Some of you may not know the amazing story of the discovery of the documents referred to as “The Epistles of Lucius” and “The Book of Absurdity” (collectively called the Lubb Ickamaddi Library).
It all began in the year 2005 in the dusty town of Lubbock, TX. Until this point, Lubbock was mostly known for Texas Tech and the Dixie Chicks. But it so happens that during the early spring of 2005 a farmer was tilling his fields for planting when his plow hit on something obviously metallic. Further inspection revealed a metal box decorated with odd symbols buried deep in the ground. Trembling with excited anticipation (and a smidgen of fear) the farmer pried open the box…and was hit with a light and magnificence so profound he may have wet his pants (just a little).
Now he told academic authorities that all he uncovered were the documents. But this, we know now, must have been a lie. Because the Garments of Lucius were supposed to be buried with the books so that he could garb himself upon his birth in this land. Instead, when he was birthed into the land, he was naked as the day he was born. Unfortunately, the folk in Lubbock are a little touchy about naked men running through their streets shouting religious wisdoms. Poor Lucius was promptly seized and committed to the local psych hospital. He hasn’t been heard from since. Many think that Lucius was secretly transferred to Area 51 where he could spread the Good Nonsense of the Book of Absurdity to all the captive aliens there. Whatever his fate, this was one of the letters uncovered by the farmer. Enjoy!
The Epistle of Something and Nothing
There is Nothing and there is Something. There is nothing and there is something. Something began as the tiniest particle of light trapped within a vast and never ending sea of inky blackness. Nothing. Then Something said OHM!!!!!! And light exploded, illuminating the darkness. And the Light brought with it Creation. And Creation brought with it Life. And the Something continued to resound sending ripples of OHM throughout the eternal sea of Nothing and leaving Life in its wake. Creation was and is everything. It started as the planets and the heavenly bodies. The cosmic orchestra. Then came the gods. Those hyper intelligent and spiritual beings who sprang from the very essence of Something, who resounded from ITS holy core. They looked on Creation with avarice and lusted after Life. They sought to control it. So the battle began. A struggle that wages as long as Creation exists. A struggle that drives the very foundations of Creation, that fuel the ripples of OHM across the void and perpetuate existence. The Eternal Struggle is slave to the Cycle just like everything else in Creation. But Nothing cannot be discounted. Nothing is constantly struggling against Something trying to reclaim it. Trying to swallow it back into itself and restore its silent entropy. This is Nothing. This is the essence of everything that Something is for. Eventually, however, Nothing grinds Something to a halt and begins to push it back, to swallow it back up, as it were. And it does. And it has. Countless times before. Because even Nothing and Something are part of a great Cycle. Because Nothing can never Truly swallow Something. Just as Something can never truly conquer Nothing. For Nothing is vast and eternal. And that has been the Cycle for countless times before. Until now.
Call it a glitch. But this time when the gods sprang from the heart of Something, some of them got the idea, had the desire to create Life themselves. Only it couldn’t happen without Something. So these tricksy gods gathered fragments of Something and put them into fleshly shells. And viola. “Intelligent Life” was created. That’s right. Humans. And are there other non humans out there? Yes. Something is vast beyond our comprehension. And there are more gods than stars in the sky scattered over ITS expanse. And these usurper gods claimed themselves to be Something even though they weren’t. Not really. More like mad scientists. Crazy spiritual hackers. But they claimed to be IT anyway. That primal Spark that all This was born from. They claimed this for themselves and Intelligent Life believed it. Later, Intelligent Life would become more vain than was good for it and, claiming to be IT themselves, attempt to overthrow the usurper gods. But something happened that the usurpers never expected. You see, up till this time, Something had always been a presence. Living yes, aware yes, but not exactly conscious. It had a purpose and it fulfilled that purpose. Until the fragments of ITSELF trapped inside ITS own creation became Aware. For the first time Something was conscious of ITSELF and it said I AM. And with that affirmation came Love. Love for Creation. Love for Life. And Something wanted to protect Creation from Nothing. To fight back. So it made ITSELF in Creation aware of Nothing. And here we are.
Tags: Absurd, cosmology, Creation, cycle, Death, Dixie Chicks, evolution, fiction, funny, God, hackers, humans, humor, life, Lubbock, nothing, Realm of Possibility, Religion, Satire, scientists, shamus, something, texas tech, universal shift, Writing
I, Lucius, sit where I stand at the edge of an endless path before me. Look at what you cannot see. You will notice nothing and will be exalted for it. What is logic if naught but a lack thereof? He Who Is Not A Pronoun laughs at notions of logic. For instance, what is breathing, if not illogical? Why breathe? Obviously, we breathe to sustain life. But why? Why live? Life is a rollercoaster of suffering and joy, the former being stronger and more prevalent than the latter. So we breathe to prolong and sustain personal suffering. Where is the logic in that? We breathe in order to produce speech. What’s the point in speaking? Ha! You poor slobbering fool. There is more miscommunication than communication flowing through this river of shit called “human existence.”
Thus, what good has speech done? I’ll tell you. It’s done a world of good if your goal is to piss people off and start conflict. It’s done fantastically as a means of manipulation with soft spoken words. Wooing innocent young lasses to their bed-graves.
When looked at logically, illogical logic is logical.
Sweetness, beer, liquor, love and Gaia’s gifts are the only purely illogic logic in this vast playground called, “the universe.” But be wary, you must play nice because the bully is the biggest of us all. That fat cat, that lazy bastard that destroys all his wonderful toys—we call him GOD! Or Zeus, or Buddha, or Allah, or Jehova, or Krishna or Goddess. I call him He Who Is Not A Pronoun. He will save you from nothing. Amazing doctrine to espouse, impossible to manifest. Shh! Speak not of noodles on the halfshell. These things are far too deadly for the likes of mortal men. They creep upon you and turn you into unsavory things like midgets or clams or the woman who most resembles your father yet speaks in tongues.
