The Night at the Bar (Una Noche en el Bar) [En English and Spanish]

English Version


A St. Paul, Minnesota, Neighbourhood Story


The Night at the Bar
(or, The Dive)

((Based on actual experiences of 1968) (a Chick Evens story))



The church steeple drifts off into the darkness. The trees in the adjacent cemetery, across Jackson Street, can only be seen by the fleeting headlights of cars. The mist whitens the trees. Everyone is at the corner bars, Bram’s or the Mount Airy. Chick Evens straightens up, takes out a cigarette, a light drizzle of rain fills the atmosphere, as he walks slowly up Sycamore Street, turns—sees the corner bars.

A few run-down busses pass him, but are soon lost, once they turn the corner—he noticed a few black faces on the bus, hateful, looking faces (perhaps it’s the times, he senses).

He hears voices coming from both bars, music is loud. He opens his eyes wider, leans his neck back, his belly is a little sour from the drunk he had the night before. A taxi goes by, stops in front of Bram’s, it looks like Nancy, David, Carol and Rockwater.

Now standing in-between the two doors of the Mt. Airy, he can hear the blind noisy street behind him. There are a few familiar faces in the bar, he notices looking over the western style, swinging doors. He thinks it would have been better had he come later—more people, but he’s here now. He heads for the bathroom, urinates and combs his hair, washes his face, he’s been drinking half the day, up at Jerry Hino’s house, a half-mile past the church (he had been playing cards with Jerry and his brother Jim, and Mike Gulf, and Betty—Jerry’s wife, had to feed the kids, so he decided to leave.)

He comes out of the bathroom, his light jacket laid over his arm, his friend Allen is in one corner of the bar, he nods his head—I mean they both nod their heads for recognition of the other. Bill and his wife Judy are in a booth to his left, Bill had just come back from the war in Vietnam. John St. Clair is in another corner of the bar, his girlfriend, is by herself at the bar opposite him. Big Ace, close to six-foot six inches tall (the neighbourhood mannequin), no teeth, 210 pounds, ten-years everyone else’s senior, or thereabout, not all that bright, is sitting next to Doug, singing his weird song: “Twenty-four black birds baked in the pie,” then he forgets the rest of the verse, he always does, and goes into a humming episode, as if lost inside his own head—pert near dancing on his stool, pounding on the bar feet kicking.

Doug and Ace are sitting in the middle of the horseshoe shaped bar, like most everyone else, drinking beer, it would seem a beer fest was going on; but it’s really a normal every day thing, and on the weekends the only difference is they all get drunker. The bar is not much more than a dive: no, it is just that, a dive. Chick Evens feels a tinge lousy but knows with a few more beers he’ll not feel anything, anyway, that will fix him up. As he orders a beer, drinks it down, his headache disappears. He runs his hand over his forehead, as if to wipe the beer sweat off of it.

The worst thing for Evens is that he has spent all his money but a dollar, buying beer at Hino’s house. He is Not sure how he’ll get by tonight, but there is always someone to buy a fellow neighbourhood buddy a beer. He’s good for it he tells himself.

He hears Doug’s voice, far, far away—or so it seems, he’s dating Jackie, Evens’ old girlfriend. He now joins Bill and Judy, he knows he can borrow a few bucks from Bill if he has to, needs to. The side window has a light chunk of the moon showing, all around it is a dark sky, and he falls down—purposely, onto the soft cushion at the edge of the booth, by Judy.


This whole business of drinking night after night has made Evens thirsty. Bill notices Chick’s glass of beer is empty. Bill says—in a wholehearted way, “Come on let’s get another round,” he is smiling, waves the waitress over—

“As long as the glass is cold, and the beer is cold, I like it,” say Evens.

These two bars is a place for the neighbourhood boys to drink at, seemingly it always has been; they are drunks and they don’t even know it, at such a young age too. Chick is but nineteen-years old, Ace is twenty-nine, and Jackie is his age and Doug perhaps five years older, and Roger is Doug’s age, thereabouts. From the looks of things, should a bystander take note, the so called Donkeyland Neighbourhood Gang, so named by the police, the Cayuga Street neighbourhood, in essence, one would think they were all weaned from the cradle to the grave at these two bars, on beer.

Inside the Mt. Airy bar, is an inexorable dampness, greyness to it, it reeks (The Great Northern Railroad is down and under the Jackson Street Bridge, just outside the bar, you can hear the trains coming and going now and then. On the other side of the bridge are the warehouses). The jukebox is playing “I’m Sorry,” by Brenda Lee, it was playing something by Jack Scott, previously, and Elvis of course was played a half dozen times along with Rick Nelson, and the Beatles. Most all the males in the bar have their shirtsleeves rolled up, past their elbows. Some are chewing—whatever—a nosy veracious crowd, but more under control than Bram’s across the street—there, there is a pool table; some of the boys will shift bars later on, as will those in Bram’s.

The waitress is in her forties, has a shabby apron on, the Italian owner is her lover, he’s married, but after they close up the bar, she settles down in his office with him, they’ll not leave until close to three o’clock in the morning.
The jukebox goes louder, a few folks are dancing. The bar is filling up, with smoke, multicolour white to pale faces, Native American faces, copper colour faces, one Mexican, no blacks.


Armpits are starting to smell like fish, old rotting fish, Bill hands Evens his beer, Fran, the waitress, just brought it over.

“Shut the door,” a voice yells, “you’re leaving in the flies!”

That was Larry and his wife Jeannie who had come through the swinging doors. There’s an empty booth alongside Evens, they grab it, everyone shaking hands or hugging one another, as if they hadn’t seen one another for ages.

“Two bottles of beer,” says Larry, he likes bottle beer, as does his wife, she’s Native American, like Jackie her sister, and John St. Clair, their brother.

The neighbourhood factory, “Structural Steel,” its second shift is letting out now, and Jack T, and Dan the Crazy man (pleasingly plump), so he is known—are now walking thorough the bar, Jack is now going with one of Chick’s old girlfriends, a Mexican. Bunches of the neighbourhood boys still work at the factory, and most all of them have at one time or another. Old Charlie, even got Evens a job there once, and then Charlie retired, he was Mexican.

The more people in the bar, the more undecipherable the smell, it weakens the stomach, nauseates it.

“What a sickening job,” says a voice, it seems to come from the area John L and Karin are. John L, had travelled to California with Evens recently, as Jerry Hino had a year back, went to Omaha with Evens, and Ace’s brother Keith, had went to Seattle with him; all wanting to rush back to the neighbourhood but, Keith.

The only relief from the squeezing smells in the bar, is to leave the bar for fresh air, so, Evens picks himself up, excuses himself, he hears the collective voices, the motors and horns coming as he opens the bar doors, that faces Sycamore and Jackson Streets. His ears clear out all the deformed thick noises. His memory fades from all the prominent cheekbones, dead looking, red-eyed drunks, all those drowsy looking bodies, that had clustered around him, and everyone one else.

He lights up his 60th cigarette for the day. He sees the accumulated garbage along the side of the bar, in the street. The music from the bar jukebox mingles with the live band across the street. He sees Sonny playing the guitar (Sonny had taught him a thing or two about finger picking, in his younger days: and that’s not all that long ago. He also played for a short time with one of the national Rock and Roll bands)

The door to Bram’s is wide open, he can see his older brother Mike, drunker than a skunk, sitting at the bar—his elbows leaning on the bar, his back to him. He throws the butt onto the sidewalk, buries it under his heel. He had sucked it down to a half inch, a Lucky Strike.

He thinks: why don’t I leave, and never come back?

He thinks: I have dreams, other than drinking myself to death here in the two dives. I want to go to San Francisco. (But he really wants to travel the whole world, and get a college degree, and write poetry, and books but he doesn’t say this, because he’s from this neighbourhood and people would think he’s insane, and can such things really be possible? I mean, are these dreams not for the other person, not really for folks like him; but only time will tell. But perhaps he’s willing to wait, even if it takes a life time. He doesn’t know all this remember; only I do—now looking back.)

He watches the circle of foam from a pitcher of beer being carried to a table of five people at Bram’s. He sees an old man vomiting alongside the bar. He sees cars in the parking lot disappearing into the night of the gibbous moon.

He thinks: We’re all frightened to go away; constrained by our minds. Defeated before we’ve even tested life; and then we grow old. A thousand times we say: if only.

The music on the jukebox is playing a sad song, “Lonely Street,” by Rick Nelson. His world grows quiet, more intense—he looks inside the bar, stink, armpit smells, more beer being passed from one hand to another, garbage on the floor, smoke clouds are settling overhead like cobwebs throughout the bar, the same images every night—this weekend night.

This bar is a can of worms, he tells himself, a brain twister, but he walks back inside: as if it was home; although he doesn’t say that, but if he listens to his second self, he’ll know the truth, and the truth is, it’s not home (although the devil would like him to think so), it’s just a dive, and that he will have to learn quick, because time is concentrated in the moment; and life is short at best: and dreams do come true, if you have a plan, prayer, and if you work it, and have patience.


No: 631 (12-11-2010)
Dedicated to the Donkeyland Gang

Spanish Version

(Versión en Español)

Una historia de San Pablo, Minnesota, USA

Una Noche en La Cantina

((Basado en experiencias reales de 1968) (una historia de Chick Evens))



El domo de la iglesia se pierde en la oscuridad, los árboles en el cementerio adyacente, cruzando la calle Jackson, solo pueden ser vistos por las fugaces luces de los carros. La neblina ha blanqueado los árboles. Todos están en la esquina de los bares, Bram y Mount Airy. Chick Evens se endereza, coge un cigarrillo, una brisa suave llena la atmósfera, mientras él sube lentamente la calle Sycamore, voltea y mira hacia la esquina donde están los bares.

