttle-only setup, but the new one has pedal assist, and it's a wonderful help. I should note that, since acquiring an electric bike, my trouble with my knees (always aggravated by what few spills or mishaps I'd be recovering from) got much less, in fact, the electric has given me Years of Life to my knees which otherwise it would not have...<br />
My daily commute generally is 16 miles a day, which is easily handled by the bike's range (18-20) and speed (I've come close to 22 tops). Half of that is uphill, half of that is downhill. The trouble with the commute is that is happens twice a day (4 miles per trip) and that was just more than my poor knees could take, on an "analog" bike. I was constantly in a state of recovery and/or strain, and having to chug uphill twice a day- morning and afternoon- was certainly as much work as the chore I had to get to. Which is, being a school crossing guard, at a pretty dangerous expressway intersection with a blind corner, in Los Altos California.<br />
Working there I get to see behavior of the best, and worst, kinds, performed by drivers in a town which is probably the highest-rent and income zip code in the entire nation. Many of these people do drive like they are indeed "entitled" even if their entitledness amounts to merely blowing through a guy with a handheld stop sign trying to protect their neighbors' children from their bad driving & attitudes.<br />
The attitudes in America still are very much auto-centric ones. A pedestrian, or a person on a bike for that matter, are still not seen as relevant and deserving respect as are other motorists, apparently. For all their civic crowing about "bicycle friendliness", towns like Palo Alto, Mountain View, and Los Altos are still full of "high-minded professionals" who want to get out on the freeways just as fast as they can, damn all the torpedoes, come morning's rush hour.<br />
<br />
As a bicyclist I have had my share of these sorts of comments-<br />
"You're too old for that bike anyway- "<br />
(like it's anybody's business what someone else of any age does for transportation)<br />
"You're not a car-"<br />
(Because I want to cut my corners here on my left turn, and you are too far out in to your own left turn lane that I will ram you the hell over if you don't respect my idiotic ego)<br />
"I ride a bike too, bro, so can you move over so I can turn?"<br />
"Wait your turn! Right now, you're just another asshole in a car!"<br />
(No I didn't actually say that, but maybe I should have.)<br />
<br />
The "war" between auto-motorists and bicyclists is apparently not over, and maybe never will, until bicyclist finally outnumber the folks in cars... But I try not to escalate it myself.<br />
Lots of bike books will tell you "make eye contact with drivers!"<br />
But-<br />
that eye contact often is just what keeps the wars simmering. I prefer to make eye contact only to make sure a car turning out sees me approaching, and ring my bell. I go out of my way to be the LAST possible thing someone is going to run into on the road, and would rather you pass me up than have someone sitting "on my six" for five minutes, because I hate hearing things coming up in back of me. I always bike defensively and take these words of caution.<br />
<br />
"There are a lot of old bicyclists, and there are a lot of bold bicyclists.<br />
But there are not very many old, bold bicyclists..."<br />
<br />
You stay out of my way and I will stay out of yours, OK?<br />
Happy Trails.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-510957160858461002019-08-06T13:42:00.000-07:002019-08-06T14:14:53.828-07:00AVAILABLE NOW!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
By the Waters of Oblivion<br />
a novel by Mark Lind-Hanson<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpmpEGm5nvONWhxssQOb5r4-knmxFOpvf3_7OUvsVbRzlIgej-_LpNHV3CqNup_xKYNRTdZbQ409mxr7Au8uqecdYvq7BiRWfA2m-lvdV5Eog0n9G03IESFJRWuYzGWzWwqol-qDIPw8/s1600/OBLIVION+COVER+base+2000+X+2400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1334" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpmpEGm5nvONWhxssQOb5r4-knmxFOpvf3_7OUvsVbRzlIgej-_LpNHV3CqNup_xKYNRTdZbQ409mxr7Au8uqecdYvq7BiRWfA2m-lvdV5Eog0n9G03IESFJRWuYzGWzWwqol-qDIPw8/s320/OBLIVION+COVER+base+2000+X+2400.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
available at Smashwords.com<br />
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/952677">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/952677</a><br />
<br />
By the Waters of
Oblivion is set in ancient India at during the lifetime of Gautama
Buddha, although it concerns another, distant prince. Padmarana
shocks his royal mother and father by taking a noncaste woman
musician to wife, although unbeknownst to them all, she is a
reincarnated apsara, a semi-divine individual bestowed with deva-like
powers for transformation of earthly society. Padmarna's adoption of
Buddhist principles brings him into an unprecedented situation as his
former rival country's King attempts to create a unified state.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-55035943554874363022019-07-29T21:22:00.002-07:002019-12-03T19:39:42.567-08:00By the Waters of Oblivion (chapter excerpt)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: always; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-align: left;"> Jaagudar
had something special in mind for Padmarana on his next visit to the
tower at Landupali. It seemed that the young prince had never
experienced the time of Holi was it was intended... with a mug of
bhang and its concomitant pleasures. Unlike his cohorts who grew up
in the villages, he had never tasted the holiday drink, for the
purdah of women who clustered round his mother were ever watchful of
“little boys getting into trouble.” Surely now, the prince was of
an age when a little departure from the normal way of looking at
things might help to loosen his spirits a little... For all that his
parents had been doing in their attempt to undermine his love affair,
and all the Brahmins had been up to to inflame the minds of his
parents, and the whole big little world of Jharsuguda Gadh crowding
in on his sense of personality...</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="c7"></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
rode up one fine morning on his horse, and stabled it in its usual
spot. Jaadugar was sitting at his little desk in the bottom floor,
with a wry smile on his face. He had already made the bhang, which
now sat in a huge crock on the counter in his kitchen and he had had
a few nips of it himself. But now, he offered his full mug to
Padmarana.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Drink,
my boy, for life is short, and we are mortal!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
is...?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This
is the nectar of the Gods, young Master. Bhang, a concoction of milk
and the ganga plant. It is Shiva’s blood, and his whelping-milk. It
will make you see with your third eye open!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why
do I...?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Because,
my boy, it is time you experienced a load off your mind. When I think
of all the ways those people at Jharsuguda Gadh have misled you, and
held you to promises you cannot keep, and expected you to live in
their stilted and stuffy conditions for caste and status, I think of
you as yet an innocent lamb in the hands of wolves! And here, I am
offering you for today, a way to escape them!</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
drank the glass, sipping it carefully. The sour taste of the milk,
the sweetness of the rose petals, the indescribably spicy taste of
the crushed ganga leaves... as well as the various spices and rose
petals which Jaagudar has flavored it with... it was certainly a
very, very tasty drink! When he had gulped the entire mug, he asked
for more.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“More?
I suggest, young Prince, that you wait a while before you ask that of
me. This is a powerful intoxicant! Two glasses may send you into a
little head spin... I should hope you might keep your wits about you,
at least!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Today
is Holi. I am supposed to be at the castle, and take part in their
festival...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Bah!
Festivals! What are they but rituals for the peasants, and time for
the Brahmins to reassert their stultifying stupors of stubborn
stupidity! Nay, my Prince, the peasants, rest assured, are high on
the bhang themselves! You only miss the crowds. And the colored dust.
You can live without that. I am saying, for today, if you but sit
here with me in the tower, and we recreate ourselves at some pleasure
or another.... Why, it is a fine day for us to fish from the top of
the tower! Would you enjoy that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Perhaps.
I don’t know what I am to expect...”<br />
“Well,
you may feel a little dizzy, but then, I will do the fishing, and you
can sit in my chamber. Is that alright with you?”<br />
“I should hope so. I was planning to see Aruna near the time of
nightfall...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
so you shall, and so you shall. This will be but a mild few hours of
excursion away from all your earthly duties, even, the duties you
have to your love. Let me take your cloak... Here, set it here by the
lintel.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
handed Jaagudar his coat, and as he sat warming himself near
Jaagudar’s immense baking oven, he looked out the window toward the
river. The horse was contentedly munching on the green shoots that
grew from the river bank. Jackdaws and magpies and jays screamed
laughably at each other in the morning light. Padmarana even, for a
second, imagined he could understand them, and surprised Jaagudar
with a crowing noise he directed toward the sounds up in the trees.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My
prince! You can’t have come under the bhang so quickly!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
it seemed to Padmarana, of course, that perhaps he had.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Expect
things to seem a little different after today, but especially for the
next few hours. The bhang is like a curtain lifted from your eyes. It
is one man’s intoxicant, as it is to another his toddy. You will
understand why we only drink bhang for the holiday of Holi... There
are few other ways to dispel the permanent cast of dreariness that
the priests would like to see imposed n all of us! So be merry, be
light of heart, Padmarana. Come, let us go to my chamber!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
climbed the stairs, up past the room in which Padmarana had studied
the stars and the plants under Jaagudar’s command, up to the top
level, and Padmarana took a seat on the wizard’s bed, as the wizard
went to a wardrobe and collected out a fishing pole and a long, long
skein of line. He fussed over the ends of it for a bit, and drew some
bait from his wizard’s cape, and put it to his hook. Then, he
waddled over to his little perch, the one where he often sat daily
and dumped his stools into the water that ran beneath... and threw
the line with hook and bait off into the rippling river below.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ah,
Padmarana! This is one deep pleasure I have, to just sit here and
look at the river and the forest and the mountains, and not to have
to turn back and look toward Jharsuguda Gadh and all the fuss it
contains! For when I fish, I put myself into the mind of every
fisherman that lived ever. I am only connecting myself to the great
chain, and I only take what I need to eat, and to feed my friends
such as you, And the great chain and the great river flow on, on ever
onward! With or without us. You see, Padmarana, we are all a little
bit like these fish, We swim in our bliss, unaware that there are
little lines with hooks that dangle with bait to distract us from our
journey on life’s river. One temptation and SNAP! you have been
captured, and you are food for... whoever it is in society that has
set their line on you. In your case, being at the top of the chain of
Sakadwipa, there are all that many more snares being set for you. But
I am leaving you this as an escape...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
sat silently, Every so often Jaagudar would pull on his line, and see
there was no fish (yet), but then suddenly he had one. He had one! He
drew in the line and on it was a six inch perch. He put the fish into
a basket he kept near the passage to the little bench and laughed. <br />
“First one. But one is never enough, is it lad?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
baited his hook again. Suddenly, Padmarana felt it. The bhang had
crept up on him so slowly, so unnoticeably, he hardly even saw... but
now he started laughing uncontrollably, Sitting on the wizard’s
bed, he slumped over, convulsed with giggles. Jaagudar looked at him,
and laughed as well.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ah,
you see? My friend, this is what I knew you needed.”<br />
Padmarana
was helpless now, he had fallen under the spell of the bhang.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Everybody
at the castle is... like a duck!” he blurted, suddenly,
inexplicably.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jaagudar
looked at him with a wry grin.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
how so is that, young man?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
are like ducks in a pond. There is a big gander. There is a cutting
drake. There is my mother, all sudden and sodden in her ways...
following behind... are all the others... Oh! They are a family of
ducks!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jaagudar
laughed. “This is what I mean, Padmarana. The bhang gives you
insight you never expected to get. And I am sure there will be more."</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
continued his laughing. Imagining Lalachi and Moee as the fattest,
orneriest geese he had ever seen, he could see them even now, honking
and blatting orders to his father. His father, who was The King!</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
the fun of the bhang was only beginning.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jaagudar
tossed down his line again. A skein of geese were flying in the
direction of the castle, The green forest showed wisps of smoke where
the villagers were making their simple fires for morning meals. The
day was young. His young student was accomplishing this all very
well, so far...</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> With
Aruna clutching his waist from behind, Padmarana rode into the castle
up from the market road. The horse proudly strutted, and many heads
turned in the courtyard. Who was this woman riding with the prince?</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> He
dismounted and gave her his hand to help her down off Chaiya Bataka
(Shadow Wanderer). With her hand still in his, they walked together,
side by side, toward the inner doors of the king’s chamber. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Mohan
and his courtiers were gathered for lunch. When Padmarana and Aruna
came walking into the throne room, hand in hand, heads went up. A
gasp was heard from several of the Brahmins who usually took lunch
along with the king. These were Daridar, Motee, Lalachi, and
Bevakoop. Not quite immediately, but just as soon as the king had
laid eyes on the boy and the girl, a cry of outrage came from the
four Brahmins.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Mohan,
you must send back all this we are eating, now! The shadow of a sudra
has fallen upon your food! We are debased!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Mohan
looked at his son and his lover. An expression of scorn and loathing
Padmarana had never before known came to rest in his father’s brow
lines.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Padmarana,
who is this woman? The Brahmins are calling her sudra! Why have you
brought a sudra to the palace? And why have you brought her to me?
Wait, don’t say it. I can see it written on your faces. You are in
love...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana,
lost for words, could only nod.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Well
and fine, then, my son, he is in love. And now he proposes to show
off his no-caste paramour to me, his father the king!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Servants
scrambled to grab the king’s plates and those of the Brahmins, who
were gathered around the throne in a semi-circle, sitting on their
knees. Motee was loath to surrender his plate, but the servants would
be back again soon, with more.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Father,
your Majesty, yes, this is the woman I love. Her name is Aruna and
she is from the village of Katar-Baga. She may be a sudra, but she is
from a good family. She is also a musician. I have often spent
mornings listening to her and her friends as they gather by the river
to play...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">So
that is where you go every morning! Humph! I should have figured as
much. And next I imagine you will tell me that you have engaged to
marry this girl, eh?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana
found himself nearly choked, now. A tear had begun to form in his
eye, but he batted it back, and pressed on. He knew that the
willfulness of his father was something he could not quite match, nor
was his father’s temper something he ought to tread upon
incautiously.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">That
is for the future, father, Your Majesty, but, yes, we have engaged.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Another
uproar began among the Brahmins sitting at the king’s feet. Mohan
shushed them with a wave of his hand.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Padmarana,”
he said, his face now barely able to contain a certain mocking
haughtiness, “You know what this will mean. Such things are just
not done.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Mutters
from the Brahmins. "No, no,” “just not done,” “tut-tut-tut!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">I
have no idea what this will mean, your Majesty. I thought...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Well,
you thought. So, you thought. and what were you thinking? The son of
the king of Chhattisgarh, married to a common woman, and a no-caste,
at that? Do you realize what this will mean for our family? What do
you think your mother will say?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> The
wrath of Queen Sasita was something Padmarana had not, in all
fairness, even considered when he invited Aruna to ride to the palace
with him that morning. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Truly,
father, I do not yet know...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Well
I can tell you for one, Padmarana, that she will not be happy about
this. But I will leave it to you to discover just what this will mean
for her.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> The
news had already traveled quickly back to the purdah, where Sasita
and her own group of Brahmins, cronies, and courtiers were engaged in
the same meal. When Padmarana and Aruna approached the Queen, mouths
dropped open.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">It
is Padmarana. And a strange woman! The sudra they told you about, o
Queen! We must send back the meal!” the Brahmins wailed.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Yes,
I see it is Padmarana. And I see the girl beside him appears to be a
no-account of poor birth. And the king’s men tell me she is to be
betrothed to my son!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Tears
were openly rolling down Sasita’s face.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Oh,
the shame! This cannot be for the Prince I gave birth to! To mock all
the nobility of his line, and to marry a common person!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Aruna
and Padmarana turned to each other. They exchanged a look, of knowing
sadness. Both of them, holding back tears, gathered themselves and
prostrated themselves at Sasita’s throne.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Yo</span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">ur
Majesty, my mother, I apologize sincerely for the regret you will
face. But I have made my own mind up about this. Jaagudar says...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Jaagudar!