What is she thinking? This odd foreign woman with an annoying accent and a grating voice is a conundrum indeed. Staring, comrades, is all she does…… Trying to bore into your eyes and soul with the tenacity of a gopher on speed. The she shifts her eyes slowly to the next person. Often times she gazes into open space. Looking for things only she can see. Are they the demons in her head? Or pinstriped chickens from outerspace? Then a sly and evil smile cracks her face, it reminds me of the Grinch. See? There she goes again! AHHHH!!! OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD, DEMON BITCH!!! Now she shakes her head, eyes never moving from me. Perhaps, one can hope against hope, she talked her mental imps out of raping and killing me in a most disagreeable fashion. One can hope…
Lucius is a resident of the Realm of Possibility. His exploits are well-chronicled adventures and his most famous can even be found in this Realm in collection of epic plays, “A Hollow Monk’s Dreams”. Get “The Godlife” here. The following is an excerpt from The Book of Absurdity, one of the Realm of Possibility’s holy texts. Enjoy!
Some random string of ambiguous words expels itself from my skull with an ear piercing shriek. Gone now into forever sonnets sung by sirens luring men into oblivion.
This is my first seduction. The sensual play of words across blank parchment. I am Prometheus bringing the infernos of the mind to numb spirits.
I am slain for the messages I bring. Yet unable to condemn my murderers for their ignorance. I am eternally searching, a slave to the Fates, a lover to the Muses. I expunge my destiny to you in this stream of ambiguous words. My eulogy to life.
Epistle of Folly
I, Lucius, pen these words under the light of a failing candle shaped, oddly enough, as a woman’s breasts. I think it was my mother’s candle. She was always brilliant like that. Brilliant in pink and green, not so much in blue though, it never looked good on her. Did you find the wisdom in that? In what I just wrote was a wealth of wisdom. If you discovered it then congratulations, consider yourself a complete idiot. And if there was not truth in my words, then I congratulate your blindness. It takes a true member of the flock to deny himself the release of Unknowing.
All hail the great light! May you stare into it and be blinded to the lie called existence. Life can be explained by explaining things unexplainable to mortal men. God sits on his gaudy ivory throne eating cheese with Vietnamese hookers. He laughs at the human attempts to achieve his state of grace. He also laughs at golf balls because they are humorous to those of a higher idiocy. Not saying God is an Idiot. He is merely thinking above the level of genius. Thus, people view him as absurd because they cannot comprehend his method. In this we find that the methods of men are absurd as well. These methods of men are absurd because we refuse to recognize them as such. The folly of human thought. The folly is thus: “We believe knowledge offers understanding. Oh! You stupid fucks! Understanding comes from staring blankly and boldly into the void of blackness of everything we never knew only to know nothing again.
I stop writing for an instant to gaze lovingly at the fire blazing from wick nipples. It’s like mother’s milk only hot. Hot mother’s milk. I have a prophetic vision of myself as a babe suckling my mother’s teat and savoring her nectar. It means nothing now, but at the time it was my only desire. Sometimes, I wish I were a babe again.
Never forget, it is the Way that we seek, dear friends. The way to the paradise of Blah. The way that leads us into the open embrace of He That is Not a Pronoun.
They never saw the raiders coming, nor did they expect the plague that came in their wake.
The skull-faced marauders fell on the village, striking them from the mountain that had nestled and protected it for centuries. The villagers had looked upon the mountain with reverence and now death fell upon them like an avalanche from the very mountain that had given them sustenance.
The wild men came, their skulls gleaming whitely where their faces should be, adorned with parts and pieces of their victims. A necklace of ears here, jerkins sewn from human flesh there. Everywhere trophies of slaughter and gore that the raiders only added to as they tore through the village, hacking and slashing anything that shrieked or moved. The reavers left the village smoldering in its own ashes and returned to the mountain, great plumes of smoke rising high above the mountain peak.
The survivors (those not killed or taken as slaves) dug themselves from the rubble and looked upon the devastation with tear-streaked faces. But their reason for tears was only beginning. Three days after they buried their dead, the plague came.
It claimed the dead first. Eating away at their flesh until only a hideous skeletal visage remained. Possessed with a sinister new life and an insatiable hunger for bloodshed, they dug their way to freedom and forced the survivors to barricade themselves in the town hall. The next to fall were the sick and wounded. Whatever condition they suffered from worsened exponentially, killing them within a week and transforming them in the process. Having no other recourse, the healthy villagers that survived threw out the remaining sick and injured and cowered in corners, awaiting starvation.
“I’m telling you, it’s the perfect getaway spot,” Infinity Jones insisted to his companions. “Hot springs. Mountain air. Pristine surroundings. Exactly what an over-stressed, newly-wedded couple needs.”
“If I want to get away, I set sail from the harbor,” grumbled the Pirate Prince Perfidious. “All this stable earth beneath my feet makes me nauseous.”
Jones laughed. “Spoken like a true scourge of the seas! But seriously. It’s awesome. And it’s home to the famous Haunted Vino Basement. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. Supposedly the poltergeist activity makes the vino better.”
“I’d rather not have vino tainted by spirits,” snapped the Pirate Prince.
“Come on, husband,” cooed Mistress G to Perfidious. “Infinity speaks truth. I’ve been there myself. It’s beautiful. Serene. Very Zen. And the vino is simply otherworldly.”
“As you like it. How much farther?”
“It’s just over those hills. Nestled against the mountain. Near that giant plume of smoke.” Infinity pointed. “See?”