Unos cuantos buses acelerados pasan por él, pero pronto se pierden una vez que voltean la esquina—él nota unas cuantas caras negras en el bus, caras que parecen mirar con odio (talvez sean los tiempos, él piensa)

Él escucha voces viniendo de ambos bares, la música está bien alta. Él abre sus ojos más, inclina su cuello hacia atrás, su estómago está un poco indigesto por la borrachera que tuvo anoche. Un taxi llega y se detiene en frente del bar Bram, parece que son Nancy, David, Carol y Rockwater.

Ahora parado en medio de las dos puertas del bar Mount Airy, él puede oír los continuos ruidos de la calle que está detrás de él. Él, mirando a través de las puertas de vaivén al estilo del oeste, nota que hay algunas caras conocidas en el bar; piensa que hubiera sido mejor venir más tarde cuando haya más gente, pero él ahora está aquí. Él se dirige al baño, se peina y se lava la cara, él ha estado bebiendo ya medio día, en la casa de Jerry Hino, a media milla de la iglesia (él estuvo jugando casino con Jerry y Jim (hermano de Jerry), también con Mike Gulf y Betty (esposa de Jerry) quien tenía que alimentar a sus hijos, por eso el decidió dejarlos)

Él sale del baño con su casaca sobre su brazo, su amigo Allen está en una de las esquinas del bar, él, al verlo, mueve su cabeza; es decir, ambos mueven sus cabezas en señal de reconocimiento del otro. Bill y su esposa Judy están en una butaca a su izquierda, Bill acaba de regresar de la Guerra de Vietnam. John St. Clair está en la otra esquina del bar, su enamorada está sola en la otra esquina. Big Ace, quien mide cerca de 2 metros (llamado el maniquí del barrio), no tiene dientes y pesa noventa y cinco kilos, es diez años mayor que todos, o algo por ahí, no es tan brillante, él está sentado cerca a Doug cantando su canción rara: “veinticuatro pájaros negros horneados en un pastel”, luego él se olvida del resto de la canción, como siempre lo hace, y continúa con el episodio de tarareos, como si perdido dentro de su propia cabeza, casi bailando en su banca, golpeando el piso con sus pies.

Doug y Ace están sentados en medio del asiento en forma de herraje del bar, como casi todos, bebiendo cerveza, parecería que una fiesta de cerveza estaba llevándose a cabo, pero en realidad es una cosa normal de todos los días, y la diferencia con los fines de semana, es que todos se embriagan más. El bar no es mucho más que una cantina, no, es exactamente eso, una cantina. Chick Evens se siente un poco mareado, pero él sabe que con un poco más de cerveza él se sentirá bien, de todas formas, eso lo pondrá bien. Mientras pide una cerveza, se lo toma todo y su dolor de cabeza desaparece. Él pasa su mano sobre su frente, como para secar el sudor de cerveza de éste.

La peor cosa para Evens es que se había gastado casi todo su dinero excepto por un dólar, comprando cerveza en la casa de Hino. Él no está seguro de cómo llegará por la noche, pero siempre hay alguien para comprarle una cerveza a un amigo del barrio. Él es bueno para eso, se dice a sí mismo.

Él oye la voz de Doug, lejos, muy lejos, o eso parece; Doug está saliendo con Jackie, la ex enamorada de Evens. Ahora se une a Bill y Judy, él sabe que puede prestarse unos cuantos dólares de Bill se llegara a necesitarlo. La ventana del lado muestra un poco de luz de luna, todo alrededor es un cielo oscuro, y él cae a propósito, en el suave sofá, al filo de la butaca, cerca de Judy.

Este asunto entero de beber noche tras noche hizo que Evens estuviera sediento. Bill se da cuenta que el vaso de Evens está vacío y dice, de una manera amigable y sincera, “Vamos, tomemos otra vuelta”, él sonríe mientras hace señas a la mesera para que se acerque.

“Mientras que el vaso esté frío, y la cerveza fría, me gusta”, dice Evens.

Estos dos bares son un lugar para que los muchachos del barrio beban, aparentemente siempre lo fue; ellos están tan borrachos que incluso no lo saben, a tan temprana edad también. Chick tiene sólo diecinueve años, Ace tiene veinte, Jackie es de su edad, y Doug talvez es cinco años mayor, y Roger, es de la edad de Doug, o aproximadamente. Por lo que parecen las cosas, si un espectador tomara nota, la tan llamada pandilla del barrio llamado la Tierra de los Burros, nombrado así por la policía al barrio de la calle Cayuga; es decir, uno pensaría que todos estaban acostumbrados a beber cerveza en estos dos bares, desde la cuna hasta la tumba.

Dentro del Bar Mount Airy, hay una humedad inevitable, es sombrío y apesta (El Gran Ferrocarril del Norte pasa debajo del Puente de la calle Jackson, justo afuera del bar, tú puedes oír a los trenes yendo y viniendo de vez en cuando. Al otro lado del puente están los depósitos). La caja musical está tocando “Lo siento” de Brenda Lee, previamente estuvo tocando algo de Jack Scott, y por supuesto, la música de Elvis fue tocada una media docena de veces junto con la de Rick Nelson y los Beatles. La mayoría de los hombres en el bar tienen dobladas las mangas de sus camisas por encima de sus codos. Algunos están masticando—cualquier cosa—una multitud bulliciosa, pero más en control que en el bar Bram, que está al frente de la calle—allí, allí hay una mesa de billar; algunos de los muchachos cambiarán de bar más tarde, así como aquellos del bar Bram lo harán.
La mesera tiene como cuarenta años y tiene puesto un gastado mandil; el dueño, un italiano, es su amante. Él está casado, pero luego que cierran el bar, ella se queda en su oficina con él y no salen hasta cerca de las tres de la mañana.

La caja musical suena más fuerte, algunos están bailando; el bar está llenándose con humo, hay caras multicolores desde blanco hasta pálidos, caras de indios americanos, caras de color de cobre, una mexicana, no hay negros.

Las axilas están empezando a apestar como a pescado, pescado podrido, Bill le alcanza a Evens una cerveza, Fran, la mesera, lo acaba de traer.

“Cierra la puerta”, una voz grita, “¡estás dejando entrar a las moscas!”

Eran Larry y su esposa Jeannie que entraron por la puerta vaivén. Hay un sitio vacío al lado de Evens, ellos lo agarran, todos se dan la mano o se abrazan unos a otro, como si no se hubieran visto por años.

“Dos botellas de cerveza”, dice Larry, a él le gusta la cerveza en botella, como también le gusta a su esposa, ella es una americana india, al igual que su hermana Jackie, y John St. Clair, su hermano.

La fábrica del barrio, “Acero Estructural”, está dejando salir a su segundo turno ahora, y Jack T y Dan “El Loco” (un gordito), o así se le conoce, están ahora atravesando el bar. Jack ahora está saliendo con una de las ex enamoradas de Chick, una mejicana. Un montón de los muchachos del barrio todavía trabajan en la fábrica, y la mayoría lo hizo alguna vez. El viejo Charlie, incluso le consiguió a Evens un trabajo allí, y luego Charlie se jubiló, él era un mejicano.

Cuanto más gente en el bar, más difícil de descifrar el olor, éste debilita el estómago, lo enferma.

“Qué trabajo tan asqueroso”, dice una voz, ésta parece venir de donde están John L y Karin. John L recientemente había viajado a California con Evens, como Jerry Junior lo hizo un año atrás, yendo a Omaha con Evens, y el hermano de Ace, Keith, había ido a Seattle con él; todos, menos keith, querían volver apresuradamente a su barrio.

La única liberación del pesado olor del bar, es dejar el bar para tomar aire fresco; así, Evens se levanta, se disculpa y sale, él oye las voces colectivas, los motores y bocinas que entran mientras las puertas del bar que dan a las calles Sycamore y Jackson, se abren. Sus oídos dejan de escuchar esos ruidos fuertes deformados. De su memoria se esfuman todas las mejillas prominentes, miradas de muerte, borrachos con ojos rojos, todos esos cuerpos adormilados, que se aglomeraron alrededor de él, y de todos los demás.

Él enciende su cigarrillo número sesenta del día y observa la basura acumulada al costado del bar y en la calle. La música de la caja musical del bar se mezcla con la música en vivo de la banda que está al frente del bar. Él ve a Sonny tocando la guitarra (Sonny, en sus años jóvenes, le enseñó algo de cómo tocar las cuerdas; y eso no es mucho tiempo atrás. Él también tocó por poco tiempo en una de las bandas nacionales de Rock and Roll).

La puerta del bar Bram está abierta ampliamente, él puede ver a su hermano mayor, Mike, más borracho que una cuba, sentado en el bar de espaldas a él, con sus codos recostados. Él arroja el pucho del cigarrillo en la acera y lo aplasta bajo sus talones. Él ha estado fumado un Lucky Strike, hasta dejarlo en un centímetro.
Él piensa: ¿Por qué no me voy de aquí para nunca volver?

Él piensa: tengo sueños, no sólo tomar hasta morir aquí en estas dos cantinas. Quiero ir a San Francisco (pero él realmente quiere viajar por el mundo entero, y obtener una carrera, y escribir poesías y libros, pero él no lo dice, porque él es de este barrio y la gente pensaría que él está loco; y esas cosas, ¿realmente pueden ser posibles? Digo, son estos sueños para otras personas, no realmente para gente como él; pero sólo el tiempo lo dirá. Pero talvez él está dispuesto a esperar, incluso si esto toma toda una vida. Él no sabe todo esto, recuerda, que sólo yo lo sé—ahora que miro atrás)

Él mira al círculo de espuma de una jarra de cerveza que estaba siendo llevada a una mesa de cinco personas en el bar Bram. Él nota a un anciano vomitando al lado del bar, también ve carros en el estacionamiento que desaparecen en la noche de una luna luminosa.