Jaagudar says! What is this, the Prince’s guru gives advice on
marriage that, lest none of this house and court be consulted it
should be precedent over our own family’s honor and tradition? Did
you not ever realize that I had plans for you, Padmarana? I had
planned for you to marry Anjali, the daughter of the wealthiest
zamindar in the kingdom, and he was oh so very willing! She has a
dowry that will bring you great wealth and riches! And you would wish
to throw all of that away, and run off with a poor wretch...” </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Now
Sasita buried her head in her arms, and two of her ladies in waiting
came to her side. Rejection and spite was in their eyes, as they
stroked the queen’ hair, and fanned her in the heat of the day.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana
continued.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Jaagudar
says that if a man is in love, he should give his righteous will unto
it. That there is nothing more important for a man of the world than
love. It is my righteous will, my mother."</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">There
is nothing more important for a fool, either!” Sasita interrupted.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">If
it means to disrupt what you have made plans for I am sorry, but,
this is my life, and this is my love. You would love her, too, if you
knew her.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Aruna
blushed at the prince’s words, but she kept her silence.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">I
will take my dinner in my own room this evening. And the servants
will cook me a meal that I shall eat, together with Aruna here, in my
chamber. And traditions be damned! I want only what I know is the
best fruit of my heart, the love I have for my love.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Rising,
and dismissing the women at her side, Sasita glowered down at
Padmarana.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">And
so you shall live with the consequences! I shall speak to Mohan about
this. You go, and eat your supper, and take the girl away from me!”<br /> She strode off from the throne, and disappeared back to a
divan that was set off behind a pair of screen. They could hear the
queen’s agonized crying behind them as they left the purdah, and
headed toward the prince’s own chambers.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> No
one accompanied them, they were alone. And they were alone when they
sat on the edge of the bed Padmarana had been sleeping in since
coming from the tower of Jaagudar two years before. His bedchamber
had some stools, some books, a telescope with which he would often
stare up at the stars and planets with, and it was open on the
river’s side to the cooling breeze. In this unlivable hot weather,
the breeze of the afternoon was one sure friend. <br /> Aruna took his
hand.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Padmarana,
my prince. I had no idea they would react this way.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
"<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">I
should have foreseen it. But, Jaagudar is right. A man should follow
his heart and live by what it speaks to him. Their stupid Brahmins
and traditions! It makes me want to weep for pity, it does.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Then
do not pity them.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">But
we must, of course, live with the consequences, as she says. That I
am sure will not be long for these walls.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> He
looked around him. The little room had been at least as much a friend
to him as the room at Jaadugar’s tower, for the time he had lived
with his parents again. But the room also now took on the look for
Padmarana as- just another place. Just another place where time and
daydreams had been spent, uselessly, listlessly, none of it mattered.
Home was where she was, and would be where she was, and the castle
had never quite felt like a home.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> It
would feel even less like a home when the king and queen summoned
them later, after they had taken the meal the servants had brought
them, and feasted, for what could be the last time, on the idlis,
kir, and curried fish with bananas. The servants had brought it, and
then scurried off, as if the two lovers already had something of the
appearance of lepers, and bringers of ill fortune to the castle.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Padmarana
and Aruna both came before Mohan again. Now, the Brahmins had been
joined by Lalachi and Daridar) behind the King’s throne. Sasita
stood at the king’s right hand, looking imperious, casting baleful
looks to Padmarana and the girl as she was well wont to.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">We
have been talking, Padmarana. If you shall persist in your
foolishness...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">I
shall.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Then
we are forced to take actions. From now forward, you will not be
welcome at Jharsuguda Gadh. You will live in the forest and live like
the no-caste you would wish to be. You will not be welcome to come
here, to sup, to revel in your silly past times, and lounge about the
palace in the lap of luxury. For I am making you the head of my
Rangers. You would not think I should just cast you out and not give
you something worthy of my son, as a livelihood? But you have
offended us, your mother and I. Making these rash choices always have
a way of bringing karma back upon us, do they not?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana
frowned. Their talk about karma, again! What kind of karma were they
setting for themselves? But alright.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Mohan
continued.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">As
the head captain, of all the captains, of the forest rangers, It
shall be your duty to ride the boundaries, to hunt down poachers and
squatters, to keep order in the forest. You have shown yourself
skillful at the hunt, therefore, you are also charged with keeping
the tigers and the boars from terrorizing any villagers in our forest
kingdom. You are also to keep watch for enemies, those who might take
advantage of our sparse defenses, and ride upon us, whether from the
north, or from the east. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">I
am sorry if I cannot wish you and your love a happy future. But in
taking on this role, at least you might still keep something of your
honor, from the house of Dwipa, the lineage of your ancestors, the
nobility of this kingdom. Do you understand me?</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Where
shall we live, your majesty?”<br /> “That, my friend,
will be entirely up to you. You are a clever son. I am sure you’ll
figure things out.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Mohan
clapped his hands. It was a signal for the armed guards who stood
behind the queen, the councilors, the Brahmins, and all the
courtiers, to come forward, and march the lovers from the throne
room.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">I
may still keep Chaiya Bhataka?” he asked one of the guards that led
them back through the courtyard.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">As
you wish, my prince.” </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> At
least some of the bits of his old life were not going away all so
fast. That they still called him prince... this was something of a
victory, itself.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> The
stone hut that Padmarana found deep in the Ushakothi, abandoned at
least a century, stood in a clearing among a stand of pipal and
jacaranda trees, just fifty yards from the river. Set back from sight
of those traveling the river in boats, more or less it afforded
access for water for drinking, cooking, and washing, and Padmarana
could also fish it if he wanted, but this, he rarely did.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Around
the hut others had made gardens in the past—locally, villagers
called it “Pitapali” because it was once the home of a shepherd
by that name, although its last three hundred years had seen it
occupied by traveling sadhus and bikkhus, and so never continuously
occupied, the garden spaces had grown back over with wild vetches and
turmeric. Padmarana was riding along, with Aruna at his back
sidesaddle, riding south from the wizard’s tower, when they came
upon it—its small, squat, humble profile distinctly standing out
from the green of the lianas and overgrowing pipal figs.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">This!
Here!” he cried, and Aruna clung even closer to him as he did, as
his horse took an unexpected jump at the surprise.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">This
place! We’ll make it out own home. Our </span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"><i>own</i></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">
castle. No one can exile us from, we will make it the new center of
our lives!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Aruna
meekly sighed, knowing full well Padmarana had had a speck of the
villager’s lot to contend with, would be getting a full, fat dose
of it, soon. How long would it be before his reckless idealism caught
up to the flat reality of this—a life wrested from the land and
soil, food bought by the sweat of his brow, the yearly onslaught of
the monsoon and the perils it always brought along with it...</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> The
west side of the hut also where its entrance was, faced out toward
the river. On the opposite wall was but one window, rather, a hole
set in the stones that acted as a window for there seemed no way of
stopping up the winds. Until they came, when Aruna hung a thick rug
that could be turned aside to let in breezes.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1891_751636045"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1331_1946543625"></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> On
the north side, the direction they rode down from, about two miles
back was the village of Dumurmunda. Another seven miles below would
be Katar-Baga, Aruna’s village. So she was not really all so far
away, but, all of it was a good fifteen miles from Jaharsaguda Gadh.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Around
the hut, the forest was home to dozens of animals. A herd of sambal
deer came by nearly every mourning. there were langurs and spider
monkeys in the trees, and the forest birds made each morning begin
with chatter, laughter, and territorial cries.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">This
will be perfect and all we’ll need,” Padmarana had said. Now it
would be up to him to make it so.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> They
brought with them not a lot of necessary supplies- they had blankets,
carried on their horse, they had a small basket carrying two cooking
pots, spices, and a couple of knives. The tools he would need (hoe,
plow, rake, shovels) for their garden, Padmarana would trade or
barter for in Aruna’s village that first week. No questions were
asked of the Prince, for the news would have quickly spread through
all of Sakadwipa that King Mohan had banished his own son from
Jharsuguda and all he was doing had the complete support of the
villagers, who, while afraid to speak ill of the king, were even more
loath to speak ill of Padmarana or say anything he might construe as
insulting him.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Besides,
those who knew them both already adored Aruna, who has long been held
to be the most talented of the apsaras living in the village. And her
friends would assure she was never truly lonely, for Eesha and Kiya
and Sunila would come to the stone hut to visit, often.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> When
Aruna and Padmarana came to the hut, they did not being a lot of
clothing with them. Because Aruna’s village was not so far, she
took only a couple of saris along to begin with, but returned several
times so that in end, she had most of her own clothing with her.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana
though, growing up as a noble prince, had nearly five times that many
clothes at the castle, and when he left, took only the clothes he was
wearing and his “ranger’s dress.” official uniform. He returned
to the castle but once, to gather a heavy cloak, a robe, and four
different salwar kameez. These would be his only (and most humble)
wardrobe through the years of his banishment.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Aruna
also brought from her parents’ home the vina she played, often when
she was solitary and alone, but more often when her friends came to
visit. The morning concerts they had by the river continued, only
they had moved to the hut, but Padmarana enjoyed them no less than he
had before. The girls were happy in their continued friendship and
the concerts progressed without the usual explanations or
interruptions of the villagers, too busy in their livelihoods to
bother with traveling the extra distance to hear them.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana’s
garden, begun during the monsoon, took shape as months passed. He
built barricades to keep out the sambal deer, improved the already
burly stands of turmeric and mint, harvested pipal figs and other
fruits from the trees thereabout, when he was not called upon to
patrol with his rangers. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">His
Rangers were hardy, swarthy men born to the Kshatriya caste
themselves and given, (in their spare hours), to dice and odd games
of risk and contest. Padmarana had no difficulty in keeping them
indiscipline, however, for all of them recognized his authority,. The
principal chief of the mahouts, Tonkeraja. had by now become his best
friend outside of Jaagudar, beyond the castle, if only because he was
seen more often, and frequently.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whenever
Padmarana was away, Aruna would sit in the shade of the stone hut on
a little stone bench he had made for her, and talked to the birds.
She would begin by mimicking one of the birds which would no doubt
begin to listen to her, and reply. She could imitate many of the
local birds including the mynahs, the sparrows, the crows and the
kites. In this manner she would cajole and tease the various
different birds who lived in the forest canopy just across the way.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aruna
had begun this little practice as a child, and so far, she had not
mentioned a word of it to Padmarana. This was her little daily
meditation, where she could join in with the chorus of the innocent
creatures who merely sing their own presence to the world. It was a
wonderful way for her to feel she was connected- to the earth, to the
Mother Goddess, to Brahma and the great visions that anyone could see
were after all, only figments in Brahma’s imagination.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This
then was her own world view, that the great Brahma was the
overarching sustainer of everything, and that all people were, and
all the trees animals people and stars… were just objects within
Brahma’s unknowable mind. Therein, the souls of all humanity
mingled in a great soup of knowledge and folly, every state of human
endeavor could be turned whichever way Brahma pleased, and all of us
were no more than motes of dust in the sun rays that broke from the
forest floor across to where she sat…
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of
course, there was work to do, and she would get to that. But it
always helped her when she could make the time to speak to the birds.
At some times, she thought the birds began to recognize her and the
times of day she would sit with them, but no, the birds didn’t keep
conversation books or appointment slips, the birds were there just
for the sake of their birdness.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
she was small, she had chased the kites and crows from the grain
fields, but now, the pleasant songs of the forest birds and the
pleasant way they made her feel was what came to minds when birds
did. What she could not know, was that the goddess had chosen birds
as her preferred method of letting her know things- as an apsari, and
still within the realm where beneficent spirits are ordained to come
to earth and help with human progress, there were chores the goddess
would presume her to undertake on that behalf.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
One
of these was that she were to marry Padmarana, become the Queen of
the Realm, and so, be in a position to help what the actual spirit
guardians of the world wanted to see done. It would be for the people
that she lived, but she, as Padmarana’s wife and lover, could sleep
and dream of life in the charpoy of Queen Sasita. Padmarana, by this
age, had had quite enough of it. He would not live out his princedom
in jealous and impatient expectation. How could he, he could tell the
disdain his father now held him in just by the scornful way he had
sent him out to scratch up a living from the wilderness. And so, it
were much better just to focus on the needs of the Rangers, of the
regions under his protectorate, and the people within them. He could
rule where his father would not bother! And in this way, he could
also make more friends.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
friendship with a prince is always, for those who are born of a lower
seat, a proposition which is a double edged sword. For gaining the
favor of a prince might curry the disfavor of a jealous neighbor, and
those who were once friends might become rivals. The idea that there
could even be rivals for the throne of his father was not something
he could consider, or at least, would not consider seriously at this
pint in time. Who would dare question the motives and deeds of a
great king like Mohan? Who indeed, except for the Brahmin caste who
stood behind the throne whispering in his father’s ears. Were they
truth or lies they whispered?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1830_1207618709"></a> For now, the friends Prince Padmarana had were his elephant mahout,
Tonkeraj, Jaagudar the wizard and the wizard’s assistant Lalnivasi,
his wife, of course, and maybe he could consider her parents, and
most of their neighbors, also to be “friends,” although there was
still that irrevocable caste differentiation that stood between
Padmarana and the people of the streets. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
for Aruna, whose new status among her friends had been elevated to
second-next -place to-God (the King), among her friends her company
was sought ever more eagerly, but it
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
was not for several months that Aruna came back to the village and
invited them to visit. When they did, the girls would sit outside on
the bench and on the grassy places in front of the hut, and play
their instruments as they had before Padmarana had come riding along
and changed all their lives.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aruna
preferred to play her music in the afternoons now, and afternoon
ragas like Bhimpalasi and Suud Sarang became the focus of what they
would improvise upon, rather than those of the early and mid morning.
These ragas were a little more active, carried more insistent rasas,
and left each of them, at their conclusions, happy that they had
completed those particular walks through the forests of raga. Aruna
began to see the forest itself as a means of inspiring her playing,
alive as it was with the myriad plants and animals that she knew to
be there, but made so little seen of themselves.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1814_610033070"></a> And as for those animals, there were some who were drawn by the
music, to stand their distance and listen, charmed as they were by
the magic weaved by the band of young goddesses.