“Steam from your hot springs?” asked Perfidious sarcastically.
“Most probably. It is the steamy season after all,” said Infinity cheerily, but his face was clouded with worry.
They rode into town the next day. Infinity wept at the sight. The pristine village had been reduced to ashes and cinders. Smoke filled the air, thick enough to choke the life from the living.
“Charming,” sneered Perfidious between coughs.
“Is anyone alive?” called Infinity.
Somewhere in the cloud of smoke, rocks slid and tumbled.
“Careful,” warned the Pirate Prince, drawing his blade, “Could be scavengers.”
“Human or animal?” asked Mistress G.
“It doesn’t matter. They are scavengers. One in the same.”
Humanoid shapes appeared in the smoke moving toward the trio with a deliberate but jerky gait.
“Why are they walking like that?” asked Mistress G.
“I’ve walked like that a few times,” admitted Jones, “Usually after a long night at the pub.”
“Well they would have something to drink about,” joked Perfidious, “What with their village being naught but smoke and cinders.”
“Hullo, good folk,” called Jones. “Can you tell us what happened here?”
“Rooooo….” Answered the shambling form in the forefront that was almost in sight.
“I said, ‘Ho there!’” Infinity reasserted. “What’s the deal?”
“Ruuuhhhhh,” answered the villager then stepped into view. His head was devoid of flesh, his eyes replaced with pitch black orbs, swirling with a sinuous and sinister motion. Flesh hung from the rest of his body, most of it looking to flee the horror it was attached to.
The sight caused the horses to rear up, spilling their riders on the ground before they broke and fled into the mountains.
Infinity and Mistress G leapt up at the ready, but Perfidious was too slow.
The skeleton-headed monster fell on him, gnashing at the frantic prince with his terrible teeth. Perfidious held the monster back, throwing it off and sustaining only minor scratches.
Jones rushed over and ran the abomination through, but to his horror, it didn’t die.
“Look!” yelled Mistress G and pointed.
A whole crowd of shambling monsters was limping toward the prone travelers. Nobody needed to be told to run. They did it instinctively. Fleeing the monstrosities without direction, only trying to find safety. They checked every door along their path. All were locked or filled with more of the walking dead. The crowd’s numbers swelled and they closed in on the adventurers with deliberate determination.
“How are we to kill these things if they refused to die?” wondered Perfidious. His face was flushed and beads of sweat collected on his brow like a crown.
“We don’t kill them,” said Infinity, pulling a barble (a glass marble) from his pouch and setting it at his feet. Closing his eyes he chanted,
“Now that I find myself in trouble, secure me and mine in this hamster bubble.”
Energy flashed and the orb grew to do just that. The trio was encased in a large glass bubble just as the horde broke through the smoke.
“How long with this hold?” asked Mistress G above the din of the frustrated and howling skull-faces flailing futiley against the glass barrier.
Jones shrugged. “Until they get tired and leave or we run out of air. Whichever comes first.”
“The dead don’t tire,” wheezed Perfidious. He looked feverish, his scratches and cuts oozing green puss.
“My love! Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he reassured his wife. “Just…a…scratch,” he wheezed and collapsed against the bubble.
“Jones! Help him,” pleaded Mistress G. “I think he’s dying.”
“I can’t help him here. We have to move and find safety.” Jones nodded in the direction of the town hall. “That’ll be the most fortified place in the whole village. We can hole up in there.”
Mistress G reluctantly agreed and together they began the slow journey, rolling the glass ball toward safety. The horde stayed on them the entire time, never relenting. Some of the abominations were caught beneath the orb and having their skulls crushed, didn’t rise again.
As they approached the town hall, the door opened and six pairs of eyes peeked out.
“Survivors!” cheered Infinity and redoubled his efforts.
They rolled the glass ball to a stop at the door. Gore streaked down the sphere in thick rivulets.
“How do we get out?” snapped Mistress G. “I don’t want to get any skeleton in my hair.”
“Watch and be amazed,” said Jones theatrically. He traced a person-sized rectangle on the glass facing the door, finishing with a small circle, acting as a crude doorknob. He opened the glass door and knocked politely on the door. “Excuse me, good folk. Would you please let us in? As you may know, the village is beset with ruffians.”
The door opened swiftly and the three amigos were rushed inside. Once secure, Jones let his magic slip and there was an audible pop followed by the sound of numerous thumps and splatters—like obese rain falling.
The Orb of Power has been discovered. I happened upon its secret location while battling the Flying Ants of Black Doom. ‘Twas hidden deep below the earth in a natural labyrinth of jagged rock. I traversed the lair dodging spirits and slaying minions of the Non-Mortal. I was beaten and exhausted upon reaching the Platinum Doors of The Chamber of the Orb. And since I had used the last of my All Natural Healing Salve with no additives or preservatives, after being set upon by a number of animate corpses and bone piles, I was already at a disadvantage. But I had to continue.
After mumbling a quick prayer for strength and protection to Coitus and The Jolly Man, I opened the doors and entered the Chamber. Instantly I was surrounded by a blue glow so thick you could cut it with a dagger. Under a state of confusion, I was unable to see the huge and deadly fist of the Guardian as it connected with my flimsy leather breastplate. However, Thank Coitus the stone wall was there to impede my backward flight. I recovered and drew my blade. Being somewhat adjusted to the blue fog, I could make out shadows, and the one that I saw flying towards me was most terrifying indeed. I heard the distinct whir of a chain flail as it is slicing through the air and I ducked just as the spiked ball flew over my head. The Guardian, sensing my vulnerable position kicked and a massive foot connected with my fragile shell and again I owe the wall thanks for its part in stopping my backward progression. I couldn’t move, the world swam, blue became me and I was about to give in when the Most Boisterous and Beautiful laughter ever to reach the ears of this surreal Populace began to fill the room.