Él piensa: todos tenemos miedo de irnos lejos, estamos condicionados por nuestras mentes, vencidos incluso antes de haber probado vida, y luego nos envejecemos. Miles de veces decimos; si sólo…

La caja musical está tocando una canción triste, “Calle Solitaria” por Rick Nelson. Su mundo crece tranquilo, más intenso. Él mira dentro del bar, éste apesta, hay olor de axilas y más cerveza que pasan de una mano a la otra, hay basura en el piso y las nubes de humo se amontonan por todo el techo del bar como telarañas, las mismas imágenes de esta noche de fin de semana, son todas las noches.

Este bar es una lata de gusanos, se dice a sí mismo, es un cerebro huracanado; pero vuelve a entrar, como si fuera su casa, aunque él no dice eso, pero si él escuchara a su subconsciente, él sabría la verdad, y la verdad es que no es su casa (aunque al demonio le gustaría que lo piense así), es sólo una cantina, y eso él lo tendrá que aprender rápidamente, porque el tiempo está concentrado en el momento; y la vida a lo mejor es corta, y los sueños sí se hacen realidad, si tienes un plan, rezas, y lo llevas a cabo, y tienes paciencia.


No: 631 (11 de diciembre del 2010)
Dedicado a la pandilla de la “Tierra de los Burros”

Letter to the Haitians

Letter to the Haitians
(In Poetic Prose, for the Haitians)

And I heard what the angel said, when he left heaven:

“I am the punisher God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”

And I heard in heaven, a voice says: “Can the blind lead the blind?” and I think he meant that the Haitians have not sought out Godly leaders. “And shall they not all fall into the ditch?” and I think he meant, Haiti has been in that very ditch a very long time “…The disciple is not above his master…cast out first the grin (the smile, the defiance, the arrogance towards the Lord) from the eye and then you see clearly, and then you will see clearly the dirt, that bothers it. Can a bad tree grow good fruit? And a corrupt people expect Godly things?” And I think he meant: are you listening Haiti? For are you not known the world over for your sins, your corruption, and your Voodoo gods? Did not God turn his face from New York City, on September 11, 2001 for America’s disloyalty to God? “I have sent you good men to bring you good treasures, out of the abundance of my heart, but you continue to do evil, blasphemy.” I think he meant, he has sent Christians to preach the Gospel, and food organizations to feed you, and others, yet even they will in time get weary, for there is many things in his warehouse He can send Haiti like He told Job; if indeed, Haiti is stubborn, and needs more pain: perhaps an earthquake, and a great storm and cholera, are just among a few plagues He has in his storeroom, who’s to say, I do know, those he loves the most, he punishes the most to get them back in line “And why call on me to save you when you go to your false gods. Those gods can show you nothing; you are like people who build their homes in quicksand, what do you expect? From evil you want to be well to do more evil, and when your house falls to ruin you wonder why. Go your way and tell your family these things you’ve heard, and you will see the people cleansed, the poor raised. Tell the deaf to listen, the blind to see,” I think he is implying, He has not found so great a faith among the many as he’d like, for they have offended their Creator; and he will leave you as you are, shaken with the wind in the wilderness, and naked…

Dlsiluk (11-13-2010)

Cro-Magnon (a new era, a new story)

Cro-Magnon
(A New Era, a New Story)






By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Three Time Poet, Laureate







The Present:

Falling into a Dream
(Lee Maverick)




The Present
(2016-2020 AD)


The once beautiful starry sky, had merged with black strips mixed with blood red, his eyes were trying to adjust to it all, Lee Maverick (so he called himself)(looking in a broken mirror on the ground, at his appearance. He was middle aged, had been up this point, well kept, nearly all muscle, perhaps 7% fat, close to six foot tall, not as clean shaven as he’d prefer, his hair no longer trimmed, a bit disheveled yet he stood out, he was handsome, not intimidating), a professional tourist, he couldn’t make out much from all the debris scattered all about, and it was dark, dim-grey—yet it was early afternoon, a cloud had closed up the sun, pert near all of the sun’s rays, and there was bone chilling winds coming from the Anarchic, plants and fish from the ocean laying all about. As he had woken up from the rumble that flattened his hotel: an earthquake had taken place, the planet seemed to have wobbled off its axis for a moment also, the crust of the earth seemed to have shifted and recoiled back. He looked about, he could make out the Whitecap Mountains of Tierra del Fuego; he was visiting Ushuaia, a charming city at the end of South America when it happened. This stretch of the mountains, ended at Cape Horn. Everything, the world over, everything looked bleak and inhospitable—this past week, yet he kept to his travels. He had to find a place to stay now, to keep out of the snows, winds and chill, he remembered the old prison that was built in 1902, he had been to Ushuaia before, it was the only structure holding solid ground that he could see, on the upper part of the small city, everything else was demolished.
There was nothing that man could not imagine, that hadn’t taken place that week, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, warfare (with intercontinental missiles pointed at every city over one million population)—everyone knew the war was coming, they just didn’t know when, and nobody was spared its overall destruction. It was a global standoff that had a ripple effect that had taken place—nobody backed down this time—Some folks even talked of aliens being involved, and there were rumors of a new world leader on the rise: it was the new so called World Order, that caused 2.5 billion people to be killed, so he heard over the radio—and the threat was not over, another 600,000 were expected to die from disease, and cholera, starvation, and wounds, etc, all the after-effects of war, its trauma. Perhaps he survived only because he was a tourist, had he been home—back in Minnesota, he’d be dead; theoretically no joke.
Marino the Mayor of the city saw him wandering about and waved, he stood still while he approached. “Follow me,” he said. They walked to the prison (during the first half of the 20th Century, the prison was used for repeated offenders, hard criminals, likened to Devil’s Island, where escape was near impossible, and where would one go if one had? You were at the end of the world), down one of the corridors the two men went, in silence, to one of the side rooms; in the room were several young women, a fire in the middle of the room, a window allowing the smoke to escape, two women were drawing and writing on the wall, in one of the corners, they turned around to see who had entered, the tall one said, “Were just writing to let people know we were here in case—you know what I mean,” and she turned about and continued while the other shorter woman had a piece of white chalk, and she drew lines around her hand, leaving an imprint on the wall. The other four or five women, young women, sat around the fire in the centre, a mattress to one side with a rope tied from one side of the large prison enclosure (or room), used to hold several men at one time, and a blanket, was thrown over that, blocking the vision of the mattress; some fish was being cooked, it looked as if they had gone back to the days of Cro-Magnon, “It starts here,” he said, “wait a minute,” furthermore, he added, “You must impregnate all those you can, even if there is a genetic change because of the forthcoming fallout, who’s to say, what will become of us, if we don’t prepare? This is the only way we’ll survive, if they are all with child the strongest will survive, even if only one.”
The girl called Sandra kept her eye on Lee Maverick; she was wearing a Navy blue skirt, that went only to her knees, a white blouse, she looked seventeen, Lee thought, and moved about as if to attract him with her body, and smile, she was cute, a little pretty, “How does she look?” questioned the Mayor, handing Lee the key to the room…
“She looks fine,” said Lee.
She arranged everything as she knelt down by Lee, carefully taking one item of her close off at a time and placing her close neatly to the side. The last item she put under his pillow. Behind her in the room, the other girls were waiting, and they had selected Tamarind to be next.
“Do you have any idea how to do what we are going to do?” asked Lee Maverick.



Sandra, of Ushuaia




She lay down beside him, naked. “Where do these come from?” she asked; feeling the weight of it, measuring its enormous circumference with her fingers.
“Don’t ask me, Miss Sandra,” said Lee, staring at her rounded and hard breasts, as she stared at him, saying “It looks like it just can’t be helped.”
Sandra turned her back to Lee, looked around the blanket, she could see through the window, it was getting darker, it got dark quick these days, and she disliked the dark because—invariably because she cold no longer evade it.
When she opened her eyes, she held her eyelids open as long as she could—she wished she was asleep, she stretched out her legs, she wanted to curse the times, she shouted at Lee, “Is that all you can find to do!” She did not look at Lee. Lee slid down and over the mattress, the blanket over their legs, were hanging over the mattress on the cold floor. Perspiration began to trickle down her neck as soon as he stopped.
“I’m not going to tell a lie about this,” she said, “but I hate it,” she told Lee, and Lee just sat on his knees and merely looked, “The baby will be mine,” she said, “I am her mother,” she added, “There is no reason why you should pretend not to be sentient about his, continue please.” She didn’t want to say that, or think, but she wondered how such tings happened. She made him happy now, and thereafter Lee fell into a long sleep, and started dreaming, as Sandra got up…


Interlude


Neanderthals the Neanderthals (33,000 BC to 22,000 BC), brains one-fifth larger than humans, taller than the average human perhaps six feet five inches, and a lot stronger than the Cro-Magnons, actually, in comparison, quite intimidating, they were all muscle; perhaps smarter again than the Cro-Magnons, whom were puny in comparison, and had they not acquired their genetic makeup from the Neanderthals through interbreeding, they perhaps never would have been considered nor selected for a higher position in the: natural selection, category (it would seem in retrospect, something went wrong back there, back then, perhaps this story will shed some light on the matter—not always is the strongest looking and smartest acting, the chosen one).


Stone tools and weapons


(The Neanderthal roamed from Western and Central Europe, to the Balkans into Ukraine, and into Siberia, all the way back to Gibraltar, all across the Mediterranean to Israel, 100,000 BC, leaving behind his skulls, and jaw bones, grinding stone tools, and weapons, for man to find, when man emerged from whom he once was into full official homo sapiens. He was the brute of the bunch, interbreeding took place, with not only Cro-Magnons, but with humans, those of the higher race, at 8700 BC, thereafter appeared a third species of man, as there would appear in 4500 BC, a supernatural species of man. But the Neanderthal, as cruel and crude, as he was, he did not have the predisposition for homosexuality, nor was it a genetic factor, it is a leaned behavior, one that would be taught by the Watchers in due time. The Watchers (or aliens), would become quite infamous for their raw sex with animals, and men, and take the wives and daughters of men within their domain, and impregnate them at will. This new kind of species produced the legendary giants called the Titans. Ones the Greeks would immolate with their preference of sex take into interest men with men, and of course their homosexuality deserts, and within the Greek Isles, lesbianism would prosper likewise.)




