{"id":5465,"date":"2019-11-10T17:08:45","date_gmt":"2019-11-10T17:08:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.nielskunze.com\/?p=5465"},"modified":"2019-11-10T17:09:43","modified_gmt":"2019-11-10T17:09:43","slug":"endecay-museladder-jr","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.nielskunze.com\/?p=5465","title":{"rendered":"Endecay Museladder Jr."},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

\u2026said the Whispers:<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust give him a chance. He\u2019ll figure it out.\u201d<\/em>
\u201cIt\u2019s been fifty-three years!\u201d<\/em>
\u201cSo\u2026 it\u2019s just the very beginning of the fifth cycle\u2026\u201d<\/em>
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Endecay Museladder Jr.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A Slightly Schizophrenic Public Autolysis<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Only that day dawns to which we are awake. -Henry David Thoreau<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reason in the context of Infinity will always come to paradox.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

How much energy is squandered in hiding Truth\u2014 that which cannot remain hidden!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe unexamined life is not worth living.\u201d -Socrates<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today\u2019s world is the predictable result of the reasoned machinations of ancient sorcerers.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Epistemologia 2:<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reason insists that all of reality must be rational;
And even Eternity must yield to logic.
Is Reason thus reasonable? Or something else entirely?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The whispering of Spirit is a personal affair
And never secondhand.
Freewill among the majority
Is the choice to listen or not.
Few are capable of valuing absurdities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Misanthropiqued<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Chapter Zero
Perfidy<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fool me once\u2026<\/em>
Language is the first betrayal–
Words, the cleaver hacking meat from spirit’s formlessness.
Something beyond the tiresome patterns of my thinking
Reaches back, before my first memory,
To the sea before these islands,
When all blended into All… air and sea, mist and fog,
As the sweet chaos of perception lacking time and place,
Baby-smiles and giggles; no concept of future:
Infancy…Infinity… there’s something there,
And oh, how quickly it is lost!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It all started out so normal, so typical. A young couple, mismatched but in love, conceived a child. The boy was born perfect, healthy, energetic, curious. He was named Allister: the \u2018defender of man.\u2019 They mostly called him Alis [ay-liss].<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy was sweet and bright. He entered kindergarten at four, already able to read and write. Alis crafted poems which his mother loved for no reason and which his father scarcely read. He was only seven when he realized that his poetry was really only for himself\u2014 a way for him to point at things, ranking them, and finding himself within them. In his way, Alis was keenly devoted to making sense of a confounding world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the beginning, it made sense to trust your mother, to trust your father, to trust life\u2019s many expressioned faces, the meandering path, and to trust god\u2014 whatever god could possibly be\u2014 until you couldn\u2019t anymore. And then only you were left\u2026 and you weren\u2019t even sure that you could trust that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His first friend was Sottie, a plush grey teddybear. Friendship with Sottie was easy; the bear spoke from the boy\u2019s imagination and there was never any purchase for conflict. For a number of years they were inseparable and Alis loved Sottie, and Sottie\u2014 as the boy easily imagined\u2014 loved Alis right back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the time he was three, his father periodically asked Alis if he wasn\u2019t getting a bit old for toy bears. Alis purposefully declined to answer each time, as his mother ran interference for him, defending the friendship whenever she could. \u201cLeave the boy alone,\u201d she would say, as Alis and Sottie would quietly slink away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then, as some sort of compromise, Allister\u2019s mom began to teach him how to read. She had always read him stories, and Alis took to reading like it was the easiest thing in the world. Soon he was reading all the books aloud to Sottie, and his father let him be for awhile longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And once Alis could read, naturally, he could write too. Well, duh; they were two sides of the same thing. But the few adults who came to visit with his parents from time to time thought that it was just marvellous that Alis could write at four years old. But really, it was easy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The hardest thing for Alis, it turned out, was making real honest-to-goodness human friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day his mom took him on a playdate to one of the neighbours down the street. They had a boy about his age who seemed to have the same trouble making friends. So his mom dragged Allister by the hand down the back alleyway, and Alis dragged along Sottie just in case things didn\u2019t work out so good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jameson was a sickly child, skinny and pale; he wore glasses and coughed a lot, so he was always pushing his glasses up on his nose. They looked kind of big for him. The playdate, as Alis understood it, had been Jameson\u2019s mom\u2019s idea, but as soon as they had arrived at the back door, she had second thoughts written all over her pinchy face. She explained apologetically that Jameson was not well, that he would be undergoing surgery in a few days, to correct a defect in his heart. Mom said something conciliatory; Alis stared blankly and shrugged a little, and somehow the playdate still proceeded as planned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once out of earshot, in the sickly boy\u2019s room, Alis wanted to ask Jameson why his mom\u2019s face was so pinchy, but he didn\u2019t get the chance. Jameson already looked like he was about to cry, so instead he asked the other boy, pointing at his chest, \u201cDoes it hurt?\u201d Jameson shook his head no, but a few tears fell from his eyes anyway as he pushed out his lower lip. To Alis he just looked really really sad, and Alis didn\u2019t know what to do about that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you ever get scared?\u201d whispered Jameson, sniffling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure. Sometimes,\u201d Alis answered, hugging Sottie a little closer. \u201cSometimes, at night, when there\u2019s a little light shining through the window, or when my mom leaves the door open with the hall light on, it makes shadows. I know there\u2019s monsters in the shadows.\u201d Jameson nodded in agreement; of course there\u2019s monsters in the shadows! Everybody knows that. \u201cBut Sottie knows how to keep the monsters away. He would never let them hurt me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReally?\u201d Jameson had perked up at that, and Alis felt immediate relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh yeah,\u201d continued Alis, \u201cSottie knows all sorts of things. He\u2019s like\u2026 magic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The two boys spent the next hour and a half establishing Sottie\u2019s many virtues and imagining his nearly unlimited abilities. Superman had nothing on that stuffed bear!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you have a friend like Sottie?\u201d Alis finally asked, and the mood turned instantly somber again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy mom won\u2019t let me.\u201d That didn\u2019t make any sense to Alis, and he said so. \u201cMy dad sometimes says she has a stick up her butt,\u201d said Jameson. That made them both giggle. And Alis finally had at least a little understanding of why her face was always so damned pinchy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then it was time to go. Allister\u2019s mom called from the back door where their shoes were parked. When he got there, she asked him where Sottie was, and he answered \u201cHe\u2019s with Jameson. He needs him more than I do.\u201d Her smile was positively beaming. And Jameson\u2019s mom, well, her face was more pinchy\u2014 Alis was quite sure\u2014 than any face should ever be allowed to be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a few days later, when Alis was out playing in the neighbourhood by himself, that he got the shock of his young life. It was just so staggeringly unthinkable that he never really knew what to feel about it, but it sure made him cry\u2026 a lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was in the back alley, out behind Jameson\u2019s house, incidentally on the very day that Jameson was at the hospital for surgery, when he saw something unbelievable. There, beside the gate, where the garbage cans were lined in a neat row, stuffed to the brim awaiting pickup, he spied unmistakably the eye of his best friend peering out from beneath the lid. He pulled the garbage can from the bin out into the alleyway and lifted the lid in horror. Amongst coffee grounds and potato peels, there lay Sottie, wretched and stained, discarded like common trash.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Allister\u2019s mind, Sottie was beyond rescue. Over the past few days, the boy had made peace with his sacrifice for Jameson\u2019s sake. He had understood from the very first moment that there was no going back. The decision to leave Sottie with Jameson had been final, irrevocable. And now this!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shoved the garbage can lid back down, hard, until it snapped shut. He ran as fast as he could all the way home, crying like he\u2019d never cried before. He cried for days, but he never ever told anyone, not even his mother, why. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Teacher,<\/em>
Who are you?<\/em>
To tell me about me
And the things that I see?