The laughter was mixed with the dulce sounds of the Most Perfect Woman in the throes of satin ecstasy. A bright light filled the room as the laughter and lust increased to a maddening peak. When it dissipated, I found myself above ground clasping, with a violent determination, a small blue orb. And Gaia came to sooth me with her beautiful presence. Before long I was restored to health and plotting my next excursion.
“Do you even miss me?” A hollow voice over crackling wires. “Yes. Do you miss me?” “Only when I breathe.”
Her plush lips cradled my timid offerings in rosebud wine. That’s how I felt then—there—only a moment to be aware. It was too late for me then. Sometimes (not the Baron but the indicator of time) one delights in entrapment. It does make for an interesting evening no matter how your universe shifts to it.
The Pirate Prince returns from his quest a new man! He had ventured off on a short holiday visiting the Count Constantinople who was lodging in his summer palace in The Place where Angels Die. Be not misled by the name, tis truly beautiful country, I assure you. While up there, the recently freed Prince was immersed in a culture of Sin and Pleasure (the Finer Folk call this “debauchery”, we, however, call it everyday life.) He danced and consorted with the finest maidens and had a merry time to rival the Great Ball of the Palace of Windows. And late at night as the moon shone her naked light over the entire world he would hunt those Mighty Beasts that children cling to for protection. Sometimes (not the baron) we cannot forget the security of our Innocence Days. We long for it still, so why not hunt it down and make a rug out of it? “Tis a wonderful rug, milord. Tell me, what is the pelt?” “Mostly Dead Innocence mixed with a Touch of Wonder and Joy. I like the bastard breeds better. Get more for your buck that way.” What a wonderful conversation piece.
This the Brave Prince made this life on his holiday. We discussed it all over a bottle of fine champagne as we lounged in the Great Hall of Castle Mallard. “Nopil was wrong.” The Pirate Prince confides in me. “About what?” “He’s not a monkey, he’s a goat. ‘Twas a grand epiphany on his part.” “Indeed,” I reply. “That’s not all,” Perfidious continues. “What else?” “I’ve discovered I am a Courageous Cock. I would die for anyone or anything.” This raised my skepticism. “Anyone or anything?” I inquire. “Aye. And the Count is a Mysterious Goat.” “Fascinating.” “He would make a good jiggalo, I would make a good mercenary” (little did he realize that our professions made us just that—Mercenary Jiggalos. Sexy, no?). Then he related to me the sad tale of the termination of Courtship with the Queen of Wands. “We’re just on different paths right now.” How I hate those wicked paths and their different differences. Differentiation is futile while walking a path together. There is nothing more depressing than a fork in the road or a tearful ultimatum.
She doesn’t fucking care…she doesn’t fucking care. This I tell myself to keep her voice from resounding off the broken walls of my Coronary. I think our dysfunction has attained new heights. She was none too pleased at this proclamation; I was none to thrilled at its declaration.
Once upon a time we would turn the small window box of room cooling all the way up and close the door. We did this right before we went to bed. Working graveyards in a place of dead dreams forced us to adopt this lifestyle. When we got in bed, the room was so cold we had to use all of our coverings and skins and even this wasn’t enough. We would still have to practice that ancient art of the Way of the Cuddle. That, dear readers, is a lost art indeed. You and your Passion are as close as physically possible, entwined in each other, becoming a part of the tangled limbs that have created a new being. This is what makes Passion holy. Tis one of the Secrets of The Dance (we all know them. Those whispered longings in the hallways of your desire. Those tiny fires fueled by lust and sometimes even love). This I didn’t mind. This I remember now. This is one of my Holy Recollections. I love how she felt then. I loved the way her scent tasted like a honeysuckle breeze.
I can’t get it off my mind. The thought the image—the scenarios. Like a bad B movie flutter through my brain in an all day matinee Mann’s Chinese type of way. Fuck the Queen!! God save me!
Fortune: A visit from a burnt out warrior yields interesting conversation.
He was Sir Cork the Noradic. An old warrior from younger days whose battles have left him somewhat off-kilter. “I’m gonna go visit my relatives.” He tells the Baron and I with a slightly wild look in his eye. “Better watch out,” I tell him, “You’ll find yourself a pretty little girl and never come back.” “Fuck that!” He proclaims loudly, his patriotism shining forth, “I’d have to come back. I’m a countryman. And Those Bastards out there hate us. “Fuck you Americano!” He yells in a Spanish accent while waving an angry fist of defiance in the air. “Isn’t that Spanish?” Inquires the Baron. “Same language.” Is Sir Cork’s matter-of-fact reply. The Baron and I exchange amused glances. Sir Cork continues, “Wait. Americano…Americana…o..a…a…o (at this point he is thinking very hard and his head gears are spinning at dangerous speeds) Right! The Spanish say Americano, they say Americana. See? It’s close. O and A. “ We nod sagely at this grand proclamation as we disguise our amusement as good hosts should. “The Irish used to have their own language, did you know that? A beautiful dialect, but it’s forgotten. Nobody remembered but the elves and Vikings and they’re all dead now.” He trails off, shaking his head sadly, a solemn tribute to the times he helped destroy.
Yes mother, there are worlds out there your orbs will never gaze upon. But don’t hate them because they elude you.
This is a place of gently falling rain and Pale flame. No myths and legends here only lively tales told around smoking candles and heartfelt smiles.