</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-24673741316784350382019-06-23T08:29:00.000-07:002019-06-23T09:40:35.612-07:00The Prince in Local Exile<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana and Aruna slept in the
stone hut for a week, during the </span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">late
summer</span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">. The morning the
monsoon began he awoke in a bed of sweat, although Aruna was sleeping
right beside him. He dreamed he was swimming- no, drowning- in a sea
of buttermilk. When he awoke, the rain had began to make a pool near
the doorway of the hut. He sprung up and, ignoring the rain, grabbed
a hoe and began to cut channels to divert the rainwater from their
entrance. He could see, however, that this was a job which might take
him the better part of the day, and he wished he had thought of it
sooner, but the rains were here, and he would just have to cope
somehow.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1674_574093601"></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> While
he dreamed of a buttermilk sea, Aruna beside him dreamed she watched
a flock of birds “a hundred miles long” passing over their hut on
their way south.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Aruna
watched him from the doorway called to him when she had made for them
chapattis and dal—the repast was nourishing, and he forgot for
a while when he began again how uncomfortable he really was, with the
rain falling on his back. He had never had ventured out into it while
in the castle- although he spent many at the tower with Jaagudar
doing garden work in the rain, and he had not a minded it, his dream
felt so uncomfortable, that at the end of his work, when he had come
in from the rain with muddy hands and feet, he collapsed onto their
bed, and Aruna had to wash his extremities for him, because he fell
straightaway to sleeping again, and woke up late, when the moon was
out, and the clouds had passed, for now.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1674_5740936011"></a>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Aruna
was awake, then, as well, and had spent the time while Padmarana
slept arranging her trousseau so that she had her wet weather things
all laid out and easy to get to.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Aruna,
we are going to have to do a few hard things...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Yes,
I know...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">We
need to get some large jars to catch the rainwater, for one thing,
And I need some more tools to work on making a garden... and I need
seeds for plants, and we have to get them in as soon as we can. When
the rains stop there will be no way of getting more water except if
we walk all the way to the river, and I know, you do not wish to do
that every day. Bad enough you must take our clothes to wash each
week! But can you perhaps ask your father if he can spare us some
seeds?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Yes,
love, I can ask it of him. I do not know how he will respond. Since
last year when the zamindars came and took his cotton crop at less
the price he thought hey would pay him, he is probably dear with the
seeds we have there. But I shall ask for you.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> When
she visited her father, though, she found him irritable and more than
a little upset.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">This
is something which you two should have thought about sooner! I have
seeds, yes, and I will part with some, mostly for the things you will
need to eat, of course, but as for jars, your mother and I are hard
put out for it. Perhaps you can go to Miti Adami, the potter, and ask
of him?</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">I
know Padmarana has some money, and he still has access to the riches
of the castle, even as they will not allow him to return to live. We
will find a way to pay Miti Adami.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
‘<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Everyone
in the village is still shocked, you know, Aruna, that the king
decided not to let you two live in the (castle with them). They will
probably help you, but of course, if he greases their hands, of
course, I am sure they will help that much better.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Emanadar,
her father, went to his larder shelves and began to grab handfuls of
seeds from the jugs he poured them from, which lay on shelves that
reached to the roof, He made stops in six different jugs, and when he
was done with each one, he poured the handfuls into scarves that he
then knotted and tied. When he was all finished, he wrapped them in
another, larger piece of cloth, and handed them to her.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">This
should see you both through until our next harvest at the end of the
year. Beans, rice, greens, and some melons. I wish, daughter, that
both of you can find some way back into the good grace of the king. I
know it will probably not happen, given the king has such a stubborn
way about him, but if you can...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> He
did not finish. Aruna knew his heart. She took the bag on her
shoulder, kissed her father and set off for the home of Miti Adami,
the potter.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> When
she got there she found Adami taking a number of items out of his
kiln, and lining them all up against the back wall. “There! I have
just finished the order for Zamindar Zaroori Kaan. What can I do for
you, my Princess?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Please
don’t call me that, no, not yet, Adami! I am a princess in name
only, I am an outcast. And I am here to ask you a favor of my
husband.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
”<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Yes,
and?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">We
are living in a small hut in the </span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Ushakothi</span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">
forest. We have no way to gather rainwater now. Can you make us, or
do you have on hand, some jars which will help us through these rainy
weeks to come? My husband can pay...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Your
husband, I am sure, can pay. But it is not a good thing which his
father did to both of you! It is one thing to speak of “customs”
and “the way things are always done,” it is another to turn a
hard heart to one’s own flesh and blood! Bah! I want no money from
the Prince! You may take what you need, and if it is more than you
can carry today, I will have </span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Gopal</span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">
my runner boy bring more out to you, tomorrow!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Aruna
bowed, for this was a rather handsome sacrifice for the poor potter
to make for the behalf of a prince, even a banished one. He would be
losing </span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">many</span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">
rupees indeed! But she thanked him. She stuck the cloth full of seeds
into one of the biggest jugs she could manage, and took up another
one in her other hand. So burdened, she walked from the village back
over the paths and the hills and along the river until she reached
Pitapali, and the hut.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;"> Padmarana
had spent his day preparing beds for whatever plants she might be
returning with. When he saw the rice, he frowned. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">Rice!
What a lot of work that will be!”’</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
”<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">But
it will be easier because of the rains, dear!”<br /> “Yes, but my feet will always be wet!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">You
would rather we had empty bellies?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti" , serif;">No,
of course! But now I must create a place for rice as well. Oh well,
so be it...”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
was up early the next morning, building a paddy for the rice. Some of
the channels he mad e the day before could be turned in so that they
flooded it, but he was lucky that the bulk of the rains- when it
would rain night and day- were yet perhaps a week away. It meant he
could build the paddy as well as get the seeds in.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
soaked the seeds in a large bowl and left them another day so that
they’d sprout, and once they had, Padmarana went out into the
paddy, which was about three inches of mud over his feel, and began
the laborious task of inserting the seeds, some three to five at a
time, into the mud beneath his feet. This took him the better part of
the day, but he was heartened when Aruna came to him as he labored
and bought him steaming hot tea, and chapatis. He took a break from
the work and sat under one of the banana trees that rose from the
edge of the hut. Here, they would need more than just their dreams to
get by. They would need all the things they had learned and more, and
there were always more things to learn. So many things that would
never have occurred to a prince to need to know! But he was only a
prince in name, now. He might as well be just another peasant.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
noticed something as he sat looking toward the river. Along the path
that ran by the river’s edge, he saw men walking. They were dressed
in long robes of orange, and grey. For every five steps they took,
they threw their heads to the ground, and spoke inaudible prayers,
placing their forearms before their heads, then they rose, and took
five more steps, while they repeated this over and over, as they made
their way down the riverbank trail.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Monks!
They must be! The sight of the pilgrims making their way slowly and
with such ritual left an impression on Padmarana- this would have
been his life, perhaps, had he not fallen in love and decided to make
Aruna his wife!</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
monks continued, slowly, and uninterrupted, and he watched them until
they were no longer visible for all the forest brush, and they were
gone.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aruna
boiled water for tea in a kettle on the fire hearth. She had gathered
a number of twigs and branches of various bushes and plants near the
hut, and Padmarana sat looking out the window across the grass way to
the river. The air was languid, simmering, hot with the doldrums of
summer, and hung thick with promise of weeks of more of the same.
Padmarana broke a biscuit in two, ate half, and placed the other on a
plate on a table beside his chair at the window. Now the young river
birds were just beginning to flock up, the first approaches of fall
were hinted at. The situation between Padmarana and Mohan remained
volatile and unpredictable, the son had begun to resent his father
for the judgment that placed him and Aruna beyond the protection of
the palace grounds, but now, Padmarana was more of a man of the
people than he could ever become had he remained with the cloistered
patrimony of the court. So far as he knew, his father was unrelenting
once he made up his mind, and Padmarana decided to resign himself to
the fact that, the future would be completely unpredictable. He was
still eh heir to Mohan’s throne, this would not change, and so
there was still the authority dispatched to him by Mohan among the
jungle peasants, but even so, Padmarana’s status within the court
was fully banished.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1272_1471669846"></a> And so the sooner he accepted it all, and just stayed close to his
new home and wife, and took to protecting the population and the
wildlife of the forest, he would have no other bad comportment to
deal with at his father’s hands. The peasants acknowledged him as
Prince, and as someone living amongst them, grew to favor him over
the King himself, which was in the future to prove a lucky thing
indeed.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At
the hut that night, Aruna made him a fabulous meal, which he took
some part in preparing. Together they made rice balls, curried
spinach, broiled greens and chapatis. They washed it all down with
juice from several mangoes they had gathered that afternoon.\</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
night was hot and the wind was still. Only the birds echoing calls
across the river, and crickets in the tall grass that wended its way
to it, could be heard above the gurgle of the water.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aruna
and Padmarana lay in the bed together, looking out the one window
above them at the starry sky.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Did
you know, Aruna, that in between the stars is a fantastic network of
minds?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
I did not, my sweet. There is much about the wide world I have no
such sense of.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This,
Aruna, is I believe the basis of us all. Between the stars are great
networks of beaming energetic love. It sustains the fire of the
stars, it sustains the fire in the lives of men. IT is the warmth and
comfort of the great Mother that loves us all. That is what I see
when I look up at the great sky.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Moon, which was in the sign of the Scorpion, was no mean candle as it
shone down upon their hut and bounced its light in multicolored
spatters across the foaming, rushing river. The branches of one of
their garden vines that had wended themselves up the side of the hut
was the only interruption of the clear frame of the sky beyond the
window. Light grey clouds had begun to form up with a slight breeze
that had come with sunset, and were now marching to the west rosy
ribbed and pink above the Mahadani River.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
gave thanks for his good fortune, marrying for love, made to feel he
was shamed in his humble poverty, to the contrary, he felt glad that
he was able to provide for his wife and himself and at the same time,
free, with privacy, from the backbiting and sniping and name-calling
that went on the with Brahmins, the courtiers, the purdah, and his
Mother and Father the King and Queen, the daily gossip of the court,
the mundane and often stupid concerns of those too ignorant to
cherish the still space of their conscience.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
No,
here he had peace, such peace as he could never have if he were to be
thrust into his father’s throne, unprepared, to whatever extent
that Jaagudar’s eccentric tutoring had not touched matters he would
turn into deep nighttime worries. The worries of kings and men who
have something to lose.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
they began to make love, Aruna clung to him and he felt a shiver
through his entire spine as she led him through several levels of
chakravarti. The energies in their spines merged throughout their
bodies, and their passions stoked the kundalini serpent’s climb up
through to top of their skulls. And these skulls too, he thought,
will one day all be food for Kali’s ashes. Like the ones strung
round her neck, merciless and thoughtless now, themselves just chains
of beads on a string that adorned her nipple.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1510_1291356067"></a> The pink ribbed clouds of sunset had passed beyond the moon, but now
overhead through the night came darker thick ones, and thunder. The
monsoon would not arrive for another week, but the weather had begun
to turn. When Padmarana finally rolled over to sleep, after
considering the various concerns that went through his mind… the
garden, was it properly tended? The grass for the cow, was it still
greening? The different sacks of provisions, were they all stored
carefully and neatly in the tiny stone hut’s pantry? Finally, all
resolved that whatever he might be missing now, he was doing his best
as a husband, he shut his eyes to the world.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
finished his garden in the coming three weeks, all the while
complaining about the mud caked round his ankles and the almost
incessant rains, working while they were light and returning to
Aruna’s side, in the warm hut, when they were torrid. Soon, his
rice plants were half a foot tall, and sticking up green and flat
against the backdrop of mud puddle and paddy. The other plants had
sprouted as well, and bean vines began crawling up the several poles
he and Aruna had staked around the sunny side of the hut. Everything
else they had put in was beginning to show leaf as well, and it would
only be for these ugly old rains to stop, for them to feel they had
actually made something for themselves, here, out of nothing.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For
nothing was all that King Mohan felt the need to do, in favor of his
son. Along with his work on the garden, Padmarana was still expected
to groom his troops, inspect the forests and the borders, attack and
seize any poachers he came across, and keep up good spirits in the
numerous villages that rested between the river, the greater jungle,
and the river at the northern border.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
would spend those hours with the rain falling outside to clean his
saddle and his sword, and as he was still prince, the small feathered
crown he would disdain wearing, lest he were traveling to the
villages. It was on those occasions when looking princely was
something diplomatically needed, and while many of the villagers knew
of his new condition, living outside Jharsuguda Gadh, just as many
likely did not, and he needed all the powers of impression and
persuasion he could muster.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
were, of course, problems in the villages, problems that were rarely,
if ever, brought before the king, mostly handled by the local village
headmen, all elected by their peers, and serving, more or less, until
they died off. In the village of Beura Padmarana came across a family
who had had all their banana trees smashed and fruit stolen by
marauding monkeys, and while the monkeys were somewhat looked on as
“holy incarnations of Hanuman” and given wide berth from most
human brickbats, Padmarana decided he would need to take action, lest
these poor peasants (who otherwise had little in the way to support
themselves) should starve over the coming months.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
rounded up a number of his forest rangers, and set about making traps
and snares for the monkeys, baiting each one with papayas and
bananas. Within days, they had arrested over seventeen monkeys, and
Padmarana ordered them cages, and ferried to the other side of the
river, far from the village, out of the forests. It would not be meet
enough to allow them to be hunted by their natural enemies, the
panthers and leopards, for these monkeys had already succumbed to the
attractions of human life, and would only cause more commotion.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let
them cause commotion across the river, where the people are not under
my powers of command,” he told the troops.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
villainous monkeys were taken in several large cages, screaming and
screeching their defiance at relocation, and the rangers took them to
the river near Jharsuguda Gadh, where they found two or three
ferrymen to take them over to the other shore.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
will not dare to swim back across, (captain of the rangers) said,
“they will find a new life, and make it some way.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
Padamrana visited Jaagudar the next time, he told Jaagudar what he
had done.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This
was something of wisdom on your part, my prince. For you did not
think to just slaughter the monkeys. Such a thing would well be in
the grasp and mettle of your father to do. But you removed the
irritation from the people, and you spared their lives. Excellent
thinking, young man!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Padmarana
blushed. He could only hope his future decisions could be as full of
benevolence.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aruna’s
sleep in the stone hut on those nights she was alone, and Padmarana
out amongst the forest and villages, was never broken when the rains
came, or even thunderclouds stole over the moon and broke their
trumpets against the stillest hours of the night. And as the rain
fell, often if Aruna were laying awake staring at the ceiling, she
would sense the presence of the highest goddess of all the apsaris in
the realm, Saraswati herself.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fear
not Aruna, for I am giving you and your friends the ability to make
many changes, many changes in your land. The prince will prosper, and
there will be strange energies, but rest assured that both your time
here in this shepherd’s hut, and his time away from the palace of
his father, will not be long in years or in your time. And I am
giving you the talas and the ragas you will need, and you can use to
bring harmony amongst the people of the citadel, and farther, along
the river and through the deep forest lands. All will come to
recognize the power of your realm and the rightness and compassion of
its rulers. But that day...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aruna
lie there, startled. What day? When? What was this? The goddess was
telling her not to worry. But worry about what, and for how long? All
these things both mystified and annoyed her. While Aruna was
belittled, and turned away from the court for her “non-caste”
family and parentage, in actuality, amongst the apsaris, Aruna was
the chief of all the music-spirits which dwelled in Sakwadwipa. Even
more than her friends, who had also reincarnated to the villages of
the Ushakothi, Aruna alone had the power to communicate with certain
animals, particularly the birds, and with the goddesses themselves.