Teacher,
I don’t know you;
All I know is that you’re not my friend.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was only in the second grade, still quiet and solitary, when his teacher, Mr. Armitage, squashed his last real chances for making any grade-school friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAllister!\u201d he suddenly yelled, and the whole class jumped in their seats. Alis sat in the back, so maybe there was good reason to raise his voice\u2026 but not that much. \u201cWhat are<\/em> you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alis was amusing himself, fighting that dogged beast, boredom. Same as it ever was, he was writing little poems.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBring it here,\u201d Mr. Armitage demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Head down, defeated, among the furtive snickers of his classmates, Alis delivered his private thoughts to the waiting, open, trembling hand at the front of the class. He couldn\u2019t decide whether the hand shook in rage or due to some infirmity. Why was he even angry at all?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Armitage read the scribbled poems aloud, clumsily, awkwardly mocking. Alis stood bent beneath the shaking page as its recalcitrant author, absorbing scorn, deflecting quiet ridicule by the tightening of all the muscles in his body. When the sneering recitation was finally finished, Alis was covered in cold sweat and his anonymity was ruined forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was thereafter the Second-Grade Poet, a leprous outcast, untouchable, unredeemable. Although Alis consistently demonstrated a real aptitude and genuine love of learning, the boy evermore positively hated school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fly me to the moon,<\/em>
Where I can be king,<\/em>
Looking down on your troubled ways;<\/em>
Easily turning my back,<\/em>
Forgetting your smallness,<\/em>
As I ponder infinite space.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Allister\u2019s home life was to all appearances normal and trouble-free. His parents argued quietly at night, after the boy was asleep, out of morbid consideration. But through the course of the week, as his father went to work and his mother watched TV, crying at the soaps, slowly a subtle but palpable tension would build toward the weekend, inexorably. An outsider wouldn\u2019t\u2019ve likely noticed anything at all. But Alis was a keen insider, alert and judicious; although he didn\u2019t really know what was going on, he always knew that something was certainly going on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Saturday morning breakfast was always unnaturally quiet, and Alis didn\u2019t know how to speak to the tension, or if it was even proper. So he ate his grapefruit and toast in silence, waiting for his dad to make the move. They would either go fishing for the day, Dad grabbing the boy, saying nothing more to Mom than to mention the spot to where they were headed; or else he\u2019d pack up the truck with the tent and a couple of sleeping bags, an axe and a shovel, and they\u2019d go camping for the whole weekend. Mom was never invited; she\u2019d once said that she hated camping, so it seemed alright to Alis. He didn\u2019t much like the quiet tension that piled up during the week, but he liked fishing and camping with his dad well enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was almost eight, and Easter had just passed. They were on the backcountry road to Whitetail\u2014 where they\u2019d be both camping and fishing. The lake was known as a trophy lake, well stocked and remote. But despite its out-of-the-way nature, Whitetail had a proper campground with stalls, pads, campfire pits and firewood provided. It was a provincial park; the BC government maintained it pretty well, so the only real drawback was that there were always other people camping there too, even this early in the season.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs the Easter Bunny real?\u201d Alis had to nearly shout over the rattle of the truck on the dirt and gravel road and the whine of the engine during the steep parts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His dad turned a moment to look at the boy, sizing up the situation. \u201cWhat do you<\/em> think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s what Alis had expected. His dad always turned everything back on him. And he was ready. \u201cI don\u2019t think that the Easter Bunny is real.\u201d He was pretty sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His dad smiled ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth caught marginally in profile. \u201cHow d\u2019ya figure?\u201d He was looking straight ahead, concentrating on the drive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d began Alis, laying out his reasoning, \u201cthe Easter Bunny has to first get inside the house. And he can\u2019t come down through the chimney. A rabbit\u2019s got no way to get on the roof. So he\u2019s gotta come in through the door. But he\u2019s got no fingers. How can he turn the doorknob without any fingers?\u201d He let the question sit there as the sure indictment it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a momentary pause and a tricky bit of maneuvering around some wide mud puddles, his dad easily confessed\u2014 but not in so many words. \u201cYou figured that out, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alis nodded when his dad looked right at him. Was that a hint of pride? Alis decided that it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo then\u2026\u201d he ventured further, \u201cI\u2019m gonna say that Santa Claus is bullcrap too.\u201d His dad burst out in genuine laughter at that one, and the boy took it as full confirmation for everything he\u2019d been thinking. He just couldn\u2019t understand why the lie in the first place. The whole world was in on it. What for? He couldn\u2019t help but ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBlame your mother,\u201d Dad answered unexpectedly. \u201cIf it\u2019d been up to me, I\u2019d\u2019ve never piled that shit on ya. It\u2019s a stupid lie if you ask me. But nice people love stupid lies\u2026 more than their own kids.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alis didn\u2019t know what to say to that. There was a lot to unpack in those short sentences. Was his mom stupid or nice? Or both? Was his dad more like him, an outsider? Was the whole world stupid? There was a lot to think about, for sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His dad was up at the first hint of dawn. He hauled the canoe down to the lake and set out fishing alone, letting the boy sleep awhile longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Alis wasn\u2019t sleeping. He had to piss, and it was cold. He was weighing the merits of relieving his bladder against the abandonment of his toasty warm sleeping bag. In the end, the bladder won out; the bladder always get\u2019s its way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pulled on his boots and his sweater, unzipped the tent and stepped outside. It was halfway between light and dark. There was just enough light to see the silhouettes of a handful of campers\u2014 mostly RV\u2019s\u2014 scattered around. Nobody else seemed to be up yet. He could piss in peace. He selected a nearby tree as the recipient of his warm morning gift\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWanna play?\u201d asked the tree with the unmistakable voice of a little girl. That instantly threw Alis off his game, interrupting his stream before he was actually finished. He stood there a moment with his dick in his hand, staring gape-mouthed at the talking tree. When the girl finally emerged from behind it, he scrambled to zip himself up\u2014 quickly, without causing himself injury.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d seen him in the half-light, his private parts; he was pretty sure. And that was kinda awkward. She was a few years younger than he was. That just wasn\u2019t right. He couldn\u2019t think of anything appropriate to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She said again \u201cYou wanna play?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he blurted out, looking down at his own crotch to make sure all had been properly put away. And once he realized that everything was quite kosher, he said \u201cI mean, yeah\u2026 okay. Sorry,\u201d he added for no reason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re funny,\u201d she giggled. And just like that she took Alis by the hand and led him down the path which encircled the lake. There were still a few patches of snow along the muddy path, which provided the obvious fun of a snowball fight. Alis had the good sense to allow the little girl to win the battle by flubbing his throws intentionally and falling to the ground mortally wounded when one of her feeble attempts finally caught him in the side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He played dead, expecting to rally her concern, but all was suddenly eerily quiet. He opened his eyes and sat up. She was standing a few yards away, frozen in horror, looking past him. He turned and got to his feet all in one motion. There, crouched in the snow, was a mountain lion, ready to spring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRun!\u201d he yelled, and took off like a bat out of hell, slogging determinedly through the mud back to camp. But before he even got there, he looked back, and the little girl was nowhere in sight. There were sounds, unidentifiable sounds to his young mind, coming from the place where he\u2019d left her. \u201cShit!\u201d He was cursing himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alis grabbed a sturdy stick from the ground, maybe five feet long, and went charging back into battle. There was no thought on his part; it was the only thing to do; there was no choice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He screamed and growled like an unknown wild thing as he charged straight at the cougar, full tilt. The cat was standing over the little girl who was just a motionless bundle in the snow. The cougar roared but backed off, and Alis just kept right on coming behind the pointed determination of his pathetic spear. In a split-second decision, the cougar turned tail and ran, and Alis charged after it just as fast as he could run, screaming his fool head off. He chased that cat into the forest until it disappeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he stopped. Thoughts began flooding his mind. He turned and ran as fast as he could back to the little girl, wondering if she was dead\u2026 wondering if this whole thing was even real\u2026 wondering if he\u2019d honestly just chased off a full-grown lion\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was still motionless right where he\u2019d left her. He felt wracked with guilt as he knelt beside her. Her jacket was torn in many places. There was blood on her legs, gashes and rips. He scooped her up like she weighed nothing at all and brought her down to the lakeshore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quickly, he began to remove her clothes, getting her out of the mangled jacket, her torn jeans; he scooped water onto her wounds to clean them; he washed her muddy face. Her eyes fluttered open. She was alive! She screamed and screamed and screamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The whole campground was there suddenly, a dozen adults looking stunned and confused. The little girl\u2019s parents snatched her from Alis, and began shouting and cursing at him. They thought that he had attacked her, had removed her clothes for\u2026 for\u2026 They shouted the most horrible things, while others grabbed him by the arms and held him fast. Alis was stunned, dumbfounded. He had no idea what to say to defend himself. He had indeed acted shamefully when he had first run away; he felt guilty for that; he deserved their wrath; they were right. He bent his head and accepted it all; he wanted to die right then\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right then, Allister\u2019s father sprang from the canoe hastily beached, and grabbed his son from the angry mob. He demanded explanations, and couldn\u2019t believe a word of what he was hearing. Finally, he turned to Alis and asked the boy what had happened, and Alis told them all about the lion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShow me,\u201d said his father in a tone that permitted no argument\u2026 from anyone. Alis led them all to the place where the girl had been attacked. There were prints in the mud and prints in the snow. There was no doubt he was telling the truth. He had saved the little girl. His father had saved him. And from that moment on, the truth always seemed to Alis like a slippery thing, squirming in the spring mud, half frozen in the leftover snow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t tell your mother,\u201d was about all his dad wanted to say about the whole affair afterward. Alis didn\u2019t really understand why, but somehow it made sense. It just wasn\u2019t something Mom would appreciate, so they never told her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Truth is a lion,<\/em>
Lurking in a forest of lies.<\/em>
Hunger is not cunning,<\/em>
Nor predation even wise.<\/em>
The lion is just a lion,<\/em>
Not angry, moral, or even free;<\/em>
And the tall tales of men<\/em>
Change nothing of what that lion shall ever be.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was yet one more stark utterance before perfidy\u2019s full damning statement on Allister\u2019s young life would be complete. He was still only nine when he began to notice some changes in his dad. His father was carrying a little extra weight, not enough to label him as fat, but noticeable, around his belly and neck. His face had become ruddy, as though he was always holding his breath. And the anger that Alis always knew was there just beneath the surface was beginning to show itself more and more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His mother seemed the same: quiet, timid, doting; perhaps there was a touch of sadness the boy had scarcely noticed before. It was subtle, and just the sort of thing to be kept hidden anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The nightly arguments finally erupted into full-blown shouting matches whose intensity easily reached to Allister\u2019s bedroom where he lay in the full dark trying not to listen. The only real surprising aspect of it was that his mother was fully capable of dishing venom when pushed too far. That seemed to Alis to be something wholly outside of her character. But the boy\u2019s youth had already been quite the lesson in everything he\u2019d gotten wrong about the world he was expected to inhabit; it was just one more thing\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was about a week before Christmas. It started at Saturday breakfast. From the moment he sat down with his parents, Alis couldn\u2019t help but notice the thick tension filling the air, making it vibrate. No one said a word until Mom began absentmindedly cutting the sausages on Allister\u2019s plate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeave him alone! Let the boy cut his own damn meat,\u201d his father growled. \u201cHe\u2019s nine years old for Christ\u2019s sake! He\u2019s not a baby.\u201d His mother promptly dropped the cutlery, letting it clatter on the plate as her eyes filled with tears. She got up immediately and hurried away\u2014 presumably to spare Alis from the spectacle of her pending breakdown. \u201cFragile bitch,\u201d muttered his dad, just loud enough, deliberately, for Alis to clearly hear. And for some reason, those two words cut enormously deep into the boy\u2019s heart. He\u2019d never heard such a thing from his father before; and he never would again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His mother took him that afternoon to the mall to do some Christmas shopping. Alis was glad to be with his mother on this occasion. They both fully expected his father to be gone camping or fishing, or maybe just out drinking, by the time they returned. But Dad\u2019s truck was still parked out front. Mom pulled the car into the driveway and pressed the button on the garage door opener, and waited\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is an unfathomable spectacle to see one\u2019s father dangling, lifeless, from the garage rafters. It was something purely inconceivable, yet there it was. Mom gasped and screamed and took her foot off the brake unconsciously. The car idled slowly forward, into the garage, into the hanging corpse. Alis managed to slam the gear shift into park before the car hit the back wall of the garage. He shut off the ignition and forcibly pushed his mother from the car. He shoved her through the door into the house and told her to call the police, while he turned to ponder the undeniable reality of the inconceivable once more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father had planned this final statement deliberately\u2014 that he and Mom should face this horror together. It was a demonstration\u2026 but of what? His dad had been the strong one, the hero, the tough guy\u2014 a liar! It didn\u2019t make any sense at all. The only thing that was clear was that his father\u2019s life had been a complete lie. In an instant, Alis could no longer comprehend anything of what he might\u2019ve stood for. And what was this final statement supposed to convey? What was he supposed to learn from this shit?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He still had a lifetime to figure it out\u2026 along with everything else that would dramatically punctuate Allister\u2019s unusual life. All he could do was pay attention and struggle not to be hopelessly buried beneath it all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The light from the automatic door opener suddenly clicked off. Alis whispered to the corpse in the semi-darkness \u201cFragile bitch,\u201d and went in to find his mother.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

\u201cImpeccability is nothing more than the proper use of energy.\u201d -don Juan<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Impeccability<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Impeccability\u2014
meticulously doing the \u2018right\u2019 thing,
Irrespective of morality\u2014
Is the only narrow road to freedom.