Lee Maverick in a state of Dreaming





The Cave



The Neanderthal man



In a cave-walled room, two Cro-Magnons were drawing pictures on the cave wall, the room was packed with observing young people in their teens, all casually watching, as if they were attending something new, unusual, instead of the dry old looks from their predecessors (the Neanderthals) of not being able to adjust to change, resistant to change. The two teachers were now showing how to draw the action of the animals, in curved lines, even a tinge of perspective—that is: angles and vantage points, scribble lines on white. The young Cro-Magnons stood slumped with sagged shoulders, as they stood in a half circled group.
Squatting in the back of the room, the old ruler with a horde of aging and dying out male Neanderthals, a few young male Neanderthals, and several young females around them, all quite sexually active as was the nature of their kind, perhaps three fold compared to their successors (and behind them, a few old chimps staring silently, holding onto their toes with their fingers), the old leader was now pointing his finger in the air, implying to the younger Cro-Magnons, and his older horde, he didn’t like the changing of times. That he wanted to go back, if not remain in the old way of life—the old lifestyle they had all known—were familiar with, his brain not being able to be activated to accept this change of behavior, a closed and fearful mind to a new and opening future, an era at its beginning.
The youngest of the group, those were the half-breeds, the Neanderthals and the Cro-Magnons who had similar genes—these were the ones feeling surprised, that the older ones did not accept the new ways, or could not accept them—the new tools they invented and now the two Cro-Magnons drawing the pictures on the cave wall, concluded in a small way times had change, and perhaps more to come, but to two Cro-Magnons, allowed the old ones to remain isolated from the changing times—if that is what they wished, to promote social harmony, and group cohesion. They knew these knew controversial ideas, now to be conventional ideas, would be in a short while the whole group’s way of thinking, and familiar once the old generation died out.
The old generation perhaps didn’t agree with the people—not in particular because of the drawings, although they were part of the issue—nor even the new tools they made, but because they saw recklessness about the Cro-Magnons behavior, their ways: why did they drive herds of animals off cliffs, to kill many for a few to eat? And now their behavior was causing—seemingly causing—the extinction of a number of species.
They didn’t know, the Cro-Magnons did not know, and surely the Neanderthals, didn’t, the new gene that appeared to have fallen in place within the Cro-Magnons, was in essence creating stability and would lead to the making of civilizations, conventional, hence, like it or not, the conservative gene was now in place, yet the audience sat silent in the back of the cave, stunned by the art work, the changing of the times. Finally the leader—we shall call him—Nas Oinotna out of reason, he was the warrior, right or wrong, he would have rather been left in the wild, but said in his own way (and I shall modify it in plain English)
“You Tall One, all this is what?”
And this would start the first debate on change.
“We need to leave our handprints, so our kind will know we were!” said the tall one of the two teachers.
“Tall One, that’s terrible!”
“If we don’t, it is suicide for our kind!”
“I don’t remember it,” the old man said, he had forgotten what the issue was, but the Tall One, he replied, “It might be considered a reminder for your children what your hands looked like, and what the animals looked like when there were more kinds of animals—when you area long dead.”
Now there were groans in the book of the room.
“Argh!” said one of the people behind the Nas Oinotna.
“What’s wrong will telling those after us, we were?” said the Short One, standing by the tall one.
“Nobody really wants to trouble themselves with such foolishness; we’re all rugged individuals, who want to think of ourselves as part of nature, not separate from it,” said Nas. The old Neanderthal had a hard time trying to focus on the material at hand. It might have seemed, had anyone had knowledge of genetics, Nas’ frontal cortex, could not activate because it could not find within the brain, a gene to activate the action of straight and divisive ideas, new issues that might lead to future harmony, he did not have a warm flush to his appearance. Actually the young ones now standing about were showing a preference for the teachers thinking of becoming like him, like them. Not even given the respect of looking back at the elders; completely in agreement with the new thinking, a new stability for them—perhaps something leading to something bigger.
It was a fact, pert near all the host had been of one mind, until the integration—how this all came about they didn’t know, but in truth, everyone does want to fit in, and so the old ones, silently agreed, to stop their complaints for change, this all was something exciting and desirable for the young ones.
“All right,” said Nas “let it be as you wish, even if it is not so good.”
The one behind Nas, the one that said “Argh,” and we now shall call him ‘Agro’ for short, said frowning, holding up his right hand, “Back up, this is the way you want to live, no us,” embracing the shoulder of Nas, “You can’t make us belong to this new kind of thinking!” And although Nas wanted to agree and say that, he didn’t and for a good reason, he knew he was old, who would feed him, and Agro, was not young or old, and could feed himself for many years yet.
“I don’t want to fit in, I don’t want to be like everyone, I want to stand out, and I want to fight, argue…!” He felt safer by expressing his opinion, and Nas felt nearly everyone else didn’t agree with him, but he was still a good person, and he felt good by saying what he had to say, it made Nas uncomfortable not saying what he felt.
Agro, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the entrance of the cave, “I go, I think the way I think. No new surprises, no distress. In the world out there, nothing is changing, in here everything is. In here everyone wants to be comfortable, warm, happy, and friendly.” And his conversation babble on a while longer, just repeating in circles the same conversation (because of a limited vocabulary), until there were several others standing by him, a furious rebellion was taking place, in the end, Agro left with half the Neanderthals.

Only time would tell if this would turn out to be a genetic disorder, meaning, had all the Neanderthals left, perhaps there would not be a genetic anomaly in this scenario: it was this group that left, who no longer felt, desired to join the majority, conceivable this wasn’t a disorder, but the Neanderthals would die out, and this gene would be carried forward, and in future time have to be harnessed. These rebels were not of the like mined people, a potential genetic disorder, in time—so it would be called, from the people who felt independence from the surrounding majority, was in it, to be considered pathological behavior. Perhaps put into the category of compulsive behavior, surely not positive behavior. Of course this was a time sociability was not the norm, standards had not yet come into place, and although getting along was a necessity, it was not always the case, and surely in due time, extinction of the race would take place, in both species if one or the other didn’t change..
And so it became.


One Year Later


The old warrior died, a year later, after that meeting, no one knew what of, but he spiked a fever of over 105, and had there been a doctor on hand, he might have said there was a multiple organ system failure, he was sick for several days. This was in a way, a shattering experience for the group, he was the elder, and he had cared for the young ones, beloved by them, perhaps shown now more than before, as often it is. He was during those last months a little ray of sunshine, whenever he came into the cave. Somehow he felt he had to take the risk of being more a part of the group, than being head of the group, if that was what they wanted. They wanted a new life, how then could he deny them the chance, so he told himself, and he put his hands onto the wall, and the Tall One, painted around his fingers and hand, and they told the old man, “We are sending this handprint to the future, people will see it, what does that tell you?”
Nas, sighed. And soon after that event, his liver shut down, his body swelled, turned into a gray color. And he stopped breathing. It took him days to die. They gave him a moment of silence.
This was—for the most part—a most hazardous and pioneer stage for mankind, an era that had to be passed; an outrageous era indeed, but a courageous time in the undocumented scriptures of humankind, a time individuals had to take risks, like the Tall One, and all the rules from the past were broken. As the Tall One thought, ‘What greater punishment would his sons and daughters face, had he not drawn those first pictures on the cave walls,’ it now would lead into ethical rules. Perhaps he saw in the old man’s eyes, pain and hope; whatever the case, he would not stand in judgment of him that was for sure, not like Agro was. Agro had created the concept of: them and us. Although with the old man gone, the cave was now quiet.

The Cro-Magnon
The New Gene



The Tall One, something took place within his grandchild, a single strand of DNA, and with a more condensed structure, showed up, unavailable to the normal cell. Why did it change, or how did it come about. Perhaps the someway everything comes about. Had someone had access to inject new cells into him? Of course not, but it happened nonetheless, and it was bound to be important, and The Tall One, saw something in all this. We may fill in the gaps later, but from the standing point of the Tall One, mankind as he knew it, could smile on the future, “I, uh…” he commented to his little grandson, he had inherited his changes, plus, something had taken place within his grandchild’s system, it was as if a gene had switched off to enhance the working of another gene itself, that then separated itself from those genes around it.
How was all this possible? It was like there had been a hidden force above the clouds, struck with boredom and wanting mankind to reach a certain stage faster, so they could come down and play longer, a certain species, race perhaps, thinking early man was no more than pet. Thus, they were home-rearing the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnons, to a more intelligential species, to have a greater capacity to become more than a mere human primate, beyond the chimpanzee stage, they had now mastered one-hundred words, what was long in coming, was now coming faster and faster (perhaps something lost, now regained). Indeed, his grandchild would need more stimulation then he, and become the guardian, and heir of something grander in the scheme of things.
The grandchild had begun talking early on, taken out of that old solitary confinement state that lasted year after year after year and he quickly learned his one-hundred word vocabulary, and started naming others things, to build that vocabulary to 150-words.
At first it was an observation, now it was a reality. One of the things The Tall One had learned from his grandson was ‘self awareness’ he recognized himself, in the reflection of water, it was a mirror, as the boy had pointed out one early morning, splashing water and looking and splashing and then the Tall One wanted to see what exactly he was looking at, only to find out, he was looking at himself. And it seemed to him, that was exactly that. And now he gave him a specific name, Owl, for he stared into nothingness, like an owl on a branch, but the boy was always thinking.