Under the vigilant gaze of the Chipmunk, I ponder the turmoil in the Sea of My Fish. Tis a raging tempest. Life is short enough already without having to weather its storms. I realize all I am doing is wasting precious moments I can never have back. Moments that could turn into new life altering experiences. Moments that could be more beautiful than anything this shoddy viewfinder can picture. Yet I cannot help myself.
We enter the alehouse as majestic as any lords to grace a social function with unique charm and wit. Having enjoyed the company of Gaia and her gifts earlier, we found ourselves in the most agreeable of dispositions. Aided by overpriced ale, we modified our moods to the desired fervor. Despite injury, the Duke of Slide is in high spirits and soon happens upon a doting maiden. His passions are secured thusly for the remainder of the evening. The Prince Perfidious is entertaining himself with idle chatter amongst some of the locals. And I find myself still weak from my battle with The Golden Worm two nights earlier. My weakened constitution was especially susceptible to the spirits of Alcohol and the gifts of Lady Gaia. This leaves me in an appropriate state of inebriation. For this reason, I took my leave and was followed by Perfidious. With the absence of the Better Part of the Duke’s Conscience effectively secured, he is now able to entertain his boisterous humors.
Assisted by Captain Rowdy they soon begin to enliven the house. On one attempt to acquire more ale the Duke spots one of the very agents who agitated him prior! The brash lord wastes no time. He advances toward his adversary, blood burning for revenge. A sturdy hand is placed on the evil agent’s despicable shoulder. The maiden, fearing danger, flees to the barkeep’s personal mercenary peacekeeper and begins to relate the tale unto him. The Duke whirls his foe around to face him. “Hey.” is all he says as that force of righteous fury and justice that became the Fearless Slide’s fist connects with an audible WHAP!! to the evil vermin’s eye. The would-be assassin plummets to the ground like a lovesick maiden in a swoon. Fear seizes the crowd and the moment is frozen in an eternal instant. The Duke merely points to his own wounded eye and understanding is conferred.
People return to their business as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The maiden and the merc arrive to usher the agent out under his severe protest.
That night I saw a vision. The Princess of Swords was kneeling at the throne of her Queen. A most foul and wicked woman, the Queen of Swords is given to bouts of brutal and unfounded severity. She is administering a lethal dose of that same severity to her daughter. The Princess’ supplications and pleas for mercy go unheard. With one fell swoop of her mighty blade; The Horrific Queen separates the head from the shoulders of her only daughter. With no visible care as to her action or its consequence, the evil woman places the severed head of her Precious child above her throne to adorn the Krystle spikes that Rise from the seat’s demoniac back. Her daughter is now forgotten. The clouds swell and obscure my sight. The vision ends.
I don’t remember what I told her. I just remember I cried.
Under the watchful eye of two Japanese individuals having sex, we begin to explore those deeper places.
The Duke laments as the voice of old love and anguish pours sweetly into his ear. His expressions are daggers of pain wrought with tears and regret. He searches for escape.
I am in the company of the Hierophant. His divine wisdom shines forth and illuminates all the secret desires that have been dwelling in the innermost recesses of my soul. And I find the Aeon glimmering her way onto the stage. Definite steps have to be executed in order for a brighter future with the Ace of Cups overflowing its sweet inspiration into my thirsty and eager cranial mass (who would’ve guessed that these steps would be so definite and the execution so complete?).
I now begin to feel the pangs of loss and desire. I have recently divorced myself of certain obligations and commitments to one who had lease on my tender heart. Alas, she allowed our contract to expire. I always feel the emptiness of hell when I lose those that hold a special place in my heart.
Then arrives Sir Heathen, a personable old fellow from our university days. He arrives on his chariot of silver and greets us with his ever-charming smile. We venture off to the public house for an evening of entertainment that could possibly turn hedonistic if Coitus smiles upon we unworthy souls.
She does not.
…And we remained unworthy.
We dwelt in caves of pleasure and forgetting. A minstrel strums the beautiful chords of the flow and saturates the situation with a voice that cries out to be heard by the most sensitive places of your neglected fishome. We danced and laughed as we drank the night away one beer at a time. Shooting firewater into our gullets at absurd rates of consumption. Amidst a clutter of people we tried to define ourselves, to separate ourselves from the rest of this herd of individuals trying to separate themselves from the rest of this herd. We call this individualism and in all of its glory, tis truly a wonderful thing, but when forced into a situation unnaturally becomes a catalyst for inevitable disruption.
And then we moved on.
It would seem love, in one of its many beautifully twisted forms, is involved in this grand scheme of life, in the pursuit of grander visions than our noble spirits can envision.
But pause of a moment to be encompassed by the flow of melody. Crucial are the small things. They allow for the completions of the entire picture. Buddha told me that.
I’M A CARING MOTHER FUCKER!!
Tell them I proclaimed that very point. Tell them that those utterances of sound formed together and took a perilous flight to the ears of those present. Everybody knew and nobody cared. Such is Fortune’s wicked lot for my tumultuous life.
“It’s not my fault you went to the desert.” The Pirate Prince announces to me rather matter-of-factly.
“No, no its not. And it’s not your fault all the doors were opened for me because I did.” Was my quick retort.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We all have parts to play. Roles. Sometimes somebody drops out and has to be replaced with another actor. But all anybody really is, is an actor.” Perfidious continued.
“That’s Bullshit! Fucking Bullshit Man!” Slide has been offended by the Prince’s Bold Statements.