At any time,
Awareness is free to explore\u2014
by dissipating or conserving energy\u2014
the current confines of perception.
But those confines are expanded
to Infinity
Only by the actions
which handle and exceed
Those expanding confines.
Those actions are impeccable,
and narrowly defined
through personal experience,
and a tight relationship with power;
All others set limits.
Peace and complacency have no part
In impeccability\u2026
And compassion is a bugaboo for another day.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Park Bench Encounters 2<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dodgeball Betty & The Elusive Now<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you defending?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had snuck up on me again! This time she was actually standing right behind my favourite park bench, where I was busy jotting down a few arguments pertaining to our last encounter. Apparently, she had been quietly reading over my shoulder. I slammed the MacBook shut and turned in my seat. But, once again, I was caught in the indecision of having too many things to say at once, and before I could select one she continued on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you really think I have any interest in arguing with you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From what little I knew of her from that singular previous encounter, I was suddenly and thoroughly sure that she was utterly dispossessed of any desire for argument. And furthermore, I was instantly as certain that I would lose any such argument anyway. I regrouped, gathered my thoughts, flashed my most disarming smile, and abruptly opted for a different tack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWon\u2019t you please join me?\u201d I indicated the vacancy beside me on the bench, and added \u201cAnd for god\u2019s sake, please tell me your name\u2026 and a little about yourself.\u201d I was honestly curious who this strange woman was, and I felt a genuine relief and momentary satisfaction as she seemed to accept my offer, skirting the edge of the bench to sit next to me. I was rather pleased\u2026 right until the very next second when she spoke again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Derailed again! Everything this woman said seemed to throw me off my game. \u201cUm\u2026 I\u2019m sorry, what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s my name matter?\u201d she jabbed. \u201cAnd knowing any of my particulars won\u2019t change a thing I\u2019ve already said or affect the value of anything I might say today. What\u2019s the point of any of that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell\u2026 well\u2026\u201d I stammered, \u201cI have to call you something.\u201d My insistence was weak and she just stared at me nonplussed and unrelenting. \u201cC\u2019mon, it\u2019s just a name,\u201d I pleaded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly my point. Pick a name for me if you feel that you must. I\u2019m a stray dog\u2026 gotta have a name.\u201d Wink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I honestly don\u2019t know why this naming business rankled me so, but it did. In meek tenaciousness bordering on real despair I insisted that she provide me with a suitable name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She acquiesced with a tiny smile, stared briefly into my eyes as if reading something there, and flatly stated \u201cBetty.\u201d And then she laughed uproariously, joyfully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that threw me into utter turmoil!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In my youth, myself and a group of friends referred to every girl we didn\u2019t know personally as Betty: \u201cHey, check out the rack on that Betty!\u201d or \u201cWhat did Betty want?\u201d when the cafeteria lady periodically gave us shit. And now, that this woman was able to pluck that singularly generic name from my memory, it thoroughly unnerved me. And I was irrationally sure that she knew exactly what she had accomplished with that little maneuver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I practically whispered and swallowed hard. \u201cBetty,\u201d I affirmed with a nod. \u201cAnd what is it that you do, Betty?\u201d In for a penny, in for a pound, right?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have righteous conversations with strangers,\u201d she iterated with uncommon force. I could only nod in assent. \u201cLook, let\u2019s get this all straight right now. Who I am isn\u2019t at all relevant to anything I have to say. I\u2019m not speaking from any special authority. I have no desire to ever speak from authority. Authority is for dip-shit kids! And we\u2019re not kids, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nodded again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJudge and evaluate the fuck out of everything I say to you based on what I actually say to you, and nothing else. If the shit I tell you can\u2019t stand on its own in your estimation, then chuck it. Save your arguments for yourself. If something\u2019s bugging you, work it out\u2014 silently, internally. But you can be damn sure that it ain\u2019t bugging me or I wouldn\u2019t have said it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m Betty. Yup. And I\u2019m damn fucking sure of myself!\u201d And then she nearly fell off the bench laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was completely disarmed, instantly; the authenticity of her mirth\u2014 without judgment or accusation\u2014 totally put me at ease. I was suddenly in a good frame of mind for a real conversation. So\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat should we discuss today?\u201d I asked in a mood of surrender.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have nothing pending,\u201d answered Betty. And I immediately realized that her answer was the full and final punctuation on the statement of who she was\u2014 what she was: she was that which had nothing pending, no agenda, no expectations. I imagined that this must be what it\u2019s like to be fully present, to live in the now\u2026 and I said something to that effect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHippy-dippy new-age claptrap!\u201d she spat. \u201cHardly anyone has any meaningful acquaintance with the present. Everyone\u2019s staring at the backside of the world as it\u2019s rushing past them. Except for in very brief\u2014 very rare\u2014 moments, no one\u2019s meeting the situation as it comes, as it is<\/em>. Maybe if you\u2019re driving in your car one night and suddenly there\u2019s headlights right in front of you, coming right at ya, and it\u2019s 50\/50 whether you\u2019re about to die or not\u2014 yeah, then for a split second, you\u2019re fully in the now, looking honestly at all of the relevant data. But then you go right back to experiencing the world according to whatever description of it you\u2019ve assembled from all your past experiences\u2026 and that\u2019s just how it works. We drag the whole past along with us to serve as a lens\u2014 like a telescope for viewing the world from way-far-away-reality, or like a microscope for viewing the tiniest speck surrounding our distorted personal obsessions and compulsions. Trying to \u2018live in the moment\u2019 is just another unrealistic buzzword catchphrase that doesn\u2019t usually suggest any method or procedure for getting there. Our bodies are always already in the now, while our minds are, well, usually someplace else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo how do we get there? Or\u2026 er\u2026 rather here? What\u2019s the procedure for getting our minds to the here and now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPhew! That\u2019s a biggie,\u201d she conceded. \u201cMinds like to think. But try this on for size: as long as you\u2019re thinking, you\u2019re not here; you\u2019re not now. Even if you\u2019re thinking exclusively about your current situation, in order to think, you have to evaluate and compare the current situation to everything you think you already know. That automatically puts you a couple of steps behind right there\u2014 or here.\u201d Wink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo I shouldn\u2019t think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHa!\u201d she laughed. \u201cGood luck with that. Minds are busy little things; if not thinking\u2014 you\u2019re dreaming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t that what meditation\u2019s for?\u201d I offered, \u201cto quiet the mind?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOverrated,\u201d she flatly stated. \u201cMeditation\u2019s good for one or two things: training yourself to be your own witness\u2014 so you can watch your own patterns of thinking and behaviour; and relatedly, for sharpening your own attention. If you can learn to pay attention to your own bullshit, you can pay attention to anything\u2026 or withdraw it from anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Betty paused there momentarily and became thoughtful (which I thought was kind of ironic) and then she re-engaged the conversation. \u201cAttention\u2019s the thing\u2026\u201d she dangled. And then with ironclad conviction: \u201cAttention is what makes reality real. Personally. Individually.