This is a terrible
idea. Just terrible.
Our hero Simon Myth ignores Arturo’s
badgering commentary. Right now, he is fixated on crossing vector boson wires
with the gravitational microtubule compressor. He has unhinged a piece of
paneling inside his sphere, intent on rewiring The Corpus assignment channel.
“You really are a fuddy-duddy
sometimes, you know that?” Simon retorts casually while he aligns the helicase
converter along the nucleic acid phosphodiester backbone. He nods with
satisfaction. “That should do it.”
Should do
what exactly?
“Run a non-orientable Möbius band
through The Corpus’ messaging tube. That way, any assignments that may come my
way will just cycle around in an infinite loop until we get back.”
Don’t you
think THE Corpus already knows what’s going on?
Simon chortles dubiously. “Of course
the Source of It does! But, the outer factorial workings still functions like a
third-dimensional processing system. We’ll be back by the time they send an
Engineer out to make corrections, and we’ll figure a way out of this mess by
then . . . I hope . . . maybe.”
You’re
playing a dangerous game.
“Aw, come on! As an Architect, I’m
always having to deal with materiality. It’s not every day I get to stop by the
Nether Regions for visit.” If Arturo could sigh, Simon would probably hear it
right about now. He gives the silver animalistic skull handle a nice tap of
affirmation.
“We’ll be good,” he assures Arturo.
“This is going to be absolutely grand!”
He blinks his eyes in that particular
fashion and taps the cane three times, moving the wavelength particles around
him to the precise coordinates to the Gate of the Realm of the Dead.
~ ~ ~ ~
A tunnel of eyes. Death is like a tunnel of eyes, watching you
go down the drain until you’ve hit zero point. You become nothing. Blipped out
of existence. Past, present, and future . . . gone.
~ ~ ~ ~
Arturo is right. It is a game.
Allegory is the truest substance of all there is.
Simon Myth notices a wretch lounging
about at the Gate. His features are disagreeably gloomy, contrasting the
flashing bulbs and neon floating noodles parading around the vertical bars and
elegant designs of the wrought iron entrance to the Nether Regions. The man’s gray aspect looks up from his bleak
disposition to greet Simon.
“Pardon me, sir, but does a gentleman
mind sparing some change for a poor sot?”
“I’m sorry,” Simon checks his pockets.
“But, I only brought enough for myself. “
“No worries,” his forlorn expression
casting off into the desolate horizon. “Been here come two millennia, forgot me
change for the ferryman, I did. Nobody seems to bring enough for two, just for
themselves. Oh well, back to counting seconds again.”
Simon leaves the wretch to his
despondency. He walks up to the booth
and in the window is a charcoal colored man in a red and white pin-striped suit.
His eyes burn like hollow furnaces, a length of uncombed beard flowing down to
his gangly un-shoed feet. Simon hears the sonorous whistles of a calliope from
an unknown source.
“Step right up,” the man in the booth
twirls a curl into his moustache. “Step
right up! Two coin, just two coin to join to the Bizarre Bazaar!”
Hello,
Charon.
The man in the booth looks down at Simon’s
cane. “Arturo! Well, Hades’ horns, I can’t believe it! It’s been . . . what,
how many eons?”
Not
enough. Look, we need passage through. We
have business to attend to.
“Just two coin,” Charon looks back at
Simon, holding out his hand. “Two coin will get you in, fees include rides,
shows, and food. But, you have to leave the cane behind.”
“What?” Simon gasps. “I don’t think I
can do that.”
“Sure you can,” Charon glares at
Arturo. “Me and the skull’s got some unfinished business. Don’t we, Arty?”
It’ll be
okay, Simon. You can pick me up on the way out.
Charon motions with his fingers.
Begrudgingly, Simon pulls out two coins and places them in Charon’s hand. He
hands over his cane, giving Charon a stern glare.
“Oh, this is gonna be good, Arty! It’s
been so long!” Charon giggles mischievously.