Tonight heralded the grand ceremony of the Bestowing of Title to Sir Heathen. For his service to his realm he was awarded the title of Baron von Sometimes. For he had recently returned from his quest for the Holy Batteries and he found himself victorious. ‘Twas a grand ball, good people. All the Lords of Order and Chaos were in attendance, each accompanied by their own pomp and circumstance. There was He That Is Not A Pronoun. The most Ordered of Order. He was flanked with Pompus I on his left and The Excitement on his right. His chariot was conjured from gold and clouds and was pulled by a team of the most pure and noble winged foozle bunnies that ever could have been created. Behind him came a cohort of golden Seraphim with swords of Blue flame. Their eyes were fierce and filled with terrifying tempests. Their hair was sunlight magnified. Behind them came Lucius and his most devout. It was truly a humbling sight to behold and it filled the viewer with peace and ecstasy.
Next came the Jolly Man. He was a most splendid being. Composed of a happy ethereal substance he floated on love and roses crowned with the Sun himself. In his court were the twins of Brilliant Fire: Yin and Yang. There was also The Lovers. Day and Night. Fire and Water, constantly entwined in a passionate dance of never ending tension and eroticism in their realms of purple and red. The zodiac’s representative was there, and the Monkey frolicked and played creating mischief in his wake as he enjoyed his time in the cycle of life. And the Jolly Man laughed as he paraded through the city for he was the deity of kindness, peace and travel.
Next on the scene was Oberon, the fairy king. Lord over all fairy-kind and the mischief they produce. He was followed by his Queen Fair and the host of fairy kind who entertained the people with mindless nonsense as they cut their purses. His were the gypsy folk who sold fortunes and potions to the sheeple.
After him came the Beauty Coitus. Mistress of Desire, Love and Chaos. She represents the light half of disorder. Those chaotic scenes of pleasure and pain that never mean much harm no matter the consequences of their catastrophic involvement. She was accompanied by her Pets: Porpoise, Coffee, B-Fantabulous and Hot Chocolate (the latter being picked up for no real reason other than pity). This entourage was followed by The Minstrel Lord Bard who enchanted all with his soul-numbing voice.
Last came He that IS iN Grammatical Error. The Dark Side of Chaos. The Lord of Destruction, Death and Extinction. He was followed by his hordes of agents and imps who were so beautiful that they were grotesque abhor rations too frightening to gaze upon. On his arm was the delicious Mistress G. She holds the Auspicious Position of Dominatrix and Slave, depending on the moods of her most brutal and avaricious master.
Stories continue, even fragmented ones. Enjoy!
The Pirate Prince reaches the corridor that leads the way to the Place of Serenity. He enters the threshold bravely. This admirable character of grace and charm. He is seen laughing with the portraits of children long forgotten and while they float upon the fringes of nightmare fantasies, She appears. An apparition lost, found her way into his domain. She watches him patiently from the corner, but her ethereal energy seizes Perfidious. The cold chill of terror spreads throughout his limbs like an enticing cancer. Fear seizes his heart and closes his throat. The gentle specter senses this and quits herself to the Melancholy Lord’s chamber where she may favor him with caresses and an innocent adoration while he sleeps. The chamber door opens and slams shut with a resounding boom. “Fuck it,” the noble heart muses while he proceeds to his chamber. But he does not proceed without anticipation and an excited worry. Ah, this brave soul known as The Pirate Prince Perfidious is a most genteel spirit indeed. His nature is charming and few can escape the snares of his Charisma. He is kind-hearted and gentle but a dangerous adversary if ever persuaded to wrath. Perhaps that is why he was part of our flow-cling. He is the son of the Pirate King Persian, a most ruthless and ignoble creature. The atrocities wrought by his menacing temper were too much for his son’s Zen nature. Thus, the brave Prince took his leave to travel and explore the vast unknown expanses of Possibility.
And he found himself within realms unknown to him. He brandished his sword with intrepid fervor as he began his voyage into the corridor. When out of the darkness springs the agents of He That is In Grammatical error to molest Young Prince Perfidious. A gallant battle ensues. He is outnumbered two to one, but his obstinate nature and strict code of Chivalry and Honor prevent his flight. A dark-cloaked despot lunges at the prince with a blade dripping the most deadly and vile of poisons. Perfidious retorts with a well-placed deflection and the battle continues. The Pirate’s flawless skill is not wasted on the devious assassins and try as they might they are unable to penetrate his formidable defenses. One of the assailants lowers his guard for a crucial instant. This is all Perfidious requires. He plunges his blade deep into the chest of the villain. Success! With a hiss the demon expires. The other, seeing that odds were no longer in his favor, flees in a fit of cowardice. The weary Prince then continues to his chamber where his spectral guardian protects him from further harm. (In another time and place he and this gentle apparition were lovers. Now they are separated by the thick veils of death that reside in the realm of aching spirits.)
Unsatisfied with the results of his insidious plot on the lives of the flow-cling, He that is In Grammatical Error redoubles his efforts, as well as the number of assassins. Four there are now. Screaming across the night like apocalyptic horsemen, unwanton fury burned in their eyes. They marked the Duke of Slide for destruction. The would-be marauders enlisted the help of the most licentious and despicable sirens ever to curse this plane with their presence. These unholy creatures stirred the desires of The Duke and his companion Captain Rowdy and lured them into the den of evil and despair. Oh, how our heroes were deceived and lulled into placation by the wiles of the demon women. They were sedated, but worse, separated. Sensing an opportunity, an assassin known only as Zee accosted the Duke. The attack caught Slide off guard and he plummeted over the railing of that palace of Treachery and Pain. The unsuspecting Duke landed with a thud on the unrelenting ground and lay motionless as stars performed a sparkling ballet inside his head.