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wasn\u2019t prepared to challenge her statement, but I needed more to go on before I could accept it. She obliged, of course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet\u2019s try out a little analogy,\u201d she suggested. \u201cThere are uncountable little gods hurling every manner of world views at you constantly, like some cosmic game of dodgeball. Scientists are chucking descriptions of the world at you; TV anchors are updating countless views, tossing them out nightly; teachers are lobbing convincing gobs of curricula; parents, friends, lawmakers, and really everyone you meet are all pelting you with every conceivable description of the world. But you, through the action of placing your attention on various aspects of these myriad depictions, cobble together your own unique description of the world. And then you chuck it back at all of them in one way or another\u2014 updated and personalized. And for every one of the players in this cosmic game of dodgeball, it is the specific items in each of their realities to which they agree to pay attention that make up the substance of the rubber ball they\u2019re pitching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe tend to pay attention to the things we care about,\u201d she continued, \u201cor, more often, the ones that piss us off. For average everyday people attention gets irretrievably intertwangled with emotion. Throughout our lives we continuously make emotional investments in the world of our perception as directed by our attention. That\u2019s the process, in a nutshell, of how we make reality real. We choose what\u2019s real for us individually, and then we are inextricably bound by those choices.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cInextricably..?\u201d I dangled the question playfully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor 99.9999% of folks, yeah; there\u2019s no disentangling. And for the other three or four people in the world\u2026\u201d we both smiled; \u201cthere\u2019s a minimal chance of gathering up all of the bits of attention we\u2019ve scattered and squandered\u2026 and then a whole raft of new possibilities opens up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat kind of possibilities, Betty?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMagical ones,\u201d she said. And she couldn\u2019t have been more serious. \u201cRemember when you were just a kid and the whole world was awe-inspiring and filled with wonder? You believed in magic\u2014 easily\u2014 because you could feel it everywhere. And then your parents, and really every adult you had contact with, conspired to ridicule and root out that belief ruthlessly and permanently. They relentlessly drew your attention to \u2018magical\u2019 beings like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth-fucking-Fairy. They played you for an idiot. And when you were finally old enough to see through the con, you and all your peers silently vowed to never fall for such ridiculousness ever again. \u2018Of course magic isn\u2019t real. That\u2019s for babies!\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My automatic reflex was to object, but Betty held up her hand and continued. \u201cI know you want to claim that it\u2019s just a harmless prank, but it\u2019s not. It\u2019s a very callous ruse, and not very well thought out. We live in an infantile culture,\u201d she explained. And I stiffened with the desire to interject with a rebuttal, but she mowed me down. \u201cThe proof that we\u2019re living in a thoroughly childish society is that we operate on the principle of authority\u2014 exclusively. Authority is the lazy way of raising kids\u2014 or civilizations. When the children rebel and refuse to believe what you want them to believe, just smack \u2018em around, assert your authority. It doesn\u2019t really matter a whole lot what they actually believe, as long as they learn to respect authority. That\u2019s pretty much society\u2019s only directive for effective parenting: complete, indoctrinated conformity. Our insistence and utter dependence on authority is what keeps modern humans stunted, in a state of arrested development.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo the whole Santa Claus thing winds up demonstrating to the kids that not only does magic not exist, but that the authorities can\u2019t be trusted either. Sorry kiddies: there\u2019s no real magic; might makes right; and even your own parents can\u2019t be trusted\u2014 but obey them anyway, and be prepared to perpetrate the same betrayal when it\u2019s your turn\u2026 because, you know, peer pressure is a good way to run a society, right? Confusing, ain\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had to admit that I was a bit confused, but in keeping with confusion\u2019s wily nature, it was hard for me to pin down with specificity. I filed the whole Santa-Claus-Tooth-Fairy thing away for future consideration, and figured that the topic of authority would likely come up again of its own accord, but I wanted to return to the topic of attention.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEarlier you made a statement about attention, and you made it almost sound fantastical or magical itself,\u201d I said. \u201cYou said that attention is what makes reality real.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is magical,\u201d replied Betty. \u201cYour whole quality of life, the very meaning of your life, comes down to nothing more than what you place your attention upon. Where you direct your attention charts the course of your life. Lives are made from experiences; experience follows attention; attention selects what\u2019s real to you individually. It\u2019s quite simple and utterly profound. Your attention completely sustains the world of your experience.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m sure that the expression on my face still reflected doubt, so Betty conducted a little experiment with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet comfortable, relax and close your eyes,\u201d she instructed. I complied, and she continued softly, almost whispering in my ear. \u201cYou\u2019re in a lawn chair on a beach. There\u2019s an umbrella shading most of you from the scorching sun, but your bare feet are sticking out into the bright sunshine, so you half bury them in the sand. Feel the warm sand around your toes. Smell the ocean breeze coming off the sea mingling with the smoky subtlety of the single malt scotch on the armrest, by your right hand. There are the distant sounds of children playing, gulls crying, calypso music from the cabana behind you\u2026 Are you there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I smiled. \u201cI am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat’s just little ol\u2019 me whispering in your ear for thirty seconds, and reality gets dislodged and nearly replaced. Now think about the little voice of your internal dialogue\u2014 the script constantly running in your head\u2014 that won\u2019t shut up during every waking moment. It\u2019s not as crude or as coarse as my little \u2018happy place\u2019 experiment; it\u2019s quite subtle and refined by now. But it\u2019s been with you since you began forming your very first memories. That little voice is directing, focusing and reaffirming your attention constantly. And without it, your view of the world would quickly collapse.\u201d She paused a moment for effect. And then, \u201cIf you could truly abide in silence, internally, only then would you be occupying the moment and be open to the immense spectrum of perception available. In inner silence, reality expands immeasurably.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt sounds simple,\u201d I said, \u201cbut I know it\u2019s not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is<\/em> simple,\u201d she insisted. \u201cIt\u2019s just not easy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy is that, Betty?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled as prologue for the ridiculous scope of her reply. \u201cAny and every unresolved issue from a lifetime of accumulated experience is fuel for the internal dialogue. Any place in your past where you\u2019ve invested an iota of real emotion and subsequently felt that you got gypped, where you\u2019ve carried forward a speck of resentment; or conversely, even a reliance on happy memories and nostalgia to force the past into dulling the present pain\u2014 anywhere we\u2019re hooked emotionally, right up to the present moment, serves as fuel for the mind\u2019s incessant chatter. The mind loves to talk about injustices its experienced and its surefire solutions for them. It\u2019s almost like that\u2019s all that the mind of ordinary man is\u2014 a personal justice warrior\u2026 and nothing more. It\u2019s virtually all victimhood, from the undeniable painfully obvious to the finest grades of subtlety. The internal dialogue is the sure indication that the mind is in a passive state. Talking to ourselves places us behind the moment, reacting from the past. Even if we\u2019re giving ourselves pep talks and reciting affirmations, it\u2019s not proactive; it\u2019s not in the moment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo what should we do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d she shockingly answered. And then after a dramatic pause, \u201cnothing, if you truly like your life, if you\u2019re mostly content. And this is an important point,\u201d she emphasized, \u201cif you\u2019re mostly okay with the way things are going, why change? You can\u2019t just play around with the things I\u2019ll say to you, out of some idle curiosity. Only if you\u2019re burning for real change, that you know from the depths of your being that there\u2019s more to life than this ordinary existence, then maybe there\u2019s a tiny chance that you can alter your reality in a meaningful way.