Many lifetimes she had conquered the base desires of fame and fortune
What fortune now came her way- betrothed to the future king of
Sakwadwipa! -was that which she had earned. Although her mind was not
far from one of your typical village maiden, she also was quiet,
pious, and attended to her elderly parents most dutifully. When she
and Padmarana had been banished to the forest of Ushakothi, she took it
lightly, for she knew that every situation we hold in life is but
temporary. The temporary may last days, or years, but nothing is ever
what we felt it might have been yesterday, and the wise move along
with slow surety toward their goals, regardless of the obstacles made
out of cloth lying back in the past.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For Aruna, the ability to speak to the goddesses was not something
she had actually ever sough. More, if she were praying ,the goddesses
themselves might take it upon themselves to intercede in her prayers,
and correct her in the manner or ends which she sought so ardently.
The prayers she prayed were for: good health for her and her husband,
and most of all, because of his position, and his future one- his
safety. And for the rains, and for a good harvest, and that the
forest animals would not make mincemeat of their garden, and for the
health of her old doting parents, bless their hearts. And then she
would pray for her friends, and the parents of her friends, and then,
singly for each person she knew well in the village, for they were
all bearers of a significant and localized karma, and whether or not
any of them knew it, they would all play a role in the new
Sakwadwipa, which would be founded on the kingship of her husband,
but in their future life.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Expectations for their future life were rare in her mind, although
they were never entirely absent. You could not say Aruna was without
any ambitions at all, but that these ambitions were yoked to the idea
that she was put here by the goddesses to both serve their common
muse, and change the dharma of Jharsaguda and the Ushakothi woods
people, and that there might ever be peace within this kingdom, so
long as she had life to live, breath the breathe, and stars in the
darkened sky to walk beneath.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For
now, the goddess had vanished into the mists of the river fog, and as
the rain ceased and the little frogs made their creeping, creaking
chirps to welcome the first signs of dawn, Aruna realized there was
little she could do that would arrest her fate, whatever that was to
be.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
so she sighed, resigned. Something and someday, the goddess says.
Well let us see!</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-39315748624361701032019-04-27T00:08:00.004-07:002022-02-01T21:00:18.965-08:00Wildflower Seed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">It
was a turn-down day at the side of the Coast Highway and Derrol was
sitting on his pack, staring at the Queen Anne Lace growing at his
feet... the flushing whiz of the passing cars found him rubbing his
thumb against his jacket... wouldn't any of them stop? The cold
winter wind and grey overcast fog, unusual for this time of year,
only made his desire for a lift more urgent.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">O,
the mild and raging child, he waits at the side of the road. Meeting
yourself at this point on the roadside, like a stranger you never
knew.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “ <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I’m
not your little daisy” he sang to himself </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “I’m not the one you
thought you knew.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">He
plucked a little on the mandolin which hung around his neck by a
green braided cord.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
destination was the home of a group of people he had met a couple of
years before.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
once knew many who turned their genitals into bicycle seats, in the
service of the corporate gears, they were but ground beef in its
cogs, with some rapidity.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">But
leading hippies to work is like fitting shoes on kangaroos.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Derrol
was not stupid, either, even if he was sometimes deluded. He had a
full wallet, last week’s pay stuffing it to the gills, so far as he
knew. It was time to exchange green energy for green energy.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
hash pipe was going round the table when he got there. A nice dude in
a silver Corvair had stopped, and they had floated along in the space
time continuum, the relativity of the passing highway fences like the
blurry wings of a flight of swallows.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Past
the Pizza House, the Rattan Chicken Coop, the Femur Arts Collective,
the Corvair cut as if a cutlass through the misty fog, headlights
diffusing in the headwind. As they passed the Post Office and Liquor
Store he cut the car into the parking lot, to buy a fifth of bourbon
and pack of cigarettes. Just another half mile, and he dropped Derrol
at the edge of the highway where another street, across the highway,
led out toward the ocean. He made a left turn under a pair of
century-old cypress, and there he was, at the Tarantula House. The
concrete patio clicked beneath his boot heels.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
Tarantula House was so named because one year, a tarantula came
climbing out of the peyote cactus growing on the hearth of an old
stone fitted fireplace. It had been home to a revolving panoply of
characters over a five year period, some staying the entire time,
some coming and going over shifts of two to three years, on average.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Andy
and Darcy were Derrol’s longtime connections. The couple grew a
little in their henhouse, disguised with some one way glass utilizing
an open–sun roof, as the rest of the spread was at the mercy of a
flock of chickens. Darcy and Andy were free-lovers, meaning all and
anyone might be subject to a hug, or an invitation to soak in their
wooden-shingle hot tub. Their marriage was more open than Pandora’s
Box, and attended by about as many goblins. But Derrol was one of the
high points, the friendship went back years. Along with the
Andy-Darcy Axis were Melange, Nuestra Starre, and Sandra, three
single, unattached, and frivoluous women, indulging their freedom in
the only way that could be done in the pre-HIV/AIDS era.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As
Andy handed over the hash pipe, Melange caught Derrol’s eye. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hey
there dude, nice to see you again!” she winked at him. Within a few
more moments, as Derrol blinked, she seemed to be outright leering at
him. She flexed the muscles in her thighs, highly visible beneath a
tight corduroy skirt that ended somewhere south of her upper thighs,
but just only not very.<br />
He winked back, took
a hit off the pipe, and passed it to Nuestra on his right.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">She
began laughing, as she spilled out a billow of smoke which ended
leaving her pursed lips in staccato bursts of white-grey smoke cloud.
The wisps surrounded her curly hair like the halo round that of a
saint. Only her saintliness was underdone, and her main ken was a
wanton one. She pumped her legs, shook her ass at him, and giggled.
</span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">If
I was you, brother, I’d take on Melange. She’s got in in for you,
you know. “</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Derrol
looked up. “Really?” he thought. “I’d be lucky as a duck on
an ice-cream truck.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Melange
followed his eyes silently, and slowly blinked, herself.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Tonight
is our Peyote Night, Derrol you came just in time.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Darcy
drew Derrol a glass of red wine from the half-gallon wine jar that
sat at the center of the upturned telephone cable spool which was the
dining room table. Darcy took a shoebox from her seat and began
counting out peyote buttons for as many as there were, four per
person. The hash pipe had made another circle and Derrol smiled as
Andy began regaling him of current exploits. He held before Derrol a
block of hashish in the form of a shoe heel. It had made it past
customs as the sole of someone’s four inch platform disco-heels.
Derrol placed a roll of his pay- a small portion, although, in
relation to what he was not taking out, as quite a large percentage…
and Andy began to work the piece of hashish with a pocketknife.
Derrol was patient, and while he watied, Melange and Nuestra Starre
kept working him up and down with their eyes.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">"</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It’s
Afghani” said Andy. “Brown. You will see how well it powders up
when you want a bowl of it.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Derrol
thanked Andy and slid the hunk of hash into the side of his own boot.
It could live there for the next day or two, when he made it back
over the hill in time for another week of avoiding classes.
The peyote was going round, dried apricots and orange juice
and water as well as a number of hand-rolled cigarettes went round as
the partakers took their turns at button, juice, apricot, drag of
cigarette, around and around until each had consumed four buttons and
the magic- or trial- was about to begin for them all.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Amazingly
on this round, nobody threw up. Most had had the cactus before, and
had begun researching other delicti cacti such as St John’s and
Diego Padre. So none were tenderfeet, an this helped the cameraderie
considerably, since nobody would feel the sense of betrayal of many a
novice, who ingests and resists the urge to puke and let the medicine
clear the mind.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">With
internal retinal starbursts and constellations, the medicine cleared
the mind.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Melange
curled up beside him in the empty space to his right on the eight
foot couch.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She
began rubbing herself against him, licking his ear and his neck, and
soon they were wrapped around each other like a pair of cobras, It
would not take much more to get Derrol spinning in his sleeping bag.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">So
she led him by the hand behind the glass door to the room just off
the living room which was hers. She pressed a button on a ghetto
blaster cassette deck, and the sound of </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Shine
On Crazy Diamond</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">by
Pink Floyd came on.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">With
each rippling blast of Gilmour’s guitar, she pulled off another bit
of her clothing. First the turtleneck sweater. Then, out of the
just-barely-south of the upper-thigh; tight hiphugging skirt, then
the brassiere, and lastly, her panties, now showing the slickness of
her excitement and urgency.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">After
they had balled Derrol dreamt as he slept in her arms, the peyote
visions of his dream seeping in; being indistinguishable now from the
waking lands. Benjamin Franklin sat in a chair at the table, his
enigmatic smile-frown glancing back at Derrol, unperturbed.<br />
“ I had a few myself, “ said Ben. “As well as a
pipe of that hemp conserve. I am now happy to say you have brought me
to a new understanding of insight.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Franklin
bowed, and stepped out of the doorway. Sunlight in a bright ray
flooded down, and Derrol’s mind’s eye shaded it with a free arm,
as though he were watching the arrival of the Extraterrestrials. And
the next thing he knew…</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In
the morning, after he had fucked her bowlegged all night and they had
slept the sleep of babes, and she now hobbled around the yard between
the main and the hen houses, Derrol came up behind her and gave her
an affectionate, gentle squeeze on the ass. “That was something
else, thank you.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">No,
thank </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">you</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
gentle traveler. Would you like to spend the day out near the cliffs
with me?” The coyness in her glance and her dipping eyelashes
completed the cow’s moo she played to his rousing bull.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Our
Lady of the Cosmic Sea”,” he prayed, as they sat at the edge of
the cliffs and began the picnic they had made from a few additions
from the store and a number of items off Melange’s shelf,
“Please grant us the serenity to accept our minimal immunity
and maximum vulnerabilty to the slings and outrageous arrows of our
fortune. May we tune our selves to Your Guiding Star, and lead
ourselves back home to our Source deep within Thee. Thanks for lunch,
Amen.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">She
held his hand and they sat together silent, watching the waves
together, for a </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">very</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">long
time.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They
demolished a loaf of fresh french bread from the bakery in Half Moon
Bay and drank a quart of wine and it was not long before, as though
materializing from the mist and the wooded green, Nuestra Starre
stood before them, a bottle of her own in hand. She walked tipsy
through the portulaca at the edge, considering what a swan dive off
the edge might do to knock these two chuckleheads together. Pole
dancer, striptease artist, and girlfriend of Darcy and Andy’s
resident photographer, Lars Darndorff, Nuestra Starre actually
contributed the majority of the rent on the backwater farmhouse, and
brought a ton of hardcore energy with her when she had moved in. Not
that anyone around her were gangsterish enough to deal in automatic
weapons. But they were rough customers regardless, with a fondness
for black leather, brass knuckles and switchblades, and Harley
motorcycles.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">One
afternoon the Fronteros- that was their club name- were hanging at
the entrance to the spread, pickin’ their teeth with switchblades,
thumbs in belt loops, chewin’ the fat with the local dogs., and
Nuestra Starre came out of the house and told them all to split, that
these hippie freaks was cool, and only to come around if she is doing
a shoot, or something. That worked, and just like she planned it, the
protection only hung out when Ms. Starre’s
microphone-and-videography boom team were by. Which came about once
every two weeks. Derrol had never seen one of these, but Darcy and
Andy certainly had. Nuestra’s videography team were, in fact, some
of the goblins out of Pandora’s box.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">So
now, Nuestra had her fun getting high with all of the residents and
the residents didn’t have to fear the heat of drawing scrutiny of
local law enforcement. No, everyone was about as far away from the
surveillance state as they could get, except for when planes flew
over forom Half Moon Bay airport to get a good look at the women
sunbathing bare-chested on hot clear sunny days.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">And
now, Nuestra Starre had joined Derrol and Melange in a
menage-a-trois. If Derrol could manage this, he would be luckier
than </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">two</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ducks
driving</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">two</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ice
cream trucks.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Nuestra,
I wonder if you could help me- um- adjust this here?” </span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Melange
was pulling on the strap to her wraparound blouse. It was looking
more and more to Derrol like this was meaningful seduction, intended
perhaps for his pleasure, but also, maybe more for their own. As the
girls kissed Derrol remembered he left some hash in his jeans. He
took out the little stone and the pipe and lit up. Over across the
tidepools at the entrance of the cove a small trawler was parked. The
overlook was brightened by the high sun- yesterday’s inclemence
being forgotten in the morning, when they all had sat on the patio
drinking after-peyote coffee. Sharing tobacco from the can which sat
on the coffee table with a pack of rolling papers for anyone to pinch
at need. Sharing more of Andy’s product. A bong as long as an arm
served with the coffee and fresh melons and people discussed what
thing had meant for them. Derrol recalled meeting Benjamin Franklin
in his dream, and everyone laughed and said,yeah, for real, too much,
he </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">would </span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">go
to a peyote meeting, wouldn’t he? Otherwise, he had lain all
morning in the bed with Melange, in several varying positions and
arrangements befitting two ingenues of the Kama Sutra. Until the
light was out and the dew had begun to puddle and the daylight
blinking off the green leaves of the cypress left in</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">d</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">elible
impressions on the brain.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Derrol
plucked on his mandolin as the women made out in front of him, but
soon, Nuestra had shut off the mandolin by insisting his
membership should come to the party, and the afternoon was passed, in
plain and public view, the enjoyment of three blips in the pod on the
cliffs by the high sea in the midday winter sunshine.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Meanwhile,
Candy Kane-- stuck her tongue in Patricio's ear, sucking and probing,
before withdrawing with a playful bite...Patricio's mind
was in confusion. Was the parting bite a tease, an invitation, or was
it a warning of impending danger?</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A
hand, which was Andy’s, grabbed Patricio by the collar, and dragged
him into the living room…</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Where
he was greeted by the sight of every female in the house disrobed and
the SXLR camera of Lars Dorkendorf whiring and clicking like a
pulsating hummingbird.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Patricio
had one half of the back half of the Tarantula House, in a room with
a dutch door opening out toward the goat pen. The onus was on ‘em.
The women were like caged tigers, waiting for their meal of men. It
was over pretty fast, the lionesses licking their chops at the
spilled le</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ngth</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">s
of the men in their cups, all of them, from Andy to the Dorkendorff
home video t</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">r</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ipod,
ev</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">e</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ry
male was erect</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">e</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">d,
and had been erected only to feed the belly lust of the pride. They
purred in contentment, no more contentions, and that night the house
was quiet, with the highway bleeding on behind them until rooster
crow the next day…</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
men woke up the next day, disoriented, ashamed, and shattered. They
had been used, abused, sucked dry, and thrown aside, like so much
trash... Never before had any of them ever felt so exploited and
objectified. The scene had been so wild; the women had been so
vicious- Pat would need many years of therapy before he could even
have a normal conversation with a female...and he knew that he would
never trust a woman completely, even if she was Mother Teresa. </span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Life
is hard…</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">as
hard as the rocket in the pocket…</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
house steamed in the early morning light…</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;">Derrol
had no such problems. The morning after the second night of the
weekend, he had been up early sorting out his pack in the kitchen,
when Lori came in. Lori was nine years older and trying to</span> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;">make
up for lost time. She walked into the kitchen, took out a skillet and
a wooden cutting board and began to slice vegetables while Derrol
rummaged his stuff. He hid the hashish a little deeper than usual, so
that it would be hard for him or anyone else to get back into.