Sensing success, Zee ventures down to finish off his prey. He is surprised to find the Duke recovered and awaiting him with sword drawn! The assassin draws his own blade and the fierce Duke strikes! Evil Zee pays no heed to his fresh wound and retorts in kind. Not to be outdone, the Duke responds with 2 quick strokes that cause Zee to stumble back in disorientation. But at that moment Zee’s cohorts materialize from the shadows that gave them life and accost the good Duke. He is taken completely by surprise and is overwhelmed. The roving band of restless infidels drags the Duke to a secluded lot and attacks him mercilessly. Though defenseless, the Duke does not cry out. He remains strong and soon he slips into the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness. The brutal Bastards finish with their evil deed and leave the Duke to die. They return to their palace and accost Captain Rowdy as he was in an enthralled slumber. The Duke of Slide awakens and stumbles, beaten and bloody until he finds recourse.
I find myself in the clutches of that golden liquid known as Mezcal. Pain is eased at the expense of my state of mind. The great worm has been vanquished by my brash deeds. ‘Twas an encounter, I tell you now. I had to endure 4 shots from the beast’s brutal belly before he became mine. But overcome him I did. And now his secrets will be revealed to me. I await the reception of his treasured wisdom with violent anticipation.
Enter the Princess of Swords into this grand picture, this masterpiece of debauchery and dysfunction. She explodes onto the scene with a tempest of feminine fury (as she tends to do. Hers being the element of fire, she can’t help but recklessly scorch those delicate souls around her).
But first let me explain myself. I am Kaiser Infinity Joenys. I am the bastard son of a bitch. My mother’s name is of no significance, I’m not even sure she had one. My father’s claim to nobility lies in his title only. Thus, I had to sustain my feeble mortal coil by whatever means were at my disposal. I have sold the superstitious their fortunes, cut a purse or two, played a while in professional religion and even entertained a brief period selling siding of Aluminum to people who love to hear the Song of Rain crescendo to an unbearable cacophony of asinine proportions. But fear not, gentle reader, I am not without my morals and resolve.
I ponder these times. And as the sparrow flies in search of whatever tiny morsels it can gather to sustain it’s young, the tiny creature is continuously amidst a sea of useless noise. I cannot help but to secretly pray for its maddening cessation and restoration of the natural flow of life. Oh we are wrought with folly! A stupid, boorish breed. Caring only for our next fix of convenience we scorn the very mother that birthed us! Best make your apologies now, you prodigal offspring and hope that the inevitable punishment be not so violent a lesson as to render this puny race extinct!
The beginning of a piece written during the Year of the Monkey. To me, this piece represents my world, The Realm of Possibility, in its purest form. A blending of the fantastic and the mundane. An ordered chaos of inspiring events. Enjoy!
THE SUMMER OF THE MONKEY
by Jason DeGray
And there I was, caught in an explosive moment. One of those epic engagements of Romantic proportions. Life changed as the monkeys played, and I sat on the floor of the great hall in my castle named Mallard with my faithful companions in attendance. Here we entertained the musings of invisible bards while their timeless music titillated the most passionate recesses of our brains. Speed humps were ahead for we three cavaliers of mundane existence filled with the most fantastic hopes and dreams any mind could ever conjure. Yet there we were, amidst the certainty of our Divinity. We heeded no harbingers of destruction for none could truly touch us. It was our spirit that caused us to burn with intensity while it slowly soothed the old wounds with a salve of Byronic Sadness and regret. We kept memories as favors of love from Mistresses of Mist and Tears.
As we journeyed through the thick fog of haunted woods, we brandished our armor bravely and smiled in triumph as demons fled from our presence. There were countless tales of our deeds, if not in the minds, then in the dreams of people as we passed through unknown but not unseen. Often we found ourselves in the higher planes of Gaia adventuring amongst places unfamiliar to us. We chose our weapons and as new worlds were opened to us we charged in on our valiant steeds: The Mistress, Marley and Mary’s kiss (a most delicate and slender beauty that turned the most breath-taking colors the more you loved her). These were our companions on our numerous undertakings. We were lords of a sacred flow.
A bunch of pretty boys in search of the next exciting hunt. “Why else would you all hang out together?” If only they knew. Souls were on the line in this theatrical production for the amusements of bored Gods.
“Take this coin. Give it to the River Keeper at the River of Destiny.” The story unfolds for the brave Pirate Prince Perfidious. He holds on to the fated coin with a desperate intensity. He would part with his life before he parted with his destiny. But wait! Don’t step over crumbling edges just yet! For…
…the stars twinkle a new chapter.
“The fairy queen waits for you under the Ancient Oak. Let the moon shine your direction.”
What is a brash noble to do with such complexly simple instructions? Ah, but that is what dreams are for…to tell us the stories only our souls can hear.
And now I find myself amidst happier passionate times as I danced with my lost lover amongst the Dwelling Places of Angels. We danced the Dance of Tongues that rivaled those of the goddess Coitus herself. We would pay for that Divine Insult with our hearts. The night quieted for us as she sighed and promised me the promises of soul-lovers. Those covenants come in soft breathy whispers gently, sensually traveling on a delicate air of precious intensity into the all too receiving ears of an enraptured lover. It was there I found myself–In an exotic place-in an exotic time. Life could be no better. But it dissipates and returns to lurk in the shadows of my heart.
I return to the noble Pirate Prince. A dashing young fellow of good wit and a charming smile. He had the aura that attracted a particular type of girl. Which he obstinately rejected for he was lovelorn for another. He played the part well. Don Juan is most proud of his unknowing protégé. But he is what he is, we are what we are. Cream style mocus saturating the scene. Social chameleons most sly and charming.
Why else would a bunch of pretty boys hang out together?
“So hold on,” she sings. “Take me with you.”
Alas we know not where we are going. That’s why we are a Love Cliché. Valiant young cavaliers intent on conquering experience as well as ourselves.