\u201d She fixed me with a stare that insisted \u201cI know you.\u201d And then she proceeded to finally answer the question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have to spur yourself to action,\u201d she insisted. \u201cFor every little thing you can find from your past that still bugs you in the slightest, you have to devise a plan of action that once carried out will resolve the issue once and for all. Hopefully, for the vast majority, you can simply re-live the memory and bring a wiser more mature perspective to bear and reclaim those spent emotions in the light of a new understanding. But you mustn\u2019t fool yourself. You must develop the honesty to know whether something still bugs you or not. If you\u2019re still feeling irked\u2014 and especially if an item is still churning up thoughts and self-talk\u2014 then you have to find some other meaningful action to settle the account. Maybe you need to talk with old friends and have it out, or visit grave sites, or god only knows what. Only by settling the past\u2014 by having nothing pending\u2014 can you truly occupy the present and stand a chance of perceiving what this existence is truly about.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd what is it about?\u201d I cautiously inquired, adeptly ignoring the sheer magnitude of the procedure she\u2019d just outlined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled again and looked at me kinda sideways, seemingly assessing what she should answer to such an impertinent query. \u201cThat\u2019s something you can really only find out for yourself; otherwise, I\u2019m just telling you stories. But I will tell you that it\u2019s mainly about becoming acquainted with Spirit\u2014 the only legitimate authority there is\u2026 as the true Author of reality. And the only other thing I\u2019ll tell you today is that there are no universal steps or surefire procedures for becoming acquainted with Spirit. You can accept guidance,\u201d and here I expected her to wink again, \u201cbut you have to devise and implement your own path according to your personal quirks and predilections. And anyone telling you different is full of shit! Or trying to sell you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And abruptly, that seemed to be the end. She stood up and said one last thing in parting: \u201cMy shit\u2019s free.\u201d And she strode off into the late morning crowds of shoppers, workers, commuters of the bustling world of ordinary perception.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The Music Archeologist<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

2: The Black Sun<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

So now there was just this one thing left to do: end the world. And I was just a spectator.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We had walked some distance away from the car\u2026 into a lovely bit of desert nothingness, just sand and small clumps of scrub grass vying for our attention. We three were momentarily pensive, seemingly lost in our private thoughts\u2026 until Jay cheerfully smashed the silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI looked high, saw the empty sky.\u201d He was singing the Elton John song again, and it seemed strangely appropriate. \u201cIf I could only\u2026 could only fly! I\u2019d drift with them in endless space, but no man flies from this place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gord was kneeling now on the ground, inside a finger-drawn circle, further drawing some kabbalistic runes in the sand, muttering quietly to himself in something that seemed to resemble the Yiddish my girlfriend\u2019s grandmother spoke. Figures.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s he doing?\u201d I asked Jay. I wanted him to walk me through our moment of doom\u2014 Gord so serious and focused\u2026 Jay suddenly carefree, almost happy\u2026 I had no idea what to think or feel\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHim?\u201d Jay seemed surprised that I would ask. \u201cHe\u2019s organizing his intent, structuring his dream of destruction, ritualizing.\u201d He said it so casually, like such a thing utterly lacked meaning or consequence. No big deal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe circle keeps it in,\u201d he added, and I looked on bewildered. \u201cOh\u2026\u201d he realized suddenly, \u201cI suppose you\u2019re rather frightened\u2026 by all this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPfft\u2026 who me?\u201d Honestly, I was struggling to keep my sense of humour. In the pit of my stomach\u2014 the place that really counts\u2014 I had accepted that this was the end. But my paranoid brain was still scheming, scrambling, searching for the exit sign.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s nothing,\u201d said Jay with perfect seriousness. Somehow this was meant to be a comfort. \u201cRelax. Enjoy the evening.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sun was just beginning to dip toward the horizon. The very first hints of sunset colour were just becoming detectable. There was a promise of beauty coming like coolness to the desert sky\u2026 How do you enjoy the death of everything?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Apparently I said it aloud. \u201cHow do you enjoy the death of everything?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith everything you got,\u201d said Jay. \u201cUntil it\u2019s all gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWill it hurt?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jay looked suddenly wounded by the question. \u201cNah, it\u2019s not really our prerogative to inflict pain\u2026 at least, not anymore.\u201d For that last bit he looked directly at Gord, levelling some vague accusation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I let the insinuation go and continued on more directly. \u201cBut we\u2019re gonna die\u2026?\u201d It was half question, half statement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jay looked directly at me with soft eyes and smiles, the visage of compassion incarnate as he answered. \u201cWell, I imagine you\u2019ll die\u2026 when you lose all context\u2026 and there being no sun and all. But me and him, we exist elsewhere, so we\u2019ll just carry on\u2026 elsewhere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Most of what Jay was saying flew past me as I stared death\u2019s reality in the face, really for the first time in my sixteen years on this planet\u2026 er, in this realm, I mean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s death?\u201d I asked next.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA very old agreement,\u201d answered Jay quite easily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn agreement!\u201d That didn\u2019t sit well with me. \u201cWhose agreement? Who agrees to die!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou all did,\u201d answered Jay softly, soothingly. And then he added \u201cIt was a good invention. Adopting a strict death policy was the right thing to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?!!\u201d Apparently, we earthlings had chosen death for ourselves\u2026 and that just didn\u2019t seem at all right to my helpless victim mentality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFreewill is the supreme law of the earth realm,\u201d explained Jay. \u201cYou\u2019d do well to remember that. Everything under the sun proceeds and develops according to mutual agreement. Y\u2019all agreed to die when you were born here\u2026 from the lowliest blade of scrub grass to the mightiest of kings.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t doubt in the slightest the veracity of what Jay was explaining. I accepted that it was true, but I just couldn\u2019t fathom the necessity of it. \u201cWhy?!\u201d I nearly cried. \u201cWhy on earth did we choose death?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jay sat down in the sand, getting comfortable before answering. \u201cHave you ever played poker?\u201d he began. I nodded with a look of puzzlement creeping upon my face. I sat down across from him as though we were about to play. I half expected him to pull a deck of cards from the sleeve of his robe. He continued. \u201cAnd do you play for money?\u201d he asked. Again I nodded. \u201cWhy?\u201d he finally asked. \u201cWhy not just play for fun?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause\u2026 because playing poker isn\u2019t fun if you don\u2019t play for money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly.\u201d Jay elaborated upon my simple declaration. \u201cWhen there\u2019s nothing at stake, nothing to lose, players are typically reckless. They can bluff without consequence, and they never have a compelling reason to fold. In such circumstances, it\u2019s not much of a game, is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cutting elegance of Jay\u2019s explanation removed a lifetime of scales from my eyes. It made such simple sense. We made Death the bank, holding the value of our chips for when we eventually cashed them in. And just like the previous one in the car with Gord, I was really warming to this conversation with Jay. However, a definite sense of irony was creeping over me as I realized that I was receiving these kick-ass existential answers right before it was all about to end\u2026 forever. Apparently, life loves irony above all else!