Archive for December, 2012

It Is Accomplished

“I would like to go to the Lion’s Gate,” Raziel told him.

The Romanian volubly refused. When Raziel realized that his driver’s mind was not about to be changed, he got out of the taxi and set out on foot for the Old City.

Approaching the end of the Via Dolorosa, almost at the Lions’ Gate, above the shouting he heard a voice he knew. It was the voice of Adam De Kuff speaking from the upper quadrant of his interior universe, strong, unafraid, joyful, thoroughly delusional. Raziel shouldered his way through the ranks until he saw the man himself.

He wore what looked like an army jacket that fitted him so badly its cuffs stopped a little past his elbows. He had hugely baggy army trousers and untied muddy boots whose laces coiled around his ankles and twisted underfoot as he shuffled passionately from one end of the bench to the other like a dancing bear. There was a kippa on his head and a white scarf tied around his forehead like a turban and he crooned at the top of his voice.

Raziel kept trying to force his way closer to the old man. He had the notion of taking him away from there, before the thing failed utterly, before all spells and mercies were suspended, before whatever grace that had touched their pilgrimage was withdrawn and the violence and raw holiness of the place overwhelmed everyone.

De Kuff himself understood only that he was in the place he knew and loved best, the scene of his successes, the ancient Serapion and Pool of Israel. All that day he had been trying to reach the souls within himself as they weaved in and out of his consciousness. He had begun to think that everything he had ever believed about soul and mind was wrong. There was no way to exercise control.

But there at the Fountain, his souls were manifest and his heart was full, and in the completeness of his joy he had no choice but to tell about it. It was necessary to tell everyone, anyone, no matter how distressed or distracted they might be by politics or by the illusion of separateness and exile that burdened everyone. He felt elected and protected by God, ready to support the Ark in the holiest of places. He used the metaphors that were employed in this city, although, in a way, it might have been anywhere.

“Call me as you like,” he explained to the angry crowd. “I am the twelfth imam. I am the Bab al-Ulema. I am Jesus, Yeshi, Issa. I am the Mahdi. I am Moshiach. I have come to restore the world. I am all of you. I am no one.”

There were screams of terrible passion. “Perish he! Death!”

People began to throw stones.

“Death to the blasphemer!”

De Kuff opened his arms to them. For a moment those who were advancing on him stopped. Raziel, shouting, shoving, tried to get through.

“You don’t have to listen,” Raziel said to the crowd. “It’s all over. Rev,” he shouted to De Kuff, “it’s all over! Another time, man. Another soul. Another street.”

The men who were taking hold of De Kuff, pulling him down as he tottered on his bench, also laid hands on Raziel.

“Another day!” Raziel told them. “Another mountain!”

“I tell you, ” De Kuff informed them in his restrained Louisiana drawl. “That all was once One and will be and has always remained so. That God is One. And faith in Him is One. And all belief is One. And all believers in Him, regardless of sect, are One. Only the human heart divides. So it is written.

“See? Do you see?” De Kuff asked the men who were pulling him down. “Everyone’s waiting. And the separateness of things is false.”

He went on declaiming, using the images, the reversals, the metaphors everyone knew, expounding the souls, raising their voices, until the great holiness turned to fire and he lost consciousness.

—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate

Why Men Should Be Abolished

My colleague, who is a Scientist, has determined that the brain structure in human beings differs markedly, between men and women.

Women, their brains contain many folds, storing a dazzling array of information: from how to clean lampshades, to the ways and means of compacting more matter than exists in the entire universe into one small purse.

Men, however, their brains contain but two folds: one for sports, and one for pornography.

And contained within the sports fold, may be found the Will and Desire to engage make it stopin violently loud public belching.

Down a ways from the Manor is a lube shop. Those who work there are generally pleasant people. However, they are men. And one of these men is completely possessed by the Need to recurrently burp as loud as humanly possible.

Which is pretty damn loud.

And because this is a lube shop, the big metallic door to the thing is left open at all times. Presumably so that passing motorists will, from this open door, suddenly experience a brainshower that they could use some auto-juice, and so pull into the place.

However, this open door also means that whenever Belch Boy is possessed by his deliberate ructus disability, I get to hear it.

First thing this morning, while I was out with the elves wrestling the welfare recipients into a Santa Truck, this guy was over there vibrating his esophagus at decibel levels that caused blood to spout from all nearby ears. The elves were filled with Fear. They demanded narcotics; however, there were not enough in the Manor to properly medicate us all. So we remain pretty rattled. This is not the way that any Sane being would want to start Christmas Eve.

But we are not talking Sane beings here. We are talking human males.

No human female, in the entire history of the species, would ever somehow think it “cool” or “funny” or “impressive,” or whatever impression it is that passes through the sports lobe, to burp so loud that birds fall from the sky.

As such, one would think that deliberately belching louder than ten trains would have long ago been bred out of the species.

But no. The impulse must be truly strong, and deeply embedded, somewhere there in the y-chrome.

It needs to be Removed.

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town

On Friday, even as the demented ur-human Wayne LaPierre, chief primate of the National Retrovert Association, was yammering on camera that the nation’s schools should be bedecked with guns, in order to combat the menace of guns, some nutbag ran amok in Pennsylvania, with a gun, shooting up six people, including a woman decorating a church for Christmas.

Now, Pennsylvania has enough problems. Much of the place still glows in the dark, thanks to Three Mile Meltdown. In the state’s potato-chip factories, disgruntled deep-fried crisps are plotting rebellion. And the thing is almost coming for the gunsimpossible to spell—the “y,” “l, and “v,” are constantly getting confused, bumbling about changing places.