There was the Duke of Slide. Sketching pain across the grand table of our dining hall. He had been recently divorced from some twisted engagements of Love. He sat on the Precipice of the Monkey; deciding if he should fall and re-gather the pieces of his broken heart. The moon rose as he wept blood for the loss of that particular piece of himself that will eternally bear her name. Yet he is strong. His resolve is unequaled in the realms of Here or even There. And I Notice the gleam in his eye. That laughing charmer completely securing the hearts of many a maiden without much aid or care for the matter. He we admired for his strength and grace, for his charming affectionate aura that radiated from him and controlled every mannerism of his exciting spirit. But mostly he was admired for his intense passion and his connection to the flow that governs this adventure. Without him I would have certainly been lost.
And I? I found myself swimming in a sea of Broken Krystle—tiny shards biting into my weathered skin mixing blood with tears. It’s the sky that weeps for the raping of my gray shrouded spirit. I announce my plans to retire.
“They’re not going to give you a watch man. You should smoke a cigarette with me first. Look at it this way: you’re on the clock. You’re fucking them.” This retorted to me by the Duke in a most Hunter of vocal intonations.
My Dearest Amigo,
All life’s answers are philosophies. The question is: how does YOUR head wrap itself around those cosmic questions that all souls want answered? That, my friend, is truth, and its the REALEST kind of truth, that of self truth. What that truth shows you is not always what you WANT to see, but its what you HAVE to see. And, if life’s experiences have shown you to be lacking, to be wanting in any aspect, then perhaps it is time for change. Perhaps it is time to become better than you are. To realize the flawed person you are only serves its purpose if you honestly and committedly strive to rise above your old self and become someone new, better, more honest. In short, stand up. Evolve. That, noble Duke, is adventurous adventure indeed. Remember, it’s easy to walk the detrimental Paths of Temptation and Sin. But that doesn’t make them Paths of Truth and Right as many would have you believe. Walking noble paths is always a test of strength and will, but the end result is always happiness and peace.
P.S. Summoning demons never does anyone any good. There’s a reason they’re called demons. Because they’re demonic, by that I mean evil. Their nature is deception and destruction. Leave them in hell where they belong.
You know I love you, right? Of course she didn’t, but how could he tell her? What is love to the jaded? What are thoughts of passionate romance to the poor souls who have plunged themselves over Love’s cliffs only to land on the rocky crags below? How would he explain feelings to her that he himself claimed not to have? Thus, Jones was in a predicament. He paced back and forth inside his head. For days he did this. Constantly musing while going about daily life in a somewhat cognizant state of situational awareness.
And what of her? What of this tempting and airy mistress of fantasy? She was a flighty and sibilant Vision. One that skirted about the emotional center of men’s souls and invited them to their dooms like a siren. Her voice was music, her presence was enlightening. She seemed so carefree about everything, but Jones saw under the surface to the smoldering discontent below. The hopelessness in her spirit that caused her to abandon possibility for grim certainty. “She lived with cats,” was what she saw chiseled on her tombstone if she ever descended from the lofty heights and consented to death. So she chose to remain as she was: an incorporeal longing tugging on the dreams of those lucky enough to experience her.
He’d scaled mountains to see her. He’d reached the very summit of the highest peak of the highest mountain in all of the Realm of Possibility just to tell her what he couldn’t say.
He stared at her with mouth agape and timidly reached out to grasp her only to recoil when the mere proximity toward her caused him to vibrate at higher frequencies. He was unable to act upon something that should have been as natural and easy as walking up and introducing yourself to the wind. And so Infinity Jones stood when he should have moved. Became rock when he should’ve been fluid.
So she sang him a song to lure him closer. A haunting tune of intimate moments and knowing glances. She told him of sparkling gazes across tables and of laughing and living, but never loving. For to venture into those realms was to venture losing everything! The beauty and purity of the experience at hand would be tainted. Changed. Never the same again and then when paths split (because they always do) the moment is gone forever. She danced this way, moving close and then pulling away. Moving so close that he could feel her sweet breath on his neck only to spin away with the wind and light in her wake.
She never knew, if even for a moment, if love were true or only fantasized about in fairy tales.
“Let me ask you, Infinity Jones, a question with truthful undertones.”
“Here is the story, a parable true. Listen and tell me, what should one do?”
And Infinity Jones listened.
“Two individuals, call them ‘people’, did meet. One day by chance while walking a street. Eyes met and smiles gazed. So they stopped and chatted afloat in a haze. Friends they became, companions too. But never was love uttered, twas a terrible secret to be muttered. Friends they were and friends they will be. For some lines should be crossed very timidly.”
Infinity answered her Sphinx’s riddle. “Is it better to have it fade away than to never happen at all? How many great loves have been abandoned? And for what? Countless wonderful epics haven’t been and never will be written because people are too afraid to act upon something in fear of breaking or ruining it. Nay my symphonic siren, this should not be so. Understand that emotions aren’t as complicated as they seem. Those special moments shared with special people are that way because of the affectionate feelings under the surface. If these things are not acted upon, they fade. Then the only thing your time produced is a bittersweet memory. And in this wandering fool’s experience, fond memories are much preferred to bittersweet ones. So no matter how you write it, your parable ends in loss. And it is the worst kind of loss, at that: loss of something never attempted at all. Best to seize those rare and special relationships. They aren’t manifested enough in a person’s life to deny them the possibility.”
The siren laughed a beautiful tune and twirled around to blow a sweet breeze across the muggy woodlands of a Midsummer’s soul. This was her only answer. Always and forever. The same beatuful song, the same unwilling sonata refusing to be written.
With a blown kiss and a sigh, Infinity wished her goodbye. And descended from the heavens into the wistful land of Sixes and Sevens.