This would be the afternoon he went home, and he needed things in
order just to know they’d remain that way.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lori’s
long skirt was soft cotton and her ass smooth against it. Her legs
smooth against it as well, and the tilt of her nipples perking
beneath her tank top was having quite an effect. She noted him noting
them. Without saying another word she lifted one of her ample breasts
out from beneath it and was offering it to Derrol for his taste.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Obliging,
he took it in his mouth and rubbed his tongue across its swollen
aureole. The morning was breaking and the coffee bums would soon be
up and clamoring but Lori wanted to share what she was having with
him, as well as, continue where she had let off with him the night
before. At least where she thought she had. She shrugged him off and
began working once more on breakfast. Into the skillet, she dumped a
pile of freshly diced onions. After these had sweated awhile, she
ladled in a bean, rice, and lentil mixture she had prepared a day or
two ahead, and had retrieved out of the fridge. She poured more olive
oil over the top of this. After that was smooth, moving and bubbling,
she piled in some green vegetable leaves out of the garden and some
fresh basil. Then she lowered the heat, put on a lid, and cooked it,
stirring it now and then. When she poured it out onto his plate and
served it with a piece of fresh bread and a pat of butter, Derrol was
in heaven. This was breakfast for a king, done up poor man’s style.
And undoubtedly healthy.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">After
their meal, they took their own stroll out to the cliffs by the
ocean. And something like what happened the day before happened to
Derrol, again. This time it was no interruption from Nuestra Starre
(who lay back at the shack, hunkered deep down in her bed, sleeping
away morning, until sun was tall overhead) but they were met by
Patricio and his friend Jock-O.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jock-O
was something of a gadfly lumberjack. At least he was a lumberjack
when he was up north, in the Salmon River country, but down here on
the Coastside, he was Mad Jock-O, prone to answering the doorbell in
his birthday suit. He liked dividing his year into : Summer in the
Mountains, Winter at the Ocean. The Tarantula House was owned by his
mother, who, being sensitive and empathetic, often visited the place
to party with the inhabitants, if all were in the proper mood. Lori
found Jock-O insufferable, and wasted little time letting Derrol
know. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
you see… he isn’t exactly MY friend, he’s Patricio’s.”<br />
“I think he’s a little rough around the edges”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Like
a spiky chainsaw, that’s for sure.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Well,
Patricio is one thing, but he’s another. I’m goin’ back to the
house.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Lori
gathered up her jacket and her thermos and began walking back toward
the Coast Highway and the Tarantula House. That left Derrol to stare
toward China with Patricio and Jock-O. They were seated at a picnic
table someone had dragged there on a whim, and set back about twenty
feet from the cliff ledge. Patricio got up to stretch his legs. As he
walked to the ledge, and looked down over, he spotted a man and woman
lying together in the portulaca which covered the small rock shelf
about twelve feet further down the cliff face. The man was naked, and
his loins were working with the woman, and she was moving beneath
him, and her eyes met Patricio’s-</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">And
she smiled.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Patricio
smiled back, and she gave a short half-knuckled wave as the man
continued his grooving and she continued her own, breaking off the
moment. Patricio smiled, felt a little lucky, like, the universe is
on my side for once, today, I’m lucky…</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Derrol
was sitting at the table and Jock-O had walked over to be with
Patricio. But when Jock-O saw the couple it was a whole other story.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Hey,
hey! Yeah!” he shouted, “Now That’s what bein’ outdoors is
FOR!” And Jock-O began walking down the trail toward the ledge, As
he did so, the couple were hurriedly rushing to put on their clothes.
The man was hopping into his jeans, one leg at a time, trying to
balance and at the same time not fall to the rocks at the bottom of
the cliff. Jock-O continued to make his way to the ledge, but as he
did so, the couple finally were confident they could move and ran
past him, up the hill, and the smile dropped from Jock’O’s face,
as he realized they were not in any mood to share their fun.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Man,
they were cool, ‘til you did that,” scolded Patricio.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Shit-fire
man , that chick was HOT!”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
thought she </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">was</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">kind
of nice.” </span></span></span></span></span></div><div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: medium;">Said Patricio, feeling his disappointment. Now he felt
like Jock-O had blown wide apart the trust that the woman’s smile
had brought into his mind, and now, he was just another dork like
Jock-O, swaggering an hollering his way through the minefields of
life.</span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Derrol
had watched the entire thing, or what he could see of it, and shook
his head wearily at Patricio as Jock-O had turned his back to take a
piss off the cliff. It looked like the afternoon might be a waste.
Derrol decided to turn around and walk back to the house. They left
Jock-O on the cliff edge, thumbing his nose at the Red Chinese.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">When
they got back to the house, they found Andy and Lars the Photographer
hanging in the living room with a large fire going, and Beauricardo,
a friend of the house from San Francisco, their spade-cred
black-hippie-queer friend, was sitting in a rocking chair by the
window looking over the creek. “Hey, Patricio!” Beauricado rose
from the chair and walked to the doorway where Patricio and Der</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">r</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ol
looked in, and hugged him. Beauricardo was affectionate without being
cloying, or putting on moves. The Photographer and Andy were looking
over a proof sheet from the orgy pics that had been shot the night
before.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Oh,
this one, this one of Lori and Darcy- shit!”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">:And
that one. Darcy trying to get her arm around Pat’s leg. Hah!”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Let
me see there…”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Patricio
moved closer to the table to observe the pictures. He began to feel
like a bird in a cage, or a fly trapped in amber, like his bliss
somehow had been captured and preserved to spend a century waiting as
flotsam on the shore until someone came along- (some pervert, out of
Photographer Lars’s </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">SCREW!</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">magazine
collection) and took the moment to incorporate into their own brief
wet moments… But these were not bad.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Darndorff
liked using Nuestra for her sexiness, but he also enjoyed funny
juxtapositions of people and other people’s organs and genitals and
limbs. So this picture, Pat thought, was amusing. In an annoying way.
He knew the photographer’s tastes all too well by this point, he’d
lived there a good eight or nine months already.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Beauricardo
lit up a pipe of Andy’s hash and passed it to Derrol, who had moved
in closer to the fire.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You
been up to see Crosby last week?” he asked.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
did. Derrol didn’t. Some of these folks went.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
seen Crosby one day he was toolin’ down 1 in his red sports car. I
waved. He didn’t stop.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Well
it’s another world folks like that live in. They might be our
‘brothers’ from up on stage, but not </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">brother</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">enough
to spare a lift.” Derrol was more than annoyed at the thought of
leaving in another couple hours, and dealing with the trip home over
the hill maybe needing to take just as long. This was a weekend and
most of the traffic would be families in get-back-home mode. Few
would be stopping for hairy single males who looked like refugees
from the Three Penny Opera.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">His
mandolin sat on the hearth, and he picked it up and began playing.
From the room in the rear he could hear Lori and Nuestra fighting.
They were annoying, catlike sounds, but at least everyone knew the
two women would be back at peace in minutes. One of the problems of
the Tarantula House was a condition of privacy. While it might not
matter to some people who craps while they are showering, for some
people, crapping while watching someone shower isn’t the first best
choice. They’re both captives to
each other, for the duration.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
other problems usually arose over who left what in the refrigerator
and who was entitled to it when and why. If things were not clearly
labeled with a pen and tape then anything could be up for grabs. And
the whole gang chipped in together many nights, which would leave a
giant bowl of leftovers anyone could go for- except, usually, when
someone did, it was someone like Derrol who wasn't planning to make
another market trip soon, and was only overnighting.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While
Andy and Lars continued perusing the large stack of proofs and
Patricio sat at the fire, reading a newspaper, Beuaricardo knitted a
wool sweater for his mother. The two women in back had shut up, but
now, Melange and Candy Kane were coming through the year, carrying an
enormous laundry basket filled tall with clean clothing. Everyone had
decided to throw laundry together as well, and the two women, each
week, made the round the horn trip to a coin laundry in Half Moon Bay
to wash and dry the clothes of all the Tarantulans. </span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">NO,
we don’t fold them!” they explained, and so the wash day ritual
finished with everyone rummaging through the baskets until they had
retrieved everything they contributed, and usually there always was
some stray sock or a t-shirt someone didn’t recall that sat all
week in the basket and ended up in the next go round.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Melange
dumped the clothes into a pile on the couch, and flopped down beside
it. “I am beat, man”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You
so beat, the eggs in the kitchen are nervous” chuckled Beuaricardo.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">That’s
what you think, faggot!” Melange laughed. Her bicep tattoo rippled
with a quick flex of the wrist. “PUMPED!” it read. But she was no
body builder. She was one of the most feminine people Derrol had ever
yet met, and on top of that, she liked him. The tattoo was ne of
those unadvised adolescent whims which some people are prone to. It
signified absolutely nothing relevant to her current life. She
laughed at Beauricardo mockingly. “Boy you sure ain’t much to
write home about- you ain’t even that much to ride home</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">on!”</span></i></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
other males around the room laughed or supressed chuckles.
Beauricardo didn’t mind, he had known much worse abuse. He sat back
and quietly kept knitting, listening to the records he others played
on the stereo. Eventually, he got into his own sportscar outside and
left.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">When
Beuaricardo left, another guest showed up. This was Pippi, Derrol’s
friend from UC Santa Cruz. She was a German exchange student. She
lived in the hills of Soquel, a small wild woodsy little place just
south of Santa Cruz, a blip going by on the highway. Pippi wore
orange clothing every day and had a locket with the guru Rajneesh on
a string of wooden beads worn round her neck. A pair of regulation
People’s Republican Army slippers was on her feet. She had curly
blonde hair, blue eyes, and an intense love of nature. She enjoyed
the visits to the Tarantula House as many others did- in fact,
besides the people who lived there, an average of about (at least)
twenty other guests would be in and out over the course of a month.
She carried with her a bedroll and small knapsack with the Tolkeinian
rune ‘L’ for Legolas embroidered on the flap. She carried her own
little hash pipe, and being German, had the bad habit of always
smoking her hash with a bit of rolling tobacco. The fact there was
always a large tin of free tobacco at the Tarantula house apparently
had an appeal for a lot of the broke smokers of the coastside who
were part of the Tarantella Circle.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">She
gave Derrol a hug and immediately started in with Andy making a deal
for her own little hash rock. That being transacted, Andy disappeared
into his room and came back laughing loudly. </span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Happiness
is finding a gram of weed you didn’t know you had!” and held
three large buds spread in his palm. He set them on the rolling and
cutting tray that sat beneath the stack of photos, setting all of
them aside. Lars demurred and began collecting them to withdraw back
into his own lair.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pippi
had a love of nature. This she affirmed at any chance, either fully
disrobing or more often, just baring her chest. Andy and the others
saw so many tits per day, it was nothing. The fact that their friends
might come from miles around just for the chances to do it didn’t
phase Andy either. The more the merrier. Hell, the world should let
go. Clothes were for protection from the wind and rain. When there’s
no wind and no rain what the hell.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now
that Pippi was here, Derrol contemplated the wisdom of leaving so
soon. Perhaps he could stretch things a couple more hours past his
projected departure. It would mean getting home after dark, but an
afternoon with Pippi was better than an afternoon alone. So he
decided he would stay, at least until closer to the six o’clock
limit, when the light would begin to fail, and drivers would get even
more cocoonish. Pippi dug into her knapsack.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “ <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Here,
this is for you! Thank you for letting me read it! I love it!” The
book was </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Big
Sur and the Oranges of Heironymous Bosch</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
by Henry Miller. Derrol had lent it to her eight months before and
forgotten it completely. In that time Pippi had read it four times.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Derrol
and Pippi went back. They had met in Santa Cruz on a day Deroll had
spent busking for change on the mall. She dragged him over to a free
spaghetti feed and by evening’s end they had shared a bottle of
wine, weed, and a bed. It was very chummy.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now
here she was, and handing back the Henry Miller book. It had become
something of a crusade with Derrol and Patrick, turning friends on to
these various books which had livened the long dreary fogbound
afternoons inside the fishbowl of the Tarantula House.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;">The
Tarantella Circle had basically composed itself of friends of friends
of friends of people who had traveled the highways, north south east
west, from Vancouver to San Diego and SF to Philadelphia. Andy
himself had the habit of picking up hitch hikers and treating them to
some of the house’s utopian blessings. Derrol had also given her a
copy of </span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><i>Be
Here Now</i></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;">, but
when he visited her he found he had been surplussed, as she already
had that book as well as three other books by Ram Dass on her shelf
as it was. Not to mention, everything Rajneesh had ever wrote, and
even Gurdjieff’s “</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><i>Beezlebub’s
Letters to this Grandson</i></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;">.”
They had hung out frequently for a number of months until one weekend
they went skinnidipping together in the local big river and got
busted. Pippi had almost ended up deported, and at juts that time,
her </span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><i>Heimlat</i></span> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;">byfriend
showed up, and that was that for Derrol in Pippi’s bedroom. But not
before they had scared the neighbors once or twice with her sighs and
moans of delight.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Bob
Dylan and The Band were now screaming out of the stereo “…but you
know you could be WRONG!” </span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Pippi
loved them. So did Andy, and most of the others. Andy even had the
early bootleg “Great White Wonder” comprised of clips form
Dylan’s original Basemant Tapes and old recordings from his
Minnetsota days. Andy loved bootlegs and bootleggers. He collected
everything he could that was pirate vinyl. It was less an obsession
to collect everything some artist had ever done, than it was the
curiosity to see how that artist had done anything on any particular
day. Andy’s record shelf took up an entire line of milk crates
across the back wall. Not only one line, but stacks of them atop
stacks of them. The Berkeley Farms Dairy Co. would have had an
interesting time of it, had they ever chosen to submit Andy to the
“Full Prosecution of Law” stamped as a threat on every plastic
carrying case.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">That
is, if they ever got past Andy’s front gate in the first place.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Derrol
thought it would be better to spend a little time with Pippi than it
would be to just take off, after all, Pippi was dear to his heart, in
his own way, and even her </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">heimlat</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">boyfriend
could not compare, he thought, with all the wild romance he could
conjure… being as he was himself a romantic half-outlaw perched on
the precarious shoal of the Great Frontier Western Earthquake Coast.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Andy
was playing some of that Dylan record on the stereo, now. Listening
to Dylan rasp about a Room 118 in New Orleans and climbing over a
barbed wire fence. Pippi was arguing with Andy about Dylan and saying
she loved </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Blood
On the Tracks</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
why was Andy wasting his time with all these old demos? Andy rebutted
her saying that anything Dylan did was going to be tons better than
most of the crap coming off the radio and that this was a piece of
history itself. Pippi disagreed. She felt that the music an artist
released meant he felt it passed his own muster. Dylan had never
released any of the </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Basement
Tapes</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">because
the recordings just weren’t quality. She knew what she was talking
about, but, Andy being the dominant male of the house, Andy usually
got the last word. Pippi sulked but turned aside and began making out
with Derrol. Derrol much preferred that to sitting in the center of
another argument with Andy, when in this case, he acually agreed with
Pippi.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Next
came the issue of the weekend orgies, and Andy trying to hint to
Derrol that if he came back next week, there might be another one.