So, I decided, the last thing Pennsylvania needs is guns. Therefore, a giant magnet should be passed over the state, which would suck up all the guns.

Recalling from the documentary film Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer that Santa Claus, generally renowned as a communistic gift-giver, as well occasionally actually snatches objects from homes—besides the well-known pilfering of milk and cookies, Santa, the Rudolph documentary informs us, also scoops up neglected toys, which he deposits on the Island Of Misfit Toys, until they can be later delivered to children who more Want them—I decided to enquire if the chronically obese ho-ho human would be interested in getting in on the gun-magnet action.

The dude was busy, as might be expected, but I managed to get him on the horn, there at the North Pole.

“Santa,” I said, “this year, as usual, I have been both naughty and nice—it’s a quantum thing—and I was wondering if, this year for Christmas, I could get you to attach a giant magnet to your sleigh, and with it suck up all the guns in Pennsylvania, as you fly by.”

Santa, a Nordic deity, and therefore wiser than I, declared that this seemed a good idea, but that it would probably be best to suck up all the guns—all over the world.

And so, that is what is to happen.

A band of elves has just departed the Manor, having pressganged into temporary service Big Buck, Billy Buck Naked, White Head, Mr. Spindly Horns, Mr. Broken Horn, No You Can’t Get Through The Hole In The Fence With Those Antlers You Big Oaf, and various assorted different-one deer who usually hang around here as welfare recipients: these people are required as additional sleigh-pullers, since the vehicle is going to get damn heavy, with all those guns.

Because all the guns are going. Not just the pistols, rifles, and assault-insanities in the clinging hands of fear-possessed people and the police. But also every death-spewer—from pea-shooter to tank to aircraft carrier—owned and controlled by the world’s perfectly useless militaries. Santa is grabbing it all. To be transported back to the workshop, there to be melted down and transformed into toys.

It’s happening. Tonight. Watch for it.

There Are Always Uncles At Christmas

Who I Am

Christmas Lights

“I’m not mad. Because I have my agency to make sure that I use this event to do what I can to do whatever I can. I want to make sure that my family, my wife and my daughters, are taken care of. And that, if there is anything I can do to help anybody, at any time, anywhere, I’d be willing to do that.”

Robbie Parker, father of Emilie Parker

Single-payer health care is where the nation is going, it’s inevitable, and people will be much happier once they get there. In the meantime, all initiatives that arc that way should be supported.

Same with the guns. All the guns are going to go. That’s Emilie Parkerwhere the nation is going, it’s inevitable, and people will be much happier once they get there. In the meantime, all initiatives that arc that way should be supported.

The guns, they are done. They are instruments of living in Fear. And Fear is over. It’s no longer necessary. It is a product of the lizard brain. The brain is bigger than that now. The lizard brain peaked hundreds of millions of years ago. Its day is done.

The guns are going too from the police. Back in the 1970s, when police-militarization began truly getting out of hand, Ken Kesey wrote a thoughtful piece in which he saw that the police need to “lay down the gun.” That’s going to happen.

There won’t be any guns in the nation’s military. Because the nation won’t have a military. America is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico. And so no military is necessary.

In the early reports out of Connecticut, I was struck by this:

Connecticut is reaching out to other states to help with autopsies because they don’t have enough medical examiners.

There was no shortage of people with guns arriving on the scene. There never is. But for healers, Connecticut had to go out of state.

That is precisely the opposite of the way it should be. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were always a surfeit of healers, always on hand? But for folks with guns, a call would have to go out to other states?

That’s what’s coming. The age of the warrior is over. Old, and totally in the way. It’s the era of healers now.

Already happened.

There Is No Such Thing As A Grownup

“In Vence,” said Herzog, “my parents left me under a crucifix. And I asked them, my parents, ‘What happened to him?’ I meant the man on the cross, the Christ figure. I was then ten years of age and had no idea what a crucifix was. We lived in Paris. After the liberation I was not yet fourteen. The prefect told me who I was. That I was a Jew. That my parents, my family, had been delivered to the Germans and murdered by them. And I felt—what can I say—a recognition.”

“But you couldn’t leave the Church?”

“Oh,” Herzog said with a little shrug, “I didn’t care much about the Church. The Church was men, people. Some good, some not.” He looked at the floor.

“Then why?”

“Because I was waiting,” said Herzog. “Waiting where I had been left. At the foot of the cross. Out of spite or devotion, I don’t know.” He laughed and put a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “Pascal says we understand nothing until we understand the principle from which it proceeds. Don’t you agree? So I understand very little.”

“We’re supposed to believe that Christ has gone on to reign in glory,” Lucas said.

“No,” said Herzog. “Jesus Christ suffers from now until the end. On the cross. He goes on suffering. Until the death of the last human being.”

“And that,” Lucas said, “brings you here?”

“Yes,” said Herzog. “To attend. To keep on waiting.”

From the steps of the church, the evening smelled of car exhaust and jasmine.

“I realize that in this kind of world,” Lucas said, “I have no business being so unhappy. I realize also that on a religious level I’ll always be a child. It’s absurd and I regret it.”

For the first time Herzog smiled.

“Don’t regret it, sir. Perhaps you know Malraux’s Anti-memoires? His priest tells us that people are much more unhappy than one might think.” He offered Lucas his hand. “And that there is no such thing as a grownup.”

—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate


When I Worked

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