Owl’s Manual


The Tall One had died, and Owl was now a full grown person, he had built his vocabulary to five-hundred words, he had trouble with verb tenses, but he had nobody to teach him, he repeated his new words—and his kind grew stronger in linguistics, and there was of course no one to say he was in error. Owl’s assistant, his helper in teaching his kind symbols and language, he called Rove, because he had found him wondering in the open plains, brought him home, he had been of the tribe that branched out from the long dead, Agro—he seemed to have a different dialect, but was aware of many things, as someone had taught him on the side, the things the Tall One, was teaching his horde, with it, one might have even thought, Rove, was a transgenic, a hybrid, from those aliens behind the clouds, he was sharper than Owl, and Owl was amazed at the promptness he could put things together. Would the teacher soon be taught by the student? Man was developing and his genetic pool was enlarging at the same time.
There were these splits that were taking place, and very rapidly, not over millions of year either as one might expect, these genetic differences were evolving rapidly, in hereditary terms, perhaps within a ten-thousand year period, realizing ordinary such changes would take longer, but sexual preference can and did produce rapid genetic change; that is to say, from one stage to the other for humanity’s sake; between the Chimps or apes, and the Neanderthal, and perhaps the same between the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon (in a like manner, it would seem once looked at closely, and perhaps more sensed than understood: the world, the earth I mean and all living things on the earth and the earth itself or the planet, shares an fundamental agreement with all life around them, we are all more polarized—to one another than we think, genetically and nature wise. And this sharing goes back thousands of years. )


Interlude


If you could have talked to Rove, who would become in time the wise leader of both sects, his home had been near the Black Sea, and Owl’s from the French European side, and if you could read his symbolism on those cave walls, it all would have given you a familiar story, one they lived—but could not express fully, that their ancestors roamed these areas 24,000 BC, ten-thousand years before them, and lived a very long time in rock shelters, they might admit they were homo sapiens in the making and Neanderthals of the past; but they’d had preferred to be called, early humans, that it took a long while to get to this stage perhaps because of the infections and battles they had with one another, this, trouble with fused vertebrae in their necks, coming from traumatic injuries, and the adult females lived with skull fractures, and perhaps a little mental retardation. Owl, and Rove, was learning they would never live to tell their story, so they handed it down to their children, put it on the walls, and in creating tools and weapons. There structure was similar to Metazoans (animals in general), and if one was to push it, perhaps not much different than humans and aliens, you know, those beings behind the clouds—whatever, and whomever they were, and whatever they were doing, and maybe they were working on experiments, who’s to say, a little genetic narrowing in regions in addition to regions that explicitly code for protein, and if one could regulate these, modify them, use as a pattern in creating a smarter species—it would help evolution out—push it forward at an excessive speed.
The question comes up, or may come up, or perhaps did come up at this juncture if indeed there were these beings behind the clouds, if they really were trying to produce, or enhance the human species, could they hybridize to be made human-zee. In other words, could they put on the shell of the human body, to live in breathe-breathing, oxygen world like humans, especially, if they themselves could live thousands of years? Were they trying this? Trying to create a better human being and then insert their genes directly into them, or into an embryo, that would produce a child like them. Beings that could not have children: a dying race?



Rove’s Legacy


So now they had communication, and a tinge of language, the genes of speech were intact, and the voice box had been for a very long time, simply inactive. All this seemed to be happening over night, someone knew something, and Rove knew someone knew this something he didn’t know about him and his race, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, but he looked in the sky a lot, saw things that looked suspicious—what he didn’t know was that some genes are activated environmentally inside of humans, which activate other genes when activated, thus the worm remains a worm, yet is not all that different genetically than man; put a different way, there are multiple coding sequences involved. But he knew somebody was up yonder, looking down, but who could it be, and what were they up to?



Saber-tooth Tiger



Owl had grown very old, and all those before him had died, now walking outside his cave, a saber-toothed tiger, leaped—seemingly out of nowhere—leaped upon him, bit his head off, chewed his flesh as he kicked about, and Rove could hear the crunching of bones.
The natural world was still alive, hungry, although the attacks were less frequent and the large cats no longer roamed freely like they had at one time—some fifteen-thousand years prior (an end of another age), leaving in the memory of all (genetically perhaps) that they brought man to his knees, at which time, mankind came to the edge of extinction (perhaps 2000-of his species left)—long, long ago—but for the most part, they were normal attacks still.


The Legend &
Legacy (The Great Gap)



Advance: starlight: a man can see by starlight, just as well as by moonlight, if he takes the time and now man was about to experience this: that is, a change in light, a change, perhaps a transgenic change, the idea was to introduce a new trait, not that anyone in particular wanted it to happen, but now was the time for it to happen if indeed it was going to take place at all. Environmental conditions were changing. This was to be the new image for mankind, a richer one perhaps, and more critical, more reliable; consequently, new genes would flow through the new now generations, and into darkness this new intelligence would take this new opportunity, to advance: and with the old Neanderthal and new cultivated intellectual genes, a more crude and cultureless people came about, drifted deeper into the labyrinth of ruin. Evils became ingrained over time, saturated the earth’s environment.


Fortress and Citadel of the East


There was now to be, a great disturbance, a king from the east, had started a legend, of a man who talked to the clouds, and the man in the clouds, talked back, and rumor said, he was in the lands of where the roots of the old Sumerian kings once ruled, and he sent out men to find this place, yet he could not, this was King Dadasig, of the second dynasty of Kish, who ruled 201-years. The population during those far-off days, let’s say, at about 8700 BC, was perhaps close to one million, a thousand years more, at 7200 BC, Jordon would boast 120,000 population, and at the Great Flood between 4500 to 3600 BC, perhaps nine-million. But at this juncture what was taking place was this: a new form of human had been created, one that showed all the signs of a highly intellectual individual, one that walked in harmony with nature and its creator, talked to the animals. In a location (now, Iraq), no one could find, yet it would seem in their own backyard. And then it came to pass, this location became desolate, and the two who came out of it, the female and the male, split up for 130-years, and she gave birth to a new generation, and so did he, and so did their offspring, thus, a new hybrid of human was in the makings, what took place outside of that location, produced inside those early humans, a master gene, that would in time, enhance every embryo on earth. It would be, the legacy of those two humans, yet there was a pure bloodline also. This was the legend that the king was after, and its legacy, he could never quite put his finger on.


But as time went on:


The Watchers
And the Giants
(or those behind the Clouds)


There came also a time—thereafter, when this gene pool was again infected—a few more thousand years down the road, when those beings behind those clouds came down to earth, genetically put on flesh: how they did this is still in question, and mingled with earth’s inhabitants—cohabitating with the human females. This produced deformed beings, half human, and half supernatural, giants, and animalistic looking creatures, they even mingled with animals: aliens in flesh. If we were to look at historical documents, we could proceed to review the books of Enoch, read the old scriptures of Gilgamesh, go to the land known as the Plateau of Bashan, where King Og, once ruled the last of the Rephaim, and its Giants. To each legend, if one looks deep enough, he or she will find where the truth resides. Giant human bones have been found, so this is no mystery, and aliens seem not to be so far fetched nowadays, it’s all unfolding in front of us, no more of the hush, hush dilemma that it once was. We seemingly just can’t put the finger on anything, although our focus is getting better. But whatever the case, these beings infected again the inhabitants of earth, and the earth rejected this, and that fellow, who did all the talking from the clouds, was no longer talking to anymore to anybody other than a few select prior to His Great Flood, which was soon to take place, that wiped out nearly the whole human race, although there were those that were left—of what nature I don’t know, but left for what, to perhaps show those who came from the loins of Noah, and King Og, humanity was taking a new turn.





Pre Adamic
(They were who they were)


The split between the old Neanderthal and the new Neanderthal, came about 90,000 BC (which produced today’s modern homo sapiens), as the Cro-Magnons came into existence between 27, 000 to 23,000 BC, whereupon, another split took place. But if we were to go back to the Pre Adamic age, the age where another race came to its end, and at that point gave birth to the Neanderthal, that would put the face of man, back onto the earth—oh, not like it was, but similar, we must go back to perhaps 600,000 to 350,000 BC, who’s to really say. But something took place back then, something nobody has been able to explain completely, total. But had you talked to those walls, picked up those bones, listened to the legends, you might have come up with, the truth, and perhaps it went something like this: somewhere in the past man had built a kingdom, perhaps pleural, it was the Pre Adamic age, actually, it was just before that age, because after that age, is when a degeneration took place among the living beings on earth, a collapse, which produced the Neanderthal. Before this, the brain of man was much larger, as we see in the Neanderthal vs. modern man.


The Mask and the Sword


There were kings of the earth back in those long forgotten days, 241,198 BC, the first being Alulim, then Alagar, and Enmeenluanna, and there was a great flood in those days, and kingship was send down form on high, a being that was light, and controlled half the solar system, thus, he controlled earth, until he tried to take control of the Universe, and then all the kings that were before him, and after him were cursed, into morbid despondencies, to roam the earth in hopelessness. Death was not yet created, as we know it; and those who did die physically, lived in an invisible mist, and called ghosts, until, the great Gap, the legacy.