Orgies, he pontificated, are the best fun people can have with their
clothes off. What is more, all the party materials are free, since
the particpants are already equipped. While Andy continued on this
line, there came a yelling and screeching from the room Sandra and
Lori shared. Soon they were running from the room, out onto the
concrete patio, and within minutes they both had corralled Jock-O and
hauled him inside.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">This
frigging peeper! We caught him checking us out through our window!”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Jock-O
was blushing and had little to say. He had been walking outside the
house and caught a brief glimpse of female skin, and had come closer
to their window and peered in, as Sandra sat nude atop Lori’s face,
he pulled back, but not before Sandra had caught a view of his eyes
turning aside, and his pale skin showing flush against the window
glass.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">What
do we do with the sexist peeping Tom?” she yelled, “can’t he
get his rocks off without intruding on us? I am pissed. He might be
the landlady’s son but that does not give him the right to peep on
us!” </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Sandra
was indignant and began throwing garments from the clothes pile at
Jock-O. Jock-O just sat there, smiling, believing Andy would defend
him.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">But
it was Darcy who spoke out. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> “<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Jock-O,
you know, you really shouldn’t be so hung up about stuff. You
should come to next weekend’s party, too. We’ll make sure… your
needs… are considered…” </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Darcy
was always trying to be the voice of moderation and
reconciliation.<br /> Derrol gave Pippi a hug, and as they walked out
together to the patio, he told her he’d be visiting her in Santa
Cruz within a month or two. As they walked talking along the driveway
leading out to the street, that led to the highway, Derrol could hear
the continued screams and screeching of Sandra as once more the
argument escalated inside. He was glad he had chosen the right moment
to depart. Pippi handed him his pack and pulled him close to her and
gave him another kiss, then turned, and walked back to the house, as
the sun was setting to the west, and Derrol adjusted to the idea and
necessity of thumbing down a ride headed south.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A
red Cadillac convertible pulled itself over to the shoulder, blaring
Johnny Horton’s </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Battle
of New Orleans</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
Derrol recognized the driver. It was Angelo Spoonful, on his way to
LA, he told Derrol, to become a studio musician. Angelo wore a long
ponytail and shades. Derrol grinned and tossed his pack and mandolin
onto the rear seat, already holding Angelo’s guitar case flat
against the naugahyde cushion.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Angelo
and Derrol did not have a long time to talk before Highway 92 and
Derrol’s stop had come up. He told Derrol to say hello to Sandra
the next time he saw her. Angelo had been a frequent visitor to the
Tarantula House at the time when Sandra had been his girlfriend, and
when Sandra had been more interested, as she put it, “in men”.
Angelo would travel on down the Coast Highway until he hit LA and
from there, would keep on going in a world Derrol hardly made. For
the moment, Derrol was happy to be kickin’ it, and played a
farewell chorus of “Deal” for Angelo as the Cadillac disappeared
off into the growing darkness. Once he had crossed the highway and
found a good turnoff spot by the side of 92 he took up his thumbing
again, punctuating each passing car with a strummed major chord.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> The
peyote had cleansed him, the large stash of hash reassured him, the
cameraderie had uplifted him, the surroundings encouraged him, and he
was, all in all, gratified to be alive and young.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-36483453897417235692018-08-20T06:38:00.000-07:002019-06-23T09:38:43.575-07:00Musings from the Big Top<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Recently there's been even more disturbances on the circus stage we know as Washington DC.<br />
The latest big buzz is about how the former director of the CIA is experiencing "repression of his free speech rights" by having had (long overdue) his security clearance pulled. Well, it is a security clearance, his still free to spread his blather, just cannot do so from that point of privilege. What is so wrong with that? The privilege of a security clearance is <i>not</i> the same as a right.<br />
Now, it used to be, once upon a time, (about the same time John Brennan voted for the head of the Communist Party USA for president), that Democrats were the leading and fiercest critics of the CIA. Ah, but now that he's had his security clearance taken away, he's their latest martyr in the grand slaughter which has accompanied President Stumpy's great stumble into the driver's seat of the ship of state. No, now they're all quite upset Mr Brennan cannot use what he learns from available secrets to make his comments and drive his continued attempts to help create an authoritarian state in the US. Of course, if that's what he'd like, we've<i> got</i> an authoritarian at the helm <i>now</i>, but then for the last eighteen years we've had something of the same thing going on, just trading places. <i>He</i> just wants one that will pay him better, (politics and prostitution being somewhat kin to each other in their methodologies.)<br />
In a world where both political parties have major blood on their hands, they are both reduced to finger painting with the sanguine knowledge that, if I'm as bad as you are, then I'm OK, and you're just sick, bro. {And I guess by extension they were also all OK with his spying on members of Congress, and Obama's drone assassination program, etc etc et al}<br />
Of course for Democrats,when the Republicans run the CIA, it's evil, but when the Democrats do, it isn't. This is bullshit too. The entire beast must be deconstructed and slate wiped clean if we are to regain the control of our government to the People and not these various cabals, composed of various members of both parties, which have turned our country into something like a simmering caldron of civil war inspiring grievances. And it will only get worse.<br />
*****<br />
But hey -what a great country America is, where even a boy who votes for a Communist for president can grow up to become Director of the CIA!<br />
*****<br />
Americans should be (but they do not seem to be) outraged that an American war profiteer, Lockheed Martin, built the missile that slammed into a Yemeni school bus and killed 49 <i>obvious </i>enemies of the Saudi Arabian state. Nope, it's just business as usual for Lockheed Martin, for the various folks who signed off on the deal to ship these weapons to the Saudis, and those who work for Lockheed Martin, sleeping comfortably in their American homes, where bombs will most likely never fall on a school bus carrying their kids to school. That's our tax dollars at work bro. Are you still OK with this? I haven't seen much evidence yet to the contrary. Americans just love their bombs, doesn't natter who is using them, is the only conclusion one can take.<br />
*****<br />
It's also sad when you see people who you consider longtime friends to be taking sides in this entire thing based on their political allegiances and not critical thinking, and drawing the conclusion that if you hold a position in any way contrary to their own, then you are A) a Stumpy supporter or B) a Stumpy-hater. (If you are not for A, then you must be for B, and vice versa!) Actually you <i>can</i> be Stumpy-indifferent, which I still am. Presidents do not impress me, even boorish real estate guys that get there by appealing to the lowest common denominator of public thought. And neither do any presidents intimidate me, not even Obama with his "collect it all" NSA and his "indefinite detention privileges." The only answer I can draw from the whole "Russiagate" farce is that there's a lot of KoolAid drinkers out there. It doesn't matter who mixes it- the poison is still central to the brew.<br />
To sip from the chalice of American politics is to slip into the deep well of Alice's Wonderland, for reals.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-15213712911813318662018-04-15T07:30:00.001-07:002018-04-23T13:44:39.262-07:00The Prince and the Apsaris<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We've been gone a whole year! Well, we're back. I've spent the year transcribing a number of musical scores into some new software and completed a project that was on the shelf for twenty years, s well as made a few new tacks of even earlier material, to compile in CD frmat sometime later in the year I have begun composing a new work which will take most of spring and summer and will begin transcribing two other pieces to go on the cd - but for the time being this is a sample from a fiction work in progress titled "By the Waters of Oblivion"...<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
CHAPTER 3. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Prince Padmarana was riding his horse along the river trail about ten miles
south of the castle. It was spring morning, the drongo birds were chattering,
and there was a slight mist rising from the river which hid the prince from the
view of the small group of musicians playing under a grove of jacaranda trees.<br />
They were a group of young women, five in number, two of whom played small
drums (tablas and pakavaj), while the other three played flute, sarod, and
vina. Padmarana stopped his horse and hid behind a mulberry bush, set back a
ways from the jacaranda grove. The mist came and went, and he would get glimpses
of the girls as they played, the music cutting through the fog with clear
precision.<br />
<br />
The two that played the drums lid out a hypnotic and repetitive rythmn, as
the flute and sarod played a melodic counterpoint to the beat. Once in a while,
one of the drummers would lead with a vocalised “takka ta diga takata ta ta”
and the flute and sarod would follow, the girl with the vina seemed to float
serenely above the rest, glissandos of fluid grace finding their way between
all the others.<br />
<br />
Padmarana had stumbled upon a group of apsarasi—divinely inspired and
magically endowed musicians capable of enchanting the ears of a royal prince.
They all came from a village just a bowshot away to the east of the river, not
so far from where the young women had now gathered.<br />
They were dressed in the local traditional tribal costume—cotton saris worn
with bangles on their wrists and delicate chains of bells about their ankles.
At various intervals, one or another would shake out her foot, and the bells
would add an accent to the rythmn which insistently never wavered.<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"> </span></span> Their hair was plaited braided into long
braids they wore in loops from the back of their head back up tucked under and
into the hair at the base of their necks just above the shoulder.<br />
Padmarana found his thoughts wandering. The music entrained with his breath
and pulse and somehow he could not move but only stare, transfixed. Padmarana’s
trance lasted as long as the apsarasis kept playing. His horse whinnied, and
rather than possibly give away his position and startling the girls, he
reluctantly mounted, and rode his horse away.<br />
But all that day and night the strange experience stayed with him. He made
his way back, a little earlier in the morning of the next day, and found the
same group of girls playing at the same spot.<br />
Once again, the music drew him in.He felt like he was in a meditative state,
but he couldn’t say whether or not it was or wasn’t actually a daydream. But
this time, when his horse became impatient, it couldn’t be hidden from the
girls.<br />
They stopped, and the girl with the vina set down her slide and laughed,
approaching him.<br />
Her eyes danced, just as her fingers had across the vina. Prince Padmarana
drew back, embarrassed to have been found out.<br />
“Oh, don’t be shy, friend! Come and join us!:<br />
Padmarana slowly and shyly led his horse closer, and tied it to one of the
trees.<br />
“Now that we see you like to listen, join us and give us the pleasure of
playing to you more directly!:<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__1087_8756128021"></a>Padmarana worried that perhaps they
might guess his nobility, from his finely cut and elegant clothing and the
signet ring on his left hand. But if so the girls made no mention as they took
up their instruments again and played, this time a new tala.<br />
“trikata ta ta trika TA trika TA” the new beat laid down ad set out a new raga
into motion. The flute and sarod this time doubling around each other,
repetitively chasing each other through an eight minute forest of garlanded
srutis......)<br />
<br />
The girl with the vina would now and then cast her eye his way and beyond
the enchantment her music cast, Padmarana found himself returning her smile,
and by the end of their new raga, he felt a new emotion rising from his feet to
his head—a new feeling not unlike being thrown into a whirlpool of passion.
(Jadugar-the wizard no doubt would chide him for such an emotion, such a
thought!)<br />
But he could not deny it. When the players stopped, this time, the girl set
down her vina and walked up to him, taking his hand.<br />
“Come, my friend! I am sure there are many other things I could teach you
than to just sit her and listen to our silly games!”<br />
The other young women took up their instruments just then and all ran off,
giggling an laughing, in the direction of the village.<br />
Padmarana remained with the girl.<br />
“My name is Aruna. And you are—?”<br />
Padmarana stumbled over the word.<br />
“P—P—P—Padma—Padmarana!”<br />
“Oh! I hear there is a Padmarana who is the prince of King Mohan who lives
in the castle of Jadusagar Gadh! Can you be he?”<br />
Now his cover completely blown, Padmarana could only hang his head abashedly
and nod.<br />
“Well then, I am blessed twice today!” She clapped her hands in glee.<br />
“Let me show you how I caress the prince of this land! His grace is
manifest, his young heart is perhaps new to the game of love...”<br />
Love! So<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"> </span></span><i>that</i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"> </span></span>was what
he had been feeling? Yes! Love! He loved this strange girl and her laughing
eyes and her enchanting, magical music, and the strange forward manner, so
unlike how the Brahmins and courtesans of the castle treated him.<br />
“Let me bestow a blessing upon<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: "mongolian baiti";"> </span></span><i>you</i>,
my prince!”<br />
And she leaned over into him and kissed him, first tentatively, then with
more self assurance, he returned it. They fell into each other’s arms, and he
tasted, tested her, brought the entire experience into his full attention, in
the sweet fresh spring cress, until the dew dampened their clothing and until
clothing could no longer barricade their virtue.<br />
<br />
While Padmarana had ridden back to the castle, and threw himself into
writing an amateurish and impassioned love letter to Aruna, Aruna herself had
spent her afternoon in her parent’s humble cottage, cooking the meal that would
be their night-time dinner, and then had been buttonholed by her three friends
as she walked from the cottage to gather mangoes.<br />
“Aruna! Is it true, he is the prince?”<br />
“Aruna, did he make love to you at the music grove?”<br />
Aruna, did he tell you you will be his princess?”<br />
“Aruna, did you let him....”<br />
“Aruna, are his kisses like the honey dew and the fresh wine?”<br />
“Enough!” shouted Aruna. “I will answer for myself, not for him. No he did
not make love to me. No his kisses are not like melons and wine! No! He is not
experienced. This I can tell. As for making me his princess—I should think
things have much much farther to go than to be even thinking such things,
Sunila!”<br />
“But he came back to listen...”<br />
“And be sure, he will again! When he comes tomorrow, I want none of you to
badger him or even let on what he has told me, that he <i>is </i>the prince of the castle! He will be our special audience. This
should have been clear to you from the start, as it is, Sunila! And play well!
When we see him, his thoughts should be wrapped up in the music, not on having
his way with me!”<br />
“But was he gentle...?”<br />
“Of course! He was gentle! A man who barely knows what he is doing, he was
cautious like a mongoose! Sunila you silly goose! I have much to think about.