Don’t
worry about me, Simon. Focus on the task at hand. You won’t need me anyway; the
Thrice-Great will guide you through.
“No kidding?” Simon turns and finds a
golden-skinned nude figure standing in the now-open Gate, his fair head adorned
with a winged cap. A tattoo of a caduceus decorates his bare torso. “Wow, I’ve
always wanted to meet you.”
“And now you have,” the figure’s voice
is soft and electric, like spring air before a storm. “I am the Thrice-Great
Hermes. Welcome to the Realm of the Dead, Simon Myth. How can I assist you?”
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
~ ~ ~ ~
Be sure to check out other Simon Myth epsiodes at: http://www.danielmoler.com/p/simon-myth-chronicles.html
Excerpts from my most published article "The Universal Heart" are in the latest book by shamanic author and psychopomp Ross Heaven: Cactus of Mystery: The Shamanic Powers of the Peruvian San Pedro Cactus. You can link to the book and purchase it on Amazon.com and it will be out soon on Kindle!
"The Universal Heart" details my first experience in a mesada with San Pedro. It has been published online, as well as in the hardcover magaiznes Indie Shaman and Sacred Hoop. To see the full article you can read it on Reality Sandwich online magazine: http://www.realitysandwich.com/universal_heart or here on The Deadalus Thread: http://www.danielmoler.com/2010/10/universal-heart-written-spring-2010.html.
Thank you Ross!
Read More ...
"The Universal Heart" details my first experience in a mesada with San Pedro. It has been published online, as well as in the hardcover magaiznes Indie Shaman and Sacred Hoop. To see the full article you can read it on Reality Sandwich online magazine: http://www.realitysandwich.com/universal_heart or here on The Deadalus Thread: http://www.danielmoler.com/2010/10/universal-heart-written-spring-2010.html.
Thank you Ross!
So, I joined a Facebook group that is supposed to be about bright people solving problems, trying find new ways to be conscious, or enlightened, or what-have-you. Though, recently I am experiencing mass disappointment, along with the majority of Facebook postings I've seen.
Case in point, a recent reply to me on a comment stream:
Now.....let's scrol UP UP UP to the top of this post and see what exactly it was I was criticizing and am getting flack for:
And so, boys and girls, my reaction:
Now, I like conspiracy theory as much as the next guy.....but come on! Though, this is a democracy. And we must respect ALL opinions (no matter how retarded) right? So, let the people decide! YOU GET TO DECIDE, who and what is this strange and illustrious creature called MADONNA???
Our hero Simon Myths notices the decorous picture resting modestly on the glass desk. He picks it up, fingers the floral engraved frame, and eyes the image: a family, nondescript, commonplace, beautiful. Two children in the foreground: one boy, one girl, both gleaming sunshine smiles and freckled faces. The mother is a knock-out blonde: a sensuous Renaissance face with pert eyes and full lips, glowing with the fullness and purpose of both mother and wifehood. The father: glasses, short-cropped lemon chiffon hair clean-cut and combed back. He is smiling, like the others. He is happy. Simon recognizes his own face looking back at him. His own reflection, a vestige as similar as a carbon copy, yet somehow different, somehow . . . alien.
“So, this is your family?” Simon Myth asks his double.
“It is,” the Simon double answers, collapsing on the leather sofa of his office, curled up in a blanket given to him by Hicks at The Cabana. “My wife Marcia, then Jack and Helena.”
“You named them after grandma and grandpa.”
“Yup,” the Simon double massages his scarred, aching head. He had cleaned up and showered in an apartment the group assumed to be Rhino’s, in the back of the diner. Most of the grime and charring soot—once cleaned off—showed that he wasn’t as mutilated as he first seemed to Simon and the others. Though, he was fairly beaten and bruised, and his hair singed, just not dreadfully so. He fingers his burnt scalp. “Marcia’s gonna freak about my hair.”