The Present:

Awakening from the Dream
(Lee Maverick)





Tamarind, of Ushuaia



When Lee Maverick woke up from his sleeping and dreaming mode, he stood up, Sandra had left, and he saw Tamarind coming around the corner of the blanket, swinging her purse, her cheeks were chilled from the outside winds, likened to red apples. Over her shoulder her girlfriend, Sandra stood and smiled, Tamarind said with a smile, “You’ve been sleeping for several hours,” her face was flushed, and a few of the other girls were pacing as if they were on a cow path in the large room. “I was afraid to wake you up,” she said, she even looked younger than Sandra. Now Sandra was walking slowly backwards. The whole world seemed to be caving in on Lee, and for that matter, everyone, and here he was having sex, and about to have more with everyone around the fire in the center of the room.
No one tried to stop Tamarind; you could hear the winds coming in from the west, for the Tierra Del Forgo Mountains, down into the Drake Passage, and Cape Horn. He didn’t know what Tamarind was going to do, she came to him slowly, as he laid back down, she jumped over him, he pushed the blanket aside, and she was certain she could hear his heart beating, she was a bit frightened, not quite knowing what to do, but trying to pretend she did.
His breath was becoming slower she noticed, as he rose and fell, her body trembling, as was her lips, but then it all stopped.
“Please don’t keep your body so rigid,” said Lee Maverick to her.
She continued looking at him wile he tried to make love to her, trying to think of something to tell her. “I’ve got to be with you,” she said, “I know that,” clutching the mattress tightly.”
“Should I stop?” he asked.
“No, I can’t let you do that,” she replied. She turned her head as if to look around the blanket covering both of them, hanging over a rope in the big room, to see if any of her girlfriends were watching, and said nothing as there was a deepening feeling inside of her.
“Actually, I have been waiting for several hours thinking about this,” she released her hands staring at Lee, into the darkness of the room, “I know this will be short, but I want to remember it, please kiss me.”
“Please,” she begged, “please,” but Lee Maverick had already been kissing her; she was lost into the ecstasy of the moment. She was running swiftly with her feelings. Lee could force her to stop, it was for humanity, this event was taking place, but why stop he told himself, if he didn’t he wouldn’t know what to say to her. And he did not mind so much the pleasure, even if it was simply immediate-gratification, and no more than that.



End



And God said to Enoch, “Write all this down, all you have seen in your visions, all human history, for a remembrance!” And Enoch did as he was told, he wrote this all down in 365 books, and told the story of mankind from his beginning to its end, in detail, and that was that. And these books are kept in a secret place, for future reference.




No: 712 (11-08, 9, & 10-2010)

Fargo-Moorhead (Author: Dennis L. Siluk publishes new book)

Fargo-Moorhead

(Author: Dennis L. Siluk publishes new book)

Author Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., who used to visit the Fargo-Moorhead area quite often in the 1980s, remembers when he published his first book, and the Fargo-Moored Sunday Forum, did a little announcement on the book, 1982:

From his Biography: "The Other Doork" by, Dennis Siluk, his first book:

“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”—The Sunday ForumFargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]

The author now has published his 45th book, "Stone Heap of the Wildcat" at bn. com; Amazon.com; abe.com and most all internet book dealers.

By Rosa Penaloza

"Next" by Michael Crichton (review)

“Next” by Michael Crichton



This is the last book published by Mr. Crichton while alive, and perhaps his most meaningful. Having said that, let me explain: it has provoked controversy, especially by the biotechnology industry, whom seem to be complaining about Crichton exposing whatever he’s exposing in this area—, perhaps they are truths of the industry, or half truths, but why are they upset, they don’t say in particular. On the other hand, Congress has passed two new bills (to be laws; if they are not already) because of this book—in that same area. It is obvious; Crichton sees the biotechnology industry as the bad guys, as well as many Universities, and hospitals affiliated with them. He explains how some professionals in this area are quite careless—reckless might be the better word, and how they activate cancer cells in you, by infecting you with other genetic material—funny now that I think of it, he died of Cancer.

Mr. Crichton, being a Medical Doctor himself, and having schooling beyond that, explains this new technology, with many characters, animals, all having an interesting story behind each one. This uncanny criminal practice that he implies is happening around us, this multi billion dollar industry, the culprit, to a high degree is in cahoots, with world governments, in particular, the American government, where laws in this area are few and in-between (much less than other countries), along with minimal laws to protect the public.

It is a great read and the best I’ve read by any contemporary writer in the last few years. But God help us all, if those half-truths become reality in the near future, or are now in the present: actually he says 600-people have thus far died because of this industry’s neglect. And that is perhaps only the top of the iceberg, those he can point fingers at.

Funny, only USA Today, gave Mr. Crichton a good review from the ten or so I’ve read on this book: “Next” perhaps it is because…oh well, read the book, you’ll understand; it’s worth the time.

The Bulls of Bashan ((reedited, revised edition; 11-2010)

The Bulls of Bashan


(A prophetic Poem)

“I am the punishment God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”





Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
hree Time Poet Laureate




The Bulls of Bashan
(A prophetic Poem)
Copyright © 2010, by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.



I


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”



Tartarus,
home to the
Angelic Renegades,
the dark abode
of torment,
torture and agony!

Given to those who
left their first abode,
who shed their house
from heaven—,
That heaven gave,
for flesh and skin,
to cohabitate
with earthly women,
who gave birth to those Giants of Old,
called the Nephilm
and Rephaim—
in those far-off days,
in the time of Noah,
whose sons
worshiped
at the Circle of Rephaim:
Stone Heap
of the Wildcat!

The very ones
to be released
from Tartarus,
cast into the end-days

((that everlasting place
of woe and darkness;
now restraint in chains
only to return
to get revenge—
the angelic renegades)
(here they wait,
in that pit of darkness
with their sons of old—
the Bulls of Bashan,
and the demonic foe))



II


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”


These giants
of old
were bold:

Greek Titans,
partly celestial,
partly
terrestrial;
these were the Nephilim,
the Star People—
the ghosts,
the spirits,
the dead ones,
the Bulls of Bashan…
and
the Lord cried:
“The Bulls of Bashan…
have weighed down
my earth…”

(says He
who speaks
in Psalms).



III



“And then I saw the Legs
of mud” said Daniel.

And they were of miry clay—
made of dust,

And there the world was,
without boundaries
Global terrorism—
nuclear proliferation,
a cosmic threat,
a new world order
a new horizon.

Don’t be surprised,
the Nephilim are alive.

They, they are
the men of miry clay
(the dead
that once
were of heaven’s abode,
the old,
the cold ones,
returning
mixing with iron…
to no resolve).



IV



Like in the days
of Noah!
(From the roots
of Gaza, and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
were left to fight…)
and now,
comes again,
this beast!
And the Trinity
cries in Psalms,

“The kings of the earth
are against us…
how silly can they be!”

O somehow
they
aim to throw
off the shackles
of God—
an unpalatable
disappointment—

“It is because the Rephaim
will not be resurrected,”

says Isaiah
in those far-off days—

“…and so it shall be
soon, as it was
in the days of Noah!”

(From the roots
of Gaza,
and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
will come to fight.)

“So shall the end-days be…”

reiterates Jesus.

What on earth
did He mean?

The return
of the
Angelic Renegades:
look
into the window
for their illumination,
the enormous window
of everyday life
(look for Zeus—the
False Gods are coming),
the hologram:
that was,
and will be,
the three
dimensional map
for us earthly beings,
the “B’nai Elohim’
this hard cold breed
of angelic beings,
the Nephilim—
are on the rim
of earth
ready to integrate—
the world at large.

And the Lord cries out:

“Your gods are here…!”

They illuminate:

And the Lord cries out:

“Man appointed mortal sorrow;
but the blessed God shall come
down, teaching and shall the
despair rest and be comforted.”

So do not fear,
but pray,
and pray hard.

And to all those
who profit
by death,
stare into forever
for God has sent
this:


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”




V


And
there shall be
no order
out of chaos.
And God does not need
America
to protect Israel,
(or anyone.)


Cascading
all the shadows cascading,
the New World Order
becomes restless,
and that means
no more Jesus,
and that means,
now more America,
and Moscow,
and Iran,
and Jerusalem,
and the yoke
the White House shredded,
powerless,
the White House
become thin:
in an angry world,
the President,
an instrument
of God—
to be used for man’s
wickedness,
to initiate his plight.

Says Nostradamus:

“(Your American President)
he is in prophecy—you see,
the Last King of the South
to be: the Great Power,
who came from the dark
side of slavery.”

As people
were drawn to Hitler,
so they will be
drawn to Him,

“…but be aware of the power
given the Dark One:”

says Nostradamus—
the Antichrist
is near…!

He is
possessed
by those hierarchical
spirits

which can descend
into
any ordinary mortal—

a common
fleshy
unsanctified man.

Says Timothy:

“In the last days these will be
very different times:
for people will love
only themselves…
money.
They will be boastful
and proud, scoffing at God…
ungrateful. They will
consider nothing
sacred…
unloving and unforgiving…
they will betray their own
friends…puffed with pride…
stay away from people
like them! They are
the kind…they have depraved
minds and a counterfeit
faith…”

Thus,
the leopard
comes up out
of the sea
((Obama) (USA))

last king
of the south.

He will provoke Russia,
WWIII;

look in the
Book of Revelation,
Chapter Thirteen.

“And
I stood upon the sand
of the sea,

and I saw
a beast
rise up out
of the waters…

the name was
blasphemy”

(the rise of the
Antichrist)

And all
I could remember,
and I smiled
remembering:

“Thou shalt break them
with a rod of iron;
thou shalt dash them
in pieces like a potter’s
vessel.” (Says the Lord)




Notes: references: Jude 6; 2 Cor. 5:2; Josephus Flavius; 2 Peter 2. 4, 5, Testaments of the 12 Patriarchs; Traditional Rabbinical Literature; Psalms 22; Revelation 11; Psalms 2:1-3 (The Trinity); Reference to angelic beings “B’nai Elohim”; the Septuagint (written by 70-scholers, in Alexander, Egypt, 15-years to write, Old Testament into Greek Language (see: Genesis 6:1-2 Bene HaElohim “Sons of God” referring to angels, the fallen ones the Nephilim, born of the earth, and the hybrids, their offspring); 1 John 11 and 12; Job 1:6; Luke 20; Obama reference to Revelation 12:1; Tartarus, in Greek means hell, a dark abode of woe. Poem No: 2772 (Written 8-8-2010) Revised in style, 11-2010.

The Penguin Poem

The Penguin Poem


I said to the person inside of me:
What is this connection you want to make?
There are no equals in the entire world, on any road I’ve yet travelled, and I’ve travelled many.
Do you see anyone moving, acting, likened to the father or
mother penguins, as on Magdalena Island (Chile), or Antarctica?
There are no written rules, or code of conduct, or ten-commandments, no oath to take, and no one to impress, no policeman at their door (and they live during child bearing, in the cold hard dirt holes of Patagonia; or in the cold winds hitting their backs, and no holes for shelter, only ice barcodes they might find, in the Antarctic). There is no warm skies, or ground, just cold waters nearby, all around (some far, some near), no time to bake bricks or trees to cut down for wooden homes, no money in the bank, no cars, just little feet, and little flippers, to get from here to there.