And now, I have to go and get milk for my bapu.”<br />
<br />
Padmarana, home in his study, sheltered from the heat of the day by
billowing curtains, the cool breeze calming his perspiring brow, had sat down
with his pen and tried to write what he was feeling. This was a new feeling,
unlike anything he could really compare, actually! Love? or was it... lust? Was
the stirring of his loins something he should be ashamed or afraid of? What if
she had some other lover, who would need to be his rival? Should he be like his
father, and make a mess out of rivalry, plot to have his rival purged, what
then?<br />
The words did not come easy to him but at the end, he had written on two
sides of a banana leaf in his most elegant script all that he knew- that he had
met someone special, that her kisses inspired him “to do great things, and soar
to the clouds,” and that in all the world perhaps there might be nobody else
like Aruna, he would ever hope to find, and when he went to bed that night and
looked up toward the stars and the galaxies, he swore upon the Mahabarhata that
he would never feel just this way, for anyone else in the world, and dreams of
Aruna fed his subconscious as he slumbered. <br />
<br />
In the morning, rising earlier than was his custom, then, before the sun,
actually, had blazed its way up above the line of the mountains to the East, he
saddled his horse, clad this time in the simple garb of a commoner. White
salwar kameez, no turban, no jewelry. He did not wish to make himself
especially known to those of Aruna’s village, for he knew, somehow, that there
would be more than just Aruna and her friends to listen to their morning
puja-concert.<br />
<br />
At the riverbank grove, Sunila, Eesha, Mahika, Kiya, and Aruna gathered as
they customarily did. However, the four other girls were dressed in much finer
materials than usual. There was no difference, however in Aruna’s. She wore
just what she had the day before, and the day before that. Eesha, the tabla
player, sat with a frog’s smile on her face, and Mahika, her partner, the
pakavaji, loosened and tightened the straps along the drum head somewhat
nervously, tapping it at intervals, testing it with short taps to the smaller
tabla to tune it. Kiya, who played the flute, wove a garland from flowers
growing on the riverbank her flute now ignored. And the sarod player, Sunila,
and Aruna, tuned their strings and agreed on what their rasas this morning
would be saying.<br />
“Today, our music will speak of nothing impure, but only noble thought and
action. We will build our alap with teental
and trikita-ta, and at the jor, we will not become abandoned. At the
moment of approximation, there we will break off. We will leave the prince
wanting more. Do you agree?”<br />
The other girls nodded, and they sat in the misty morning light, waiting for
the sound of Padmarana’s horse, and they were not long in waiting.<br />
Again, he tied the horse on one of the trees, and left it room to drink from
the river as well as graze on the sweet grass.<br />
“I came early— I did not wish to miss any of your performance!” he blushed.<br />
“And I wish now to introduce you to my friends! This is Eesha, and Mahika.
The two drummers pranamed a namaste gesture, and Aruna moved on. Indicating
Kiya- this is Kiya, my oldest friend, who plays the flute.”<br />
“You sound almost as good as Lord Krishna!” Padmarana blurted.<br />
“Oh, I am not so perfect as the Lord, good sir.” Now it was Kiya who was
blushing.<br />
“And here, this is Sunila, my next oldest friend, who plays the sarod...”<br />
“Your playing is like... Well, I can only say, the sound of all of you
together had me... in raptures the last few days!”<br />
Such a thing would not have been impossible, since not only were these
“common girls” experienced music players, but they were, indeed, apsarasis, and
as such, their music channeled divine energy, effortlessly, expressing the ten
thousand things as all, separately and together.<br />
And as apsarasis, they were, indeed, appreciated by others in the community.
It would not be a lie to say that, because the word gets around in a small
town, that the girls and Padmarana were the only eyes and ears present. For all
around the edges of the grove, silently, noiselessly, a number of villagers
held back from the circle, keeping their distance, but all eagerly anxious to
get a glimpse of the great prince who lived in the great castle of the great
king, Mohan!<br />
Eesha lit a stick of incense and set it by her drums. Aruna looked to the
drummers and together, they started the tala that would drive their morning
raga, Bhairavi. Then the drummers began laying down the tala that would be the
basis and frame of the raga. After a brief pause, the others started in, with
Kiya and Aruna lading the way, Sunila adding drone as well as some basic large
patterns beneath them.<br />
Where Padmarana sat, the villagers who had come more to see him than listen
to the music had begun to edge from their safe distance to a point much closer.
Still withdrawn, however, they had begun to argue amongst themselves.<br />
“Hush, Giddhi! We want to hear the music too!”<br />
“Kaua, the music is not so important. These girls do this every day. How
often to we get to see our prince?”<br />
“Stupid Gaanji! If we were meant to see our prince then he would have come
to the village! Keep back! Let him enjoy his music too!”<br />
“You are impossible, Bodhiman-Ghadda! I would give the prince the carpet off
my own floor if he would but honor me with a visit!”<br />
“Shutup, Ghodesachaara! The prince would never stand such a thing. What
would (the wife) feed him, if not just chapatis ghee and sweat curry?”<br />
The group laughed together at the thought, but none of them edged back any
further. They were just beyond Padmarana’s earshot, but he did notice that the
crowd had edged on in closer, and so, he drew his blanket-cloak closer around
him, and leaned in to hear the music better.<br />
Kiya and Sunila were now engaged in a back-and-forth, and the drummers began
playing with that, as well. Back and forth, back and forth, one would set a
pattern, the next would answer, and the flute and vine each took turns
answering. it was getting more involved by the second, and at this point,
Padmarana closed his eyes and allowed the apsarais to weave an internal vision
for him. He felt... suspended above the river, borne by the flute and the
rippling slide-sounds of the vina, and the drum patterns became rock and
boulders beneath his floating consciousness. It was as if he were floating on a
mattress made of sound...<br />
The villagers, however, got ever more edgy. The more Padmarana closed his
eyes and edged himself into the music, the more the crowd inched closer,
tugging, nudging, bumping one another, until now, they were but five feet from
Padmarana’s back. Suddenly, the most irritated of the mass, the one called
Ghiddi, an older man with few teeth but a wicked stick he used as a staff,
began to pound it along to the rhythm. <br />
“Aya, aya, Ghiddi! Let the enchanters be!”<br />
There were sounds of clicking as some snapped their fingers and began in
time to clap their hands along with the drums. Some of them began to make a
mocking dance. But none of this was noticed by the girls who played on, drawn
ever more intricately into the web they were spinning themselves. Then they
picked up the tempo, twice now three times as fast. The wave broke over the
crowd, and then all was still, and the slow part of the raga began again, with
some variation from how it had sounded at the start, but still, recognizable in
melody.<br />
The drummers now sat tapping the drums in a much quieter mode, and the flute
and vina were left to weave another sinuous line. Padmarana’s eyes were still
closed. Only now, he imagined Aruna as his consort, and again, imagined her
kisses, her body beside him, her mind flashing brightly along with his own. As
the music picked up in tempo again for a final recapitulation and climax, the
one in the crowd called Kaua stumbled, and fell forward, bumping his elbows
against Padmarana.<br />
“Travesty!” cried Bodhiman-Ghadda. “Sudras must never touch the Prince! He
has been defiled!” The villagers now drew back as though, this gross breach of
social distance had been, as it might have indeed been had it occurred in
Mohan’s court, some error near to fatal on Kaua’s part. Bodhiman-Ghadda shoved
Kaua, shoved him to the back of the little crowd, pushed him away, shooed him
with a motion of his arm that was immediately understandable as “begone!”<br />
Padmarana, though, had barely noticed the occurrence. The musicians built up
their jor to conclusion, and ended. When they had, they rested, their eyes on
Padmarana. had the prince been pleased, they beseeched him with only their
eyes.<br />
Padmarana stood up. Behind him, the various villagers now drew back, as if
he were a rampant cobra, and hustled themselves to what was once more a safe
distance.<br />
“Thank you, my friends. That was a marvelous piece! I thank you for your
skill and your inventiveness! Well, now I suppose I must be on...”<br />
Aruna interrupted him. “No, Prince, stay! Stay here with me today. Come and
see where we live, our humble village! We have never had anyone from the castle
visit us like this. We would be happy to show you our wealth, our fields, our
animals!”<br />
Muttering among themselves the villagers looked askance to each other.<br />
“What is she proposing? That the prince will come to our village! Quick, we
must go and prepare!” <br />
They broke off running, for each of them knew just the state of their humble
hut, and what the prince was likely to find there. If they could but have a
half hour’s time they could make arrangements so he saw them at their best...<br />
Padmarana nodded to Aruna, and drew close to her. he took a flower from the
jacaranda tree nearest him, and set it in her ear. Behind her, her friends
gasped- what a royal favor! Aruna was not blind to the meaning of this gesture,
and blushing, she smiled to him.<br />
“Come to my home, prince! I will give you the best I can of a royal meal!
And you may meet my poor parents...”<br />
The other girls took their instruments and hurriedly ran off in the
direction of the village as well, in the dust of the villagers who had gone
before them. Laughing and giggling and talking and gossiping amongst themselves,
again, they were sure to do more of it when they got Aruna to themselves again,
much later in the day...<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-9489658155398621922016-11-09T05:59:00.002-08:002016-11-09T05:59:50.496-08:00Neocon Zeppelin Crashes & Burns<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The election of Donald Trump as President of the United States of
America has sent shock waves through America’s political elites and
Establishment. They were all so sure they had it in the bag- Indeed- this
election was always Hillary Clinton’s to lose, and so, she has.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">There are a good many reasons I’m not completely displeased by
these results, personally. I found Ms. Clinton’s delusional ranting about “the
Russians” to be hyper-bloviating nonsense, and I’m certainly breathing easier
knowing that finally we will have a president that’s deciding that the US and
Russia ought to get along. The idea of my friends in Siberia vanishing in a
cloud of plutonium-impacted fallout will be just that- an idea, something from
a bad dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Of course, that’s not to say Hillary and her crowd of now
discredited warhawk “experts” won’t keep rattling their wheelbarrows about the
asylum screaming yet, “The Russians did it! The Russians rigged Our Election!”
and waving their limp dicks at Julian Assange and Wikileaks for their
uncovering the vast and dirty secrets that lie beneath the mud in the
Democratic Party, the nerve of them, informing the American People as to how
politics is actually conducted in the USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">And the Republican Establishment is no doubt sucking their thumbs
in wonder as well, most of them having defected to Hillary’s camp, most
notably, both Bush presidents, Henry Kissinger, and the Wolfowitz-inspired war
criminals at the New American Century. Weren’t they all hoping for more of the
same “humanitarian” interventions and regime change, more international
entanglements, and wars where they could get ‘em. No, the election of a populist
Trump has set them in a tizzy, and expect them to be out and about raising as
much dust as they might continue to, in the hopes that Trump will be every inch
as interventionist as Ms. Clinton. Except that, he won’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Trump stated in the second debate he would NOT resort to first use of
nuclear weapons, but most of that seemed to have gone right over the Democrats' heads as they continued their rants about how Trump “can’t be trusted” with The
Button. If anyone could not be trusted with The Button it was Hillary Clinton,
who has shown the American public, and the world, what her type of diplomacy
actually means- drones, falling bombs, endless wars, and millions more refuges
on the unarmed roads of flight across the Middle East. There won’t be any more
speculation as to “Russian aggression” since what amounts to :Russian
aggression” was is and will always be the Russians taking care of their own
sphere of influence as it is, reacting to US and NATO pressures on their
borders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Hillary’s fanatical hatred of Putin won’t get any play, either.
Wouldn't sensible people rather get along with a large country like Russia,
especially since they’ve also got The Bomb, and they’re actually doing more at
the moment to contain and defeat ISIS? Haven’t the US done enough by arms sales
to Israel and Saudi Arabia to inflame the conflicts of the ME into further unsolvable
conundrums than they already were?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">All these worries will vanish like a bad headache now. Ms. Clinton
can go back to New York, or Arkansas, or Illinois, or wherever it is she is
actually from, shake her doddering head, and remove herself from the political arena
like a good Grandma. For after all, Americans apparently still prefer assholes to bitches
when it comes to Presidents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-62817561598072141502016-10-12T06:30:00.002-07:002016-10-12T06:30:22.494-07:00Bicycling <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 222.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Recently I ran across a book titled “Cycling” (subtitle: </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Philosophy for Everyone.”) </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">And it’s full of a good number of essays,
memoirs, and such, expounding on the various authors’ views about bicycling,
what turns them on about it. Halfway through the book though I was a little bit
more than turned off by the tone taken by a good many of the writers, who seem
to be into bicycling as “</span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">racers</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">.”</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I think you know the sorts of bicyclist I
mean. you often see them every morning on their daily commutes, dressed in
their flash Spandex with the various company-whore logos splashed across the
ass and the chest, their heads down as they force themselves forward as though
the ride to work were another Tour de France, or something.</span></div>
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Nearly all of those people <i>also</i> drive cars, which is
something they’re not ashamed of, but somehow cycling to work looking “like a
pro bicyclist” helps them assuage the guilt that might come from their <i>not</i>
using a bike to get around, everywhere, which , thankfully, there are a few essayists
in the book who take the time to defend. I mean you could say that about <i>most</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> bicyclists
on America’s roads- that they <i>also</i> own a car, and they <i>will</i> use it “when
necessary.”</span></div>
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Unlike those types, though, I am not that sort of bicyclist.
I do not rely on the proposition that “new endeavors need new clothes” and I am
not into the idea of making a commute to my job (as a school crossing guard,
defending the children of ultra-rich Los Altos, California, from the even more
maniacal and demonic drivers who take up the other two lanes of traffic on the
Foothill Expressway) another race for the finish. I wear what it is, whatever,
I choose for my daily wear, since there’s no need to shower and change into
“real world clothes” when I am in the “real world” enough as it is already. <br />
I am also not so infected with the need for “speed” as are three fifths of
other Americans, which also includes a high percentage of the drivers, almost
uniformly. When I go someplace n a bike, I take the time to take my time. If I
need to be somewhere on time, I take the time to be sure I’ll get there on
schedule, but being on my bike, I really don’t care to ever be in a rush about
things.</div>
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There are qualities of bicycling that are transformational,
and one of these is the ability to look at the world going past your wheels,
being <i>in</i> the world as you travel in it, un-insulated from it by tons of steel
and glass. As a person on a bike, I <i>like </i> the fact I am going slower than all the cars.
I like the <i>human pace</i> of being on a
bike, of not being part of the rat race, of being closer and more in tune with
my surroundings, less caught up in the bullshit of the “human game.” I will get
there when I get there, and not before. So why not smell the roses? Why not
take the time to <i>look </i>at the houses,
the gardens, the trees, the various things which are <i>nature </i> despite man’s
desperate rush to reinvent his environment in his own image?</div>
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In the old days, Indians would travel the length and
breadth of their lands seeing, noticing, taking into account all the various
differences in their trails. By the time they had walked ten miles, they knew
every rock and tree on their way. This is one of the things bicyclists have
over cars. When we are up and riding we are much more influenced by the
different textures of the roadway, to a degree travelers in autos are not. A
three inch rock or a seven inch broken
tree branch in our path may present no
problem to a car, but for us could mean a spinout or even a flip. So we <i>have to</i> notice these things. We notice
the dead squirrels, the skunks, the possums, raccoons, birds, and pets and
other fellow Earthlings the cars left as road kill in their wake. Maybe we
reflect on them, maybe we don’t. But we are much more aware of them than were
the drivers who sent them to eternity.</div>
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Riding a bicycle is one way to help defeat the awful
guilt of having a “carbon footprint” which is in any case inevitable for any people
who live in our society. Yet a bicyclist’s is just <i>that much less</i>. Regardless, like I say, two thirds of the other
“bikers” on the road have their own automobiles, which they will revert to in
times of inclement weather. Unfortunately I have no such luxury. The job I hold
as a crossing guard demands me to be there, <i>rain
or shine</i>, and this of necessity demands I ride in whatever weather is out
there. I have rain gear, which has vastly improved my morale over the years I
rode without so much (rain pants having been the best and biggest agent of
change.) And yet there are times when
riding in the rain, itself, can be a “pleasant experience”. After all, one can
only get “so” wet. At such times the best thing to do is surrender to the idea
of <i>being</i> wet, and act accordingly.