“I’m sure she’ll just be happy you’re safe,” Simon sets the picture back down, a tink on the glass table-top. He scans the office, lined with bookshelves on one side full of reports and portfolios and books on object-oriented technology and mainframe engineering. The other wall sports a wall of modern art—a Boccioni as well as one of Larionov’s Rayonisms—along with certificates of degrees and achievements framed and mounted with impeccability. In the middle of the office is a burgundy leather sofa which the Simon double is laying in, with a glass top coffee table in front of it, a bar full of gin and bourbon, and a glass top desk looking out of a great bay window. Sunshine pours in through the panes, generating giant ribbons of orange luminescence painting the air.
“Do you have a family?” the Simon double asks. “Back where you’re from?”
“No,” Simon scans the desk nonchalantly. Picture frame, flat screen computer, one clean note pad and pencil, and a desk phone. The work station is spotless. “I mean, well . . . I did, at one time. But, not anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no! Don’t be! It’s all good, Simon. It’s all good.”
Simon looks out the window. A panorama of jutting steel towers populate the skyline. They are so numerous, so full and menacing, they populate every square inch of what Simon can see, all the way back through the horizon. A blanket of shit-brown smog looms over everything. Obviously one of the more populated places in the world, Simon assumes.
“Is this . . .”
“Sãn Paulo, yeah,” the Simon double answers. “I work for an IT firm; we got a contract in Brazil, with the BM&F Bovespa . . . the Sãn Paulo Stock Exchange. We moved here a couple years ago. It’s been good for us, you know. I mean, I’m really bringing in the bacon. It’s like the eighth largest stock exchange in the world, and growing, and we do their entire IT infrastructure. Things couldn’t be better.”
Disconnection wafts over Simon’s being. His sense of brotherhood around his double seems so deep, so penetrable, but so divided by a gorge of . . . well, worlds.
Time to go, Arturo nudges.
“Remind me again why you couldn’t take me directly home?” the Simon double moans on the couch.
“Since you were kidnapped here, it was easier for me to lock on to this as a point of origin to send you back. You must forgive me, I have been severely taxed. Normally I could do as you ask, but it’s been a tough night.”
“It’s okay. I mean, hey, you saved my life, right? Even though it was your fault.”
“Yes,” Simon readies himself to begin his departure, breathes in deeply. “I am so very sorry about that. I will make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Great,” the Simon double sighs with relief. “Now I can just go back to my life! Everything back to normal.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Simon utters, as his being begins to fade out of view, like a camera image out of focus.
“What? What do you mean?” the Simon double sits up, alert.
“Again, I’m sorry. The things you’ve seen. Most often it is impossible to go back to normality, but I do wish you the best in that task.” Simon Myth fades completely from view, leaving his own reflection alone in the miasma of effluvium spires in the largest city of Brazil.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hicks intently reads through the tattered cloth hardcover of Mansions of the Soul by H. Spencer Lewis, which Simon left before departing to teleport his double back to the universe of origin. She hadn’t read anything in a while, let alone a book, but she was surprisingly engrossed in its arcane philosophy. One particular passage stands out to her:
“Every experience in life, every incident consciously realized—and many of which we are unconscious, form a part of our molding personality. We are not only now what we think, but we will become that which results from our thinking. We are reaping daily and hourly as we have sown. Each day we become, mentally, spiritually, and physically what we have made ourselves. Hence, we are forever working out our own salvation or damnation, independent of the subtle influences of heredity, and independent of any predestined course in life.”
Despite what she reads, she can’t help but think that somehow none of what occurred here was chance. That something—whether it is fate or destiny or maybe even synchronicity—brought her together with Simon, as well as Lucille and even Tobias. This feeling goes beyond just the random inevitability of Rhino choosing three magical beings for his ritual to trap Simon.
Her musings are interrupted by a slight blip in the air, like ears popping, then Simon Myth appearing in the doorway of the diner. Lucille gives her an easy elbow jab and Tobias groans. Hicks looks up from her reading and greets her new friend with a broad smile.
“Get him dropped off okay?” Tobias queries nervously. He scoots over in the booth seat to make room for Simon.
“No problem,” Simon sits next to Tobias, the girls