And there is nobody to help them, and no human mind to devise something that will make their lives
less burdensome.
In that great absence you will find them, doing what they’ve been doing a long time, ten-thousand years or more: the males and the females gather around a big meeting area, in the Antarctic cold and ferocious winds, look about for females as they look about for them, as they come and select their boa, hatch an egg, and then the husband, takes care of the egg, as the mother finds her way to find for them food! Then returns, and takes her newly born child, and after awhile, they go off, back to the—now—thawing sea, the opened ocean, leave them standing there to be on there own—which in time they’ll leap into the ice cold waters, and thus, start the 10,000-year cycle all over again. Thereafter, in all likelihood, they may never see one another again, but I’m sure if they do, they’ll be most grateful, and more than friends.

“Be strong,” they silently say to their offspring, “and enter into your own life, and leave something behind!” (Knowing they’ll do all they can, and in this new world of theirs they’ve got to be on their own, and strong.)
Think about this carefully!
Don’t go off and say big deal!

The Penguins say this: just throw away all the gifts in one’s life, all the
things your mind can imagine,
and stand firm in that which you were created for.

No: 2811 (11-6-2010)

Writing with Poetry and Prose

Writing Poetry, Prose
And Poetic Prose



In writing books of poetry mixed with prose, there are reasons I do what I do, more than a reason, a goal—let me explain: the poet is usually able to transcend the particularities of a story, without writing a story, which poetry being of many elements, one is that it is a story, in essence a very short story, one that I end up questioning and stretching out in my own personal life—and trying to find the human nature in that part of life: if that makes sense. In short, psychology and philosophy and economic conditions and political issues are all mingled with profound reflections, imaginations, sometimes to make a point with complexity as I write (although I try to simplify things, so I do it with poetry and prose, instead of density and complexity)—at the same time, poetry cannot do certain things, so we must depend on something else, lest we be helpless at sea.

In this respect the short story, notes, articles (or perhaps even a novelette, or novel—and in my novels I’ve used poetry, in this case, just the opposite) or the variety of one or the other, must be written to take some of the attributes poetry cannot give, which will give the relations of man—or fill the gap for man along with: fate, imagination and his dreams that poetry cannot fill in its present form. It will take the mould of this odd form—the conglomeration of all this to give what the modern mind wants to give to the reader, or what my mind wants to give in the case of a number of books I’ve written. Therefore, this is why in many of my books I use—the precious prerogatives of poetry and prose, its freedom and flexibility to get the minutest fragments of mass through the subtle labyrinths to the reader.

Depending on your goal, a third thought, on why I do what I do. Too much time is wasted—for the reader in trying to figure out what the poet is trying to say or do—too often in poetry. Every bone in my body tells me this, and days and hours are precious. I am not sure what the world thinks of this ejecting of old rules for new aloof poetry with prose—or for that matter, poetic prose, and I suppose to be honest, I don’t give a hoot, as long as my poetry can easily fit—and naturally blend, change the reaching into the goals (or story) I wish to grow on solid ground—if that makes sense.

Poetic prose is the middle ground, different than poetry, in that it being different makes it what it is, poetic prose. Looking at it from a different perspective—and people have fought the idea of what exactly is poetic prose—in my simple terms, and perhaps an over suggestion, what poetry cannot deliver, poetic prose can; what prose cannot deliver, poetic prose can. Prose often times uses too much description (and a writer can go in circles—lose the reader’s focus), no longer effecting the reader, whereas poetry can, and poetry often times leaves out too much description, explanations, and tries to get its effect directly out of the emotional part of man, thus—again, having the reader pause, and losing him: the short cut in-between both these writing tools to me is poetic prose. There is a rhythm to poetic prose usually, intensity also, and more clarity than what we may call traditional poetry, and if the poet can, motion. And we have no limit on words, description, explanations, and one can use all the tools in the toolbox, a poet may want to use, likewise a prose writer.

An Ominous Sunset (a short story)

An Ominous Sunset
((or, “Eventide”) (Part one of II))




Chapter one
Eventide




“Fast falls the eventide—in the blood red twilight—the bleak night deepens, the demons creep closer—I go alone, no one to abide with me.”

—last spoken words of
Vargas the Seer



And so it was, this was the bleak weariness of the doomed man, bound for hopeless oblivion, in the underground continent called Amosodos—a land that come out of shrunken seas that had bound a forgotten race, for nearly ten-thousand years; the pre Adamic Race, that rebellious race that lived before and for a moment of time, alongside, that is: side by side with Adam’s Garden of Eden, so legend speculates, and in which it arises to this very day in select groups. And where time has little meaning, it is a land of nothingness, one of the 72-deaths, appointed to mankind, and the only one deemed for the sorcerer direct, where dishonor and abomination for him by the human race, is beyond understanding. Hence, this is the edge where the old man stood, and there after a short time, Amosodos appeared out of nowhere, and opened its crumbling gates for his departure, for eternal solitude, this was assigned him, this was the land of near total night, with only blood red twilights to entertain. A land of shadows and shapes, a land where just a few select went, a special group, the sorcerers, and necromancers. The most merciless and evil who practiced their art, which were incapable of not hurting mankind, obsessed, oppressed, with the art, addicted to its punishing whims. Vargas the Seer, devoted every God given minute to the practice of the art of magic, he had no peers, no equals. Here he could not hurt any human or earthly living thing—here he could use his art fully with no harness, his ebon wand could be used likened to loose cannons, here he would meet his equals, and those beings from before the advent of earthly time, the time.
These were not resurrected beings, nor quite demonic either, they had never died—death was not created until after the advent of Adam, and his expulsion from the Garden; nor were they ghosts, they were not of the same kind of soul of man; consequently, Vargas the Seer was assigned to a lawless land, a tomb in essence, a big tomb, that disappeared as mysteriously as it appeared, and there he stood on the edge of this platform, about to be pushed over onto this dark continent, with its ever swelling population. And then he used his magic wand…



Chapter two
Amosodos


As he took his first step onto the continent called Amosodos, his wand, turned into a snake that bit him, and he dropped it, then he looked at the pageant of faces, supposedly live captives like him, whom he had thought were dead emperors, and empresses, and war mongrels, and presidents and even holy men, did they survive their death to live among this immense judgment? The snake followed him like a pet dog.
The closer he got to these people, he could see their bodies looked more like plague-eaten corpses, evidently, their bodies dying, but they still had to live in them: their loose flesh, similar to rags piled one over the other, until another judgment of mankind came about; so he would soon discover. What little sun they had, it was pert near dead. Those who were fairest, were the newest, those most ravaged had lived here the longest, and perhaps overmuch necrophilia lust.


Chapter three
Vargas the Seer


By and large, it was a different kind of land; they all spoke one language, moved slow, ate and drank as in life, what they could find, even dirt, grass, and yes, insects and rats and all sorts of morbid looking creatures; it was that or starve to near death, endure the agonizing of hunger, but they could not die. They all looked water-drenched, sluggish, dreadfully so, from the rising and sinking of the continent, perhaps weekly. Everyone’s brain was enthralled with the possessiveness of magic, but it did them little good. What was evident, after a few days for Vargas the Seer, was that: people wished for eternal sleep, another of the 72-deaths assigned to mankind, or for their passion and desire and delight to be taken from them, their addiction, only to find out, no matter where you go after death, you carry with you your old habits and character, your nature. The other longing was to return to the wakening world, the earth mother, the surface. But Earth could no longer take them—deal with them, they were too destructive; nor could the human race, or the beastly species on her surface. Consequently, there was no other place for them.
He noticed among the spectators the spirits of: Updike, Monson, Van Gogh, C. Sibyl, and J. Smith. C.A. Smith, H.P.L., E.A. Poe., S. King, and Mrs. Oakes Smith, and Odin (among the others): somehow they had a window into this world, but where were they?
Vargas took resentment for whomever allowed these spirits into his new realm, to observe him like a rat, he was demanding his rights, of all things. His so called irretrievable rights he left beyond. For, nonetheless, he still had his pride. And he started to create a revolt, a ghostly one if anything, and created resentment against the observers. It was something new for the horde of seers. Perhaps it was a way to avoid the pain of his new earth-shattering state of affairs, to bring about mockery of those who allowed the spectators into the hidden window.
Day by day he watched those shadows behind this large window that allowed the observer to see all corners of the continent, “It is crudity,” proclaimed Vargas the Seer. He stood by the big window, and could hear them drinking, their drunkenness and gluttony, as he stumbled in his formidable spells that raised no more attention than a whisper among his comrades, or an eyebrow lift.

Then after his so called fit of protest and anger—and a month’s time, he went unheard—forward, with no glaring eyes, or clotted blood, forward, not looking back, he turned about into a tranquil silence, with no further need of words to his doom—he knew it, he went wearily to see the blood red sunset, it was the only entertainment left in this night labyrinth continent, except for its untarnished rising and sinking.