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now a million questions were coming to mind! And Jay seemed more than content to answer in his simple and direct way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat about reincarnation? What are souls? Does Satan exist? What\u2019s the deal with the moon?\u201d These were the first questions to come to mind, and I felt no hesitation to voice them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jay leaned back laughing, truly enjoying the apocalypse. \u201cWhere would you like me to start?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know. My thoughts were an enthused jumble. And Jay seemed to understand perfectly. He just jumped right in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHmm\u2026\u201d he pondered and stroked his chin like some wise cliche. \u201cLet\u2019s start with souls.\u201d Okay, I was bright-eyed and attentive. \u201cSouls consist of personal agreements\u2014 binding agreements\u2014 that carry on beyond the confines of a single lifetime. So yes, reincarnation is real. You can\u2019t just go around making contracts with your fellow earthlings, and then just simply die and have the slate wiped clean. We\u2019d be right back to playing the game without meaningful consequences. Souls are attached to a specific will\u2014 a line of choices stretching through time held together by propensity and persistent tendencies. That which survives death is merely the sum of your proclivities in life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe are survived by our habits?\u201d That seemed dire to this little pothead!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Jay agreed, \u201cthat\u2019s a very succinct and accurate way to put it. Those habits determine the circumstances of your subsequent incarnation\u2014 that, and the outstanding agreements you\u2019ve made. Souls need resolution\u2026 and that drives action in life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKarma,\u201d I said to myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI hate that word,\u201d said Jay. \u201cIt has way too many stupid connotations\u2026 like it\u2019s some kind of tit-for-tat universe based in reward and punishment, balancing good with evil. It\u2019s way simpler than that. Karma is just something outstanding that needs to be resolved\u2014 because those involved agreed to eventually resolve it, mostly through experience gained.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo\u2026 there are no Lords of Karma?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo! God no!\u201d spat Jay into the first hints of twilight. And then he quickly added \u201cThere are no gods at all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at him gape-mouthed. I turned my head to stare at Gord muttering inside his circle. I turned back to Jay, wearing my incredulity conspicuously, like drool running down my chin. \u201cWhat\u2026 what do you mean there are no gods?\u201d I was pinning him with my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jay fell over backward laughing. \u201cThere are no gods!\u201d he cackled. \u201cTrust me,\u201d he gasped, \u201cwe\u2019re all the same\u2026 you\u2026 me\u2026 him\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut\u2026 but\u2026 he\u2019s the creator,\u201d I insisted, jutting a thumb toward Gord.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIndeed he is\u2026 of a sort,\u201d said Jay, returning himself to an upright position. \u201cBut do you really think that he created you? Really?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The question was just so blunt it knocked me upside the head. I\u2019d had this idea what a creator was, what a god might be. And then I\u2019d met these two jokers\u2026 and certain ideas began to coalesce and congeal in my brain as we\u2019d progressed in these conversations. But now as Jay asked me pointblank whether I really thought that Gord, or someone like him, had \u201ccreated\u201d me, it seemed pathetically absurd.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I whispered. And for a timeless moment I was utterly adrift in immeasurable confusion. And Jay, of course\u2014 my hero\u2014 came immediately to my rescue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe only thing he ever created here,\u201d he said nodding toward Gord, \u201cwas the opportunity for you to create yourself\u2026 for me to create me\u2026 for everything to create itself, along with its own parameters of existence. He\u2019s the God of Opportunity, nothing more, nothing less. You, me, him\u2026 we\u2019re all exactly equal. I\u2019m no higher than you. Gord\u2019s no higher than me. We\u2019re all made of exactly the same stuff. And in terms of potential, we\u2019re identical.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now that\u2019s what I call revelation! It cut through eons of bullshit and baggage with the simple ring of truth. But there were things still unreconciled, habits of thought and being that couldn\u2019t be so completely and easily undone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut he\u2019s about to kill us all!\u201d I insisted. \u201cAnd there\u2019s really nothing I can do about it,\u201d I argued. That smacked of inequality to me!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not killing anyone,\u201d answered Jay calmly. \u201cHe\u2019s simply removing the sun.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow you\u2019re splitting hairs!\u201d I shouted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe is<\/em> the one who put it there in the first place,\u201d answered Jay with perfect grace and ease. \u201cAnd that created the opportunity for all this.\u201d He stretched his arms wide as though embracing all eternity. \u201cThings didn\u2019t work out. The self-directed creatures of earth forgot themselves and became lost\u2026 despite the revealing light of the sun. It\u2019s time to pull the plug. Nothing has been lost. Everything has been gained.\u201d Whatever Jay was telling me, he, himself, believed it. But I was still having a hard time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s dooming us all to oblivion!\u201d I insisted, though I hardly even knew what I was saying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In that most infuriatingly calm manner of his, Jay gently elaborated. \u201cIf you were caught in the throes of a terrible nightmare and I looked on, would you want me to wake you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, I suppose. But\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd when you awaken from a dream, whether fearsome or sweet, has anything been lost? No,\u201d he immediately answered, \u201con the contrary, you have gained the experience of the dream to carry with you in your newly awakened state\u2026 to dream again, as you so choose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReally?\u201d I was somewhat mollified, but not wholly convinced. \u201cThat\u2019s all this is\u2026 the ending of one dream so another can begin? A cosmic do-over?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVerily.\u201d He said it. And I believed it. But there was something lurking in his eyes suggesting that things were just slightly more complicated or impactful than what he\u2019d just described. I let it go though, choosing instead the obvious peace of mind he offered. I relaxed into the dusky quiet and mulled things over for a bit\u2026 while Gord muttered and gestured inside his magic circle and Jay hummed the refrains he remembered from the car ride here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In my quiet rumination, I convinced myself that the end of the world really wasn\u2019t a big deal after all. Shortly, I\u2019d be dead\u2026 just like I\u2019d been supposedly thousands of times before\u2014 each lifetime a new self-created dream. Dreaming\u2026 waking\u2026 dying\u2026 just consciousness at play. But why didn\u2019t I have any memory of dying before? Thousands of times before? You\u2019d think it might just be the sort of traumatic event one would surely remember. I was just about to ask Jay about that when I suddenly realized that no, I can work this out on my own. And so I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The idea of past-life memories had always been intriguing but controversial. But suddenly, now with my new insight, I had it figured pretty damn quick. We couldn\u2019t be allowed to retain clear memories from past lives. Who wouldn\u2019t allow it? We\u2014 ourselves\u2014 couldn\u2019t allow it. If we permitted ourselves to remember our deaths and the past lives we\u2019d lived, we\u2019d be right back at square one again, playing poker for nothing. Remembering our many deaths would negate death, rendering it\u2014 and life\u2014 meaningless once again. Our constant reoccurring amnesia was necessary. It made the game possible. Remembering our past lives would be like being able to see all of the cards all of the time. The fun of the game always lies in its secrets, the things we don\u2019t know, can\u2019t know. How boring and pointless would poker be if all the cards were always dealt face up?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And just like that, I suddenly understood the meaning of life!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were here to create unsolvable mysteries for ourselves\u2026 and spend eternity trying to solve them. Why? Because it was the best fucking game in town! Could there be a better reason?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I let that question hang in my mind like my best Sunday suit from when I was a kid and my mom dragged me to church every week. Just having a once-a-week suit to sit among once-a-week friends worshipping a once-a-week god begged an unending litany of unanswerable questions\u2026 and suddenly I had outgrown them all! Just like that!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