Splash that puddle! Excelsior! But it’s also few people who would face the
weather in such fashion. Even the kids going to school who on sunny days ride their
bikes are riding past me in their parents’ cars when it rains. There are a
hardcore <i>few</i> who continue on whether
it’s rain or not, but for the most part, the number of kids I need to cross
diminishes by a factor of five on a rainy day.</div>
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My trip up to the job involves four miles of steady,
uphill grind climbing. Twice a day. Of course, that eight miles up means a fast
cool eight miles back down. But my aging knees have begun to protest. The
current bike I‘ve ridden for the past seven years hereabouts is a rather heavy
British-made Raleigh mountain bike- the Mojave 2.0. It qualifies as both
mountain and road bike, but I have adapted it or commuter use, since mountain
biking, like racing, is a bit too outré for my personal tastes or style in
riding. I am going to be retiring good old “Pony Boy” real soon, however, in
favor of an electric bike. Which will make a difference, one would hope, in the
manner in which I am able to endure those eight miles up everyday, and hang
onto this crossing guard job, which despite its close proximity to the “cars vs.
peds” and “cars vs. bikes” wars, is nonetheless a stable income, even if it isn’t
quite the hours I’d prefer (I have a night job, so all the bases do get
covered.)</div>
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As for the cars vs. bikes wars- I have found that,
despite the advice from many bike authors, it’s best not to maintain much eye
contact with the “road cagers” and “oil serfs” except when absolutely necessary.
When they are pulling out, of course, I
want them to <i>see</i> me, so I always ding
my little bell just so I know that they saw me. And at times when making
headway against left turners. But for the most part, eye contact seems only to
increase the road rage on both sides of the game. They probably don’t even
think people on bikes are “real people”- at least, that is a sentiment I have
seen expressed in more than one anti-bike newspaper opinion letter- but for the
most art, it’s been working out OK. The only accidents I have been involved in
were both the fault of the driver- one ran a red light, the other "didn't
see me” as I started to cross a junction near some train tracks- but for the
most part, it's true, nobody wants to collide with anyone else on purpose, and
I am always super-cautious as can be in so far as :riding defensively: is
concerned. I never make aggressive moves, nor do I tend to test yellow lights
or roll on stop signs. After all, I need to be consistent, don’t I? I couldn’t
work in traffic safety and fail to attempt to set a good example for others.</div>
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There are a few pet peeves I have with both drivers and
other bikers. One of them is the "hot dog” syndrome. This usually involves
a “racer consciousness” bike coming up on my left to pass me, but making no
noise about it. Whoom, they are just there, and they gave no warning! And they just
<i>have</i> to get somewhere faster, no
doubt. Although these types are just as hung up with speed as the drivers are.
There’s assholes in cars and as many on bikes, apparently the spread is even
throughout the road populations. And just like the status players with fast
foreign sport cars, there’s the status players on bicycles. You can spot them a
mile away because they are the ones who needed new clothes before they got on
their bikes. But their bikes are always racer drop-bars, titanium wheels,
ultra-lite carbon fiber frames, and usually cost them somewhere in the
neighborhood of five grand. Back when Facebook went public and gave their
employees giganto dividend bonuses you saw a lot of brand new bikes showing up
on the street. Around here, workers in the high tech industry have their own
interior office cults devoted to road racing, and form little cliques and clubs
to indulge it (we call this type “Google ponies,” around here.) And usually they all <i>also</i> own cars. SO they can’t be accused of pro-bicycle lifestyle
activism with any degree of sincerity, for the most part. Nope, it’s all on a
par with “keeping ahead of the Joneses” so to speak.</div>
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And we have the “new clothes” issue. God help me if I
eve get into a suit of spandex with a heap of bike shop logos plastered all
over it! Nothing in the world looks worse than an over fifty, overweight male with a muffin top crammed into a pair of
lycra bike shorts. These were obviously contrived for bicyclists in their
twenties and thirties, and even then thirty or forty is usually pushing it. There’s
no way to hide the flab the wrinkles or the obvious fact you were out of shape
when you started and you’re going to still be pushed out of shape once you squeeze
into those ridiculous things. I could never take that route. I wear what I am
wearing and the hell with it! No pretending to be Lance Armstrong, or part of
the weekend warrior club. The bike is my everyday transportation, no more or
less, and I am going to keep it that way.</div>
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All things considered I am glad to ride my bike and not
spend a penny on auto maintenance or insurance. my failure to do so, of course,
sets me apart from the “real” people, but, that’s a distinction I don’t mind so
much as yet. Yes, being a performing musician has suffered since I left the
city for the country-suburbs, without a car, there’s not the same ease of
toting an amp to gigs as there was when I had a cab or a bus to hail and that
was that. But my conscience is still clean and that means a lot. I won’t be the
one you can pin the ass-tail on for being hypocritical about my carbon
footprint, not just yet, anyway. Even if
I were to one day surrender to the oil-serf lifestyle, even then I would only
use a car to get to a gig, or to visit friends a long way off (and so doing,
save myself a plane ride.) Bikes are great. You are closer to the real world
you live in, you are in some ways, closer to danger, you are doing something about,
rather than acceding to, those problems human society digs itself into. And for
the time being, that’s the gist of my thoughts on Biking.</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-62120600523509497932016-07-28T15:35:00.001-07:002016-07-28T15:37:35.000-07:00A Parable<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The following is dedicated to any who believe that the previous blogpost is somehow evidence of "inaction", "copping out" or somehow "not meaning to live responsibly in the face of evidence. (What evidence? Show me.)<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lemming Leap<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You are at the edge of a serious pair of precipices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Whichever lemming leader amasses the tallest pile of dead
lemmings at the bottom of the cliff will be judged “the winner.” It has also been
said among lemmings that to take part in this “great sacrifice” is one’s
“highest civic duty.” “If you don’t jump, don’t complain about who wins!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s not your fault - all the other lemmings have driven
you there, but, now they have split in two directions. One set of
lemmings is headed one way- toward a 100 foot cliff. The other is headed to a
<i>200</i> foot drop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At the bottom of each is a massive pile of the skeletons of
other lemmings, from previous jumps. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No matter how many lemmings die, the
ritual is to be re-enacted, every four years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The thought occurs: “Either way I go if I fall (or I am
pushed) I’m gonna die!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Choose the lesser of two evils! Minimize the damage!”
yells a voice behind you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You take the 100 foot fall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At the bottom, you are still dead, just as dead as the
lemmings on the 200 foot fall (only that <i>they</i>
had twice as long to think about where they were headed, while falling, theoretically.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You’re dead! So then you see the ghost (or the actual body
of) your leader! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Congratulations. You jumped with us, but thank god, you are
so lucky, you will sit tonight with God and the angels because you chose the lesser of
the two evils, you didn’t let THEM win!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My my, you think, My jump meant as much -or more!- as that of all the others!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">OR:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Your other choice would have been- step back from the
precipices, let all your fellow lemmings choose whichever hell-death- they
chose for themselves, turn to the leaders and say “Aw,fuck you, I’ll be just as
dead as the rest of you, I want none of this!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Looking down at the two piles of your dead lemming brothers
and sisters, all you can say is <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What a bunch of dumbshits!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Value added question:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Which lemming exercised critical thinking best?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3665035483633086310.post-64836915152513293432016-07-28T03:28:00.001-07:002016-07-28T03:28:53.039-07:00The Most Insulting Election In History<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Most Insulting Election in
History</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s that season again, folks.
Everywhere across the land, neighbors are oiling their automatics and
sharpening their pitchforks. Yes, it’s another Presidential Election, and it
looks as though this one is bound to be a doozy. In fact, it could be said, we
have never had an election like this in our lifetimes. Just look- One candidate
has been under scrutiny by the FBI for improper use of governmental
communications (and just happened to squeak past judgment, on the
recommendation of a coy FBI Director, who did all but say, the lady is just
stupid, folks) and a real estate con artist up for a civil lawsuit regarding
some shady practices enticing his “students” into tutelage at his “university”-
on charges of fraud. Well. since when have politicians ever been innocent of stupidity
and fraud?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Let us look at the two candidates
which the major political parties have chosen to foist upon us, as this year’s
“choice.” Let’s go with the one who <i>looks
like</i> she leads the pack, because her polls show 75% likelihood of winning
this highly corrupted and incurably evil office, the Democrat, Mrs. Clinton.
You know, I don’t call her the “Teflon Goddess” for nothing. Mrs. Clinton has
been the source of a good number of scandals and political imbroglios over the
years, and yet, somehow, has managed to eke her way past each and every rapid
without nary a scratch. Some would lay claim that this is somehow “proof” of
her incipient innocence of all allegations. Others, like myself, just call it
“1%er privilege”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It is no secret she has taken great
sums of money from the same big Wall Street donors that gave huge sums to the
election of the current president, who also contributed to the meltdown of
2008, and like the Teflon Goddess, suffered no recriminations from the justice
system for their machinations. Mrs. Clinton’s refusal to release transcription
of the speeches she gave for six figure pocketbook change equals the refusal of
her adversary to release his recent tax
returns. But we’re not at him just yet. She managed, during her term as
secretary of state, to destroy the regimes in at least two nations, engineer
chaos in a third, and create for the US two new bellicosities (Libya and Syria)
and is now setting us up for a shooting
match with another nation with whom we have no actual beef- Russia.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Killgrrl’s recent embrace of a
draft for women assures us that yes, not only will our sons continue to be
brutalized into PTSD situations, but, our daughters too. And what better reason
to start up the roll for the slaughterhouse than another unpopular, undeclared,
presidential fiat war? Of course, operatives of the Democratic National
Committee are already ginning it up, with their so far unproven allegations
that “the Russians” leaked the Committee’s emails to that treasonous Julian Assange’s
Wikileaks. No matter that the emails themselves reveal even more of the sort of
Dirty Tricks Killgirrls’ first Washington job (on the Watergate Committee) was
graciously uncovering on behalf of the American public during the Nixon years. Oh
and did mention she was actually fired
by the head of the committee, Samuel Dash, for being (in his words) “a liar?” But
again, we don’t call her the Teflon Goddess for nothing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Killgrrl makes a big to do about
how her use of a private email server to conduct official US Government
business as head of the State Department exposes her inherent stupidity as
well. What would get her fired from her local construction company gets her
walking papers from the FBI, and from her erstwhile, belittled, and cheated
Democratic opponent. Is it any wonder
folks feel they can’t trust her? Apparently, the scepter of a “two-family
presidency” just hasn’t struck a shadow of fear enough into a vast majority of
Democrats, as if, the Bush family wasn’t enough in the first place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And then there is her opponent on
the Elephant party side, in the corner, Mr. Orange Julius himself, Donald
Drumpf (as John Oliver would have us remember, is his natural original
pre-immigration family name). There aren’t enough words, perhaps to describe
him, he must be seen to be believed, but believe me, he is now giving the
Teflon Goddess a run for her money. A conniver, a reality TV star, a Real
Estate mogul (perhaps the second most odious occupation in America today
besides that of <i>politician</i>) whose
business practices are under scrutiny in a court of civil law. Dare we trust <i>another</i> used car salesman at the head of
our nation? At least Mr. Drumpf is making sense on the issue of a “WWIII” with
Russia. he would rather have us gain the support of Russia’ president in
fighting the international threat of ISIS than pick a fight with him. This may
be the only part of his platform that makes sense to me, but indeed it does.
The rest of his program seems to be an inflation of Barry Spybot’s mass
surveillance cyberstate, directed against those of Mexican or Muslim
persuasion, and promising a new Great Wall. Like most operations of Drumpf, it
will have to have his name spelled out in big lights, it will offer 24/7
casinos, and “Princess Towers” every ten miles so you can drive your family there for a great
vacation overlooking the wild and wooly Rio Grande. Of course, he promises that
Mexico is going to pay for it, and not only that, more than likely the labor
involved will be those poor deportees awaiting the next lane back across the
border.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s pretty
obvious to me that nobody ever seeks the office of President of the United
States without a long consideration beforehand of the powers attendant to it. Thanks
to Barry Spybot, these powers now include the ability to assassinate anybody
anywhere on the planet, with drones, if necessary, to hold in detention for
indefinite periods anyone consider suspect of “terrorism” (however some future
president chooses to define it) and the ability for the US Army to act in
civilian operations, as they did in Boston, committing house to house searches
while residents “sheltered in place.” These powers ought to be particularly
attractive to a narcissistic egoist like Drumpf, but, having tasted her share
already of some of the benefits of the office (being First Lady just wasn’t <i>good enough</i>) they are damned attractive
to the Teflon Goddess, herself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Let us look
though a little closer. Nobody honest, and certainly that goes for Mr. Sanders,
who ran an admirable campaign against the Goddess only to sell out when the
chips were down, will ever hold the office of Killer-In-Chief. The office
itself is incurably corrupted and corruptible. Whoever wins it must sell their
soul to the devil- figuratively, or perhaps, even literally- to hold the title
of “most powerful person in the world.” Wasn’t that the very same temptation
offered to Jesus in the desert by Beelzebub? “Dominion over all the nations and
peoples of the earth?” How could you refuse!!! Because the office now wields
these (“awesome”-G. W. Bush- powers) and therefore is no longer a<i> presidency</i>, but a <i>kingship</i>- I feel as though I cannot “consent to be governed” any
longer by <i>any</i> man, or woman, who is
elected to it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Nay, I do not
feel, as a well informed, educated American voter, that I can offer any consent
at all to any future holder of the office, nor even grant the consent implied
by vote, for the foreseeable future of my lifetime, unless, and until, these
powers are repealed. And who gave Barry these “awesome” powers? Why, a
shitting-their-pants Congress, of both Republicans AND Democrats, afraid of the
terrorist under the bed, drunk on the possibilities that somewhere, somehow,
the US will have to come to grips with some of those very forces they
themselves unleashed on the world- like the Afghan Mujahedin that became Al
Qaeda, the “Syrian Rebels” who became ISIS, or any number of homegrown
whackjobs intoxicated with maladjusted interpretations of the Koran. I cannot, by casting my vote in any
direction, give my consent for these ideas, that the President is a King and
not subordinate to the Congress any longer, nor to accountability under
national and international law. People say it is our civic “duty” to vote. No,
it is not a “duty.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Voting is
a right and a privilege, and it is our right to exercise it where, and when we
choose, in secret, and nobody has the right to tell us how or even when we
must, if we choose to use it, or not. “Duty “ is something that matters only
when you are helping the neighbors take out the invading North Korean Army
barricaded down at the end of the block, or getting a jury summons, or filling
out an IRS 1040 return. Don’t give me that bullshit about voting being a
“duty.” I will vote as, if, and when I choose. And that’s why I come to, in
conclusion, saying that, this is the most insulting election in US history. Two
very questionable and obnoxious characters are competing for the role of “King
and Queen” of the world. And I just don’t buy it. </span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">You have been tuned to Grand Jatte, an independent and autonomous
syndication of Glass Hat Music. Stay tuned for more exciting
verbal rambles and reductions...</div>Mark V. Lind-Hansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12990690148951142673noreply@blogger.com0