No 704 (10-31-2010)




The Virulent Vault
((or, “Zeedmev of Venus”) (Part II, to “An Ominous Sunset”))


Zeedmev of Venus, a great sorcerer who had been at Amosodos since the first Century A.D., who had claimed to have been abandoned on earth eons ago, had learned—remembered more like it, the foretold forbidden knowledge of the Old Ones, the angelic beings who were cast down from the clouds, in the time of Enoch, he learned of the 72-deaths, in particular, the 71st; he was now living in the seventy-second—Amosodos. The seventy-first, was that of eternal sleep. He had forgotten, but now remembered its formula, and that it had to be chanted during the orbital flight of Sedona, a comet—that circled two solar systems—while over Earth’s surface, adjoining the spell; it passed every twenty-years.
“Do not despair Vargas the Seer,” said Zeedmev, having seen him now for several months mopping about this hidden and ambiguous continent called Amosodos, “There is a way out for you.” Vargas’ eye-lids opened-up wide, stopped blinking, “With the aid of an old astrologer—friend of mine, Amanas of Glastonbury, I can estimate when the comet Sedona flight over the Earth and the Drake, where our submerged landmass resides, I will then promulgate my powers, to the 71st Death, with a spell so powerful, your body will release its soul, and it will go into eternal hibernation: an eternal sleep, it is called the Red Spell, although there is some ambiguities with my science, knowledge and spell enchantments that I may not be able to resolve, it is a chance for you, to have a new death—I prefer it here, but I know you don’t. And for this reason I give you the chance of death, I will request of you something although.”
“And what might that be?” asked Vargas.
“To be a devoted slave, servant to me, to use your magical art as I tell you to; in essence, I will be your ruler for twenty-years, when Sedona is upon us, I will release you and bestow my gift onto you.”

The deal was made, in the dark-ash colored oblong, Virulent Vault where all the poisonous snakes gathered, and where those who had secrets to tell, met, a meeting place of sorts.

It was with a sad heart Vargas accepted, and was quickly branded with Zeedmev’s initials on his forehead, to show one and all, he was purchased. And thus, he worked and waited anxiously those twenty-years: watching newly arriving seers and sorcerers making their homes into this realm-less, and sorrowful kingdom, of terrestrial lost souls. Too sorrowful for tears and constant mocking from the demonic beings, those idiotic wide nostril beasts from a time long lost to man’s memory.

Now the comet had set over Amosodos, over its submersion grave, in the deepwater’s of Antarctica— and as Zeedmev was midway into his chanting, and Vargas the Seer, was there spellbound awaiting his death to be, midway through the chanting, the essence, the soul of Zeedmev seeped slowly out of his fleshly frame, and what was left of his body, its corpse like body, had fallen like a rug on the ground, withered into a coil like form, and evaporated into nothingness. Who died? With mouth wide open Vargas was dumbfounded. Zeedmev had the last hurrah. And then slowly Vargas went on his way—knowing again, he was helpless.


Note: 10-31-2010 (No: 705)

The Suicide Way-house ((A short story)(Parts I,II,& III))

The Suicide Way-house

((or, “Going On!”)(Part I of III))



“You can’t go back, no way, therefore you must go on, go on with pathetic eagerness, if you must, if that’s what it takes! But go on you must…” said Old Miss Wayfarer, giving the young woman a helpless look, a forever look on her face.
“I want to go back,” she said. “I left my little girl in the car all alone.” Annabelle Hague had seemingly stumbled upon the wayside motel (the sign read although ‘Way-house’), how she came upon it, she didn’t know, and Old Miss Wayfarer boldly and frankly said, “Mercy, suicides can’t go back, you all seem to travel alone, and your little girl will be taken care of, don’t worry about her, she’ll be fine, they always are. They all want to go back when they get here. They’re all waiting to go back, how insane. So many of you folks stop here on your way, and I tell them like I’m telling you, you can’t go back, you can only go on, although sometimes the other ones commit suicide, to catch up with their loved ones, like you but that’s far and in-between, in all the time I’ve been here I’ve only seen a few like that. That’s the plain truth in a nutshell.”
Annabelle thought for a moment about what the old proprietress had said, “I can wait,” she told the old woman—“yes, that’s it, my daughter will catch up with me. I know she’ll want to join me, and when she comes she’ll have to know where I am, and if I go on, I’ll miss her, this is the first motel I’ve seen on the road. She’s just like me.”
“But you can see over by the hearth in the other room Mrs. Annabelle, I have a full house, please don’t ask to stay here and wait, just go on, that’s better for everybody.”
Annabelle had been looking over at the dozen or so guests, or perhaps by now they were residents, pacing to and fro from the hearth to the windows, looking into and out of the windows perhaps for their loved ones—their faces to appear, a glimpse into the future or beyond, and in the red hot flames of the fire—they looked. All having long hair, haggard looking, as if they’d been there for years. Annabelle had had a forlorn look on her face for a moment—when she had first arrive that is, but an all new expression had filled it now, hope!
“There, there now!” cried one of the voices by the hearth, she had looked into the fire, and thought she had seen a loved one.
“Perhaps now and then,” said the old lady, “they think they see a loved one, so they stick around the fire, or look out the windows, but I doubt they really do, but they all think they do, and they are afraid if they go on, they’ll never see them again. The seasons never change around here much, it’s seems always windy and cold.”
Truth or fiction, it didn’t matter to Annabelle what the old woman was saying, if there was hope, then that was better than nothing. Annabelle had formed a new composure, a new outlook, the old woman noticed, likened to all the others when they first heard someone say they saw some loved one from the past.
“Well,” said Annabelle, “it’s settled, I’m staying. If only for a little while, then I’ll go on, as you say I should, if you don’t mind.”
The old lady nodded her head ‘yes,’ knowing if she didn’t she’d be pestering her for eternity, although she was not please one bit, but once hope got a hold of the passerby’s, and they got to missing their loved ones, and regretted what they had done, there was no way of convincing them to go on, to go forward, they were in-between, and that is where most wanted to remain.
“Is there anything you’d like, Miss Annabelle?” she asked.
“Nah!” she said, as she hurriedly went to join the group pacing about the fireplace.

No 707/ (11-01-2010)





Old Miss Wayfarer
(Part II, to the “The Suicide Way-house”)




The old lady, Miss Wayfarer, dare not push Annabelle; she had been through a traumatic experience, and her existence would no longer be what she was accustomed to, this realization had to take place first, and sometimes it took baby steps with her fresh arrivals, sometimes it took years—meanwhile, you just wait for the adjustment…tell them to rest, especial for the child-like adults, who thought the sun followed them, or should. She knew this was different, that going on wasn’t necessary worse, but who’s to say it would ever get better for a person, for her, for Annabelle, I mean, she never talked about that, it wasn’t important for her—she didn’t know either, she always was careful to plan her words. Furthermore she know everybody, feared the unknown, and change was hard to adjust to. You know what I mean, people try to cling onto familiarity, and in the process create these new obsessions to linger about. But there she was, Annabelle, with the others now strolling about, scared of course, but she beamed, almost fatuously, as she looked deep around the fireplace. Then abruptly, Annabelle looked at the old lady, as the old lady was staring at her, just staring, feeling weightless, without force of any kind, no gravity to her body—it would have seemed to anyone else, the old woman was almost amused, that is, half in amusement, and half in disappointment, Annabelle accepted it as if she simply had too many guests, but the fact was, the old woman was not like her guests, and perhaps, if she could have, she would have, given an apology to Annabelle for that look, which was really a feebly laugh—no, not quite, perhaps something else, whatever, she broke off engagingly, that grin or feeble laugh—you see it all was a little upsetting for the old woman, there was something disarming about it all. And yet, obviously, she took on the responsibility—offering light, conversation, and shelter from the weather, to those passersby. You see they had been coming there for a long time, perhaps at first by accident, but now it was as if the once original road that went only one way, had a turnoff, at the Way-house. At first she hadn’t realized who these people were…what they were, the dead walking, looking, lost, the suicide-dead. By now, after all those years—stiffened by the reality of it all, and by the time they got to her place, having lost all their human substance, she just couldn’t say—“go on” and leave it at that, so that was how it came about, although she continued to tell them to “go on,” but she was one of those bleeding hearts you see, and just couldn’t slam the door in their faces. And since she lived alone, and no one else could see them, what harm would it do to lend a helping hand.

No 708/ (11-02-2010)




Going On!

(Part III, to the “The Suicide Way-house”)


Old Miss Wayfarer was never afraid of them, she knew they were harmless, why, they couldn’t move a thing, eat or sleep or for that matter, do much at all, and so to stick around was to her ridiculous! I suppose, that’s what bothered them the most, they were helpless to hurt themselves or anyone else, they were in essence no more than a puff of smoke, that sill held their past configuration of their bodies, but it was simple a picture, a loose form—that’s what she saw, that’s what they were, perhaps a little beyond a thought-form. She even came a few times to the conclusion, it was a lunacy of hers, but on the other hand, perhaps she was psychic…the other was too unbearable to live with, I mean, ill or feverish, that—was not something she wanted to come-in to play. People have a Sixth Sense, she told herself, and believed she had it. Anyhow, the rain and wind hit the windows, made a lot of noise, a wolf in the woods howled, the old lady started mumbling, uncanny like, “Poor things,” she said, “If only I could give them more information, they might up and leave.” She knew most had stayed—those over a year anyhow—stayed once they got over the shock of being dead—stayed because of the lack of information. The old lady smiled at her self, wondering if there were other Way-houses like hers. She looked complacently at the people by the fireplace, she was too old to keep this up she told herself. Between death and those haunting faces, and life on the other side of the coin, she often felt more dead than alive. Abruptly she opened up her door, glanced into the wild winds and snow that had started to fall onto the road, behind her looking at the assortment of people, hastily running from the window to the hearth, she started to walk out of the house and down the path, leaving her mansion, or the mansion, childlike, she turned looking back now and then, looking, saying to herself it was all an insane long, very long delusion, a mass psychodrama, by the ghosts—I mean, the suicide dead, she was for the most part exhausted from it all. She noticed that her guests, the guests, those folks in the assembly room, where the fireplace was, kept looking out the windows—not at her, only partially at her, but she had believed so firmly or perhaps she made herself believe, until it was natural, she was who she was. Her tone of voice turned to merriment, “What drew them all here?” she whispered to her second self, that hidden self deep in a person’s mind, then she giggled, she was no longer afraid of the cold, or the wind, or death, or anything, she was ‘going on…!’

No 709/ (11-03-2010)