God! Had there ever been an evening more beautiful than this!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sun was beginning to get kinda low on the horizon. I knew that Gord would have to make his move soon. I was actually looking forward to it. Go figure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To pass the remaining time, I re-engaged Jay in conversation. \u201cSo what\u2019s with all the muttering in Yiddish?\u201d I asked, glancing at Gord.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not exactly Yiddish,\u201d Jay explained. \u201cIt\u2019s the root language. There\u2019s power and inherent meaning in sounds\u2014 their placement, repetition and patterning. It\u2019s why we love music. A well composed tune can bring a brute to his knees or lift the darkest heart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I liked where his explanation was leading and I told him so. He took that as an excuse to continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSound is a correlate of light.\u201d He paused to let that sink in a bit. \u201cIs it mere coincidence that there are seven colours of visible light in the rainbow and seven whole notes in the western musical scale? Of course not,\u201d he answered. \u201cSound is merely light stepped down to the languid pace of everyday life. Sound is a tool for creators inside the creation. Light is a tool generally wielded from the outside. Well, no, that\u2019s not exactly right. Gord can explain it better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And at that very moment Gord turned to us and spoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s time,\u201d is all he said, standing there with a strange fire in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jay sprang into action and helped me to my feet. Then we both flanked Gord outside his circle, and turned toward the setting sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith your left hand point at the sun,\u201d he instructed Jay. \u201cAnd you with your right,\u201d he said to me. \u201cWhen I grab each of your free hands, the circle will be broken, the deed done\u2026 untied the Gordian knot, the Seal of the Sun.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that was it. Without any further preamble or explanation, Gord grabbed both our free hands. A jolt of ecstatic electricity shot through our trinity and flew like a deranged lightning bolt from earth to sun\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026demolishing it in an instant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sun winked out. It vanished from the sky. And darkness swallowed everything\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026except that I could still see the spot where the sun had been just a second before. I thought it was something akin to an after-image burned onto my retina. But what was I doing still standing here, witnessing anything, still having retinas at all? And I knew for certain that something was amiss when I heard Gord curse into the darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShit!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

___________________________________<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To say that the ride home in the car was weird would be a bit of an understatement, but perfectly understandable\u2026 even if nothing else at the moment was\u2014 perfectly understandable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a waxing gibbous moon that night. Gord was pensive and tight-lipped. Jay seemed typically unconcerned, calling from the back seat for \u201cMore tunes, man!\u201d I obliged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd the Tyne God has arrived,\u201d sang Ginhouse from the car speakers. Finally, Jay thought it prudent to break the ice with the obvious question. But first I gotta say that it was both nice and wholly unnerving to have someone else asking the questions for once!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo\u2026 what was that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBlack Sun,\u201d is all Gord offered. Apparently that meant something to Jay. It was gibberish to me. After a moment, Jay sighed, and did what Jay does.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou might as well talk it through,\u201d he said to Gord. And it was Gord\u2019s turn to sigh. And then Gord began to babble\u2026 and that was perhaps the most disconcerting thing of all!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe rumours were true after all\u2026 The Black Sun is real\u2026 The council tried to warn me\u2026 I thought it inconsequential, even if true\u2026 Now, I don\u2019t know\u2026 Those fuckers! Grey traitors! This changes everything!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I waited for an explanation, but instinctively I knew that the preceding events hadn\u2019t been fully digested yet. Jay\u2019s calm demeanour must have rubbed off on me. I kept quiet while Jay gently prodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho\u2019s behind it?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe Grey Men.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see,\u201d said Jay, but I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho are the Grey Men?\u201d I queried the darkness and the silence once I couldn\u2019t stand it anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDream-stealers,\u201d said Gord.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jay seemed to feel that a slight elaboration was in order. \u201cPower and energy are the basis for the dynamism of the many realms of existence. Every sentient being has power, and spends that power as energy investments, most often through emotions. Emotion\u2014 as the base energy of all power\u2014 is the thing that turns ordinary dreams into proper dreaming<\/em>. Emotions can be manipulated; dreams can be altered and stolen; reality can be tightly controlled\u2014 even through freewill.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe Grey Men are stalkers,\u201d added Gord. \u201cThey stalk power for their own ends and means.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s all part of the game,\u201d resumed Jay. \u201cStalking and dreaming occur in every realm. They are the two obvious means to power. The Grey Men are consummate stalkers, making their bid for power.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUsually, it\u2019s not a big deal,\u201d he continued, but Gord cut him off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s something more going on here\u2026 And I don\u2019t understand it\u2026 yet. The Black Sun is stealing attention. But even I didn\u2019t know that the Black Sun truly exists. How is it being accomplished? How do you capture someone\u2019s attention without anyone having a clue how it\u2019s being done? It doesn\u2019t make any sense!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was understanding really very little of this. I just wanted to keep the conversation going. \u201cBut why?\u201d I asked. \u201cWhat\u2019s the purpose of stealing attention?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPart of its purpose was fulfilled tonight,\u201d replied Gord ominously. \u201cThe Black Sun was created and hidden behind the real sun precisely for the purpose of thwarting my world-ending intention on this very eve. They will not allow the dream to end. And they will do everything in their power to ensure that the dreamers never awaken again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hmm, that didn\u2019t sound very good!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Jay added for clarity: \u201cAttention is a very special aspect of awareness. All life is aware. But awareness is subtle and diffuse, whereas attention is focused\u2014 especially among earth humans. Within an incomprehensibly immense field of data, it is attention which selects what is to be made real in any realm through choice and focus. But what is the object of focus in this case\u2026?\u201d The question hung there in the darkness, begging to be answered somewhere down the road\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now, I know what you\u2019re thinking, and I was thinking it too\u2014 all of it. Gord and Jay answered all of my immediate concerns, and what you need to know, before I resume the full telling of this tale, is that yes, the real sun came up the very next day right on schedule. And yeah, for awhile there back in \u201972 folks talked in whispers about the day the sun winked out for a moment. And even though millions of people around the world witnessed the sun blink, they eventually talked themselves out of believing that it had really happened\u2026 because\u2026 how could it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it did. You know<\/em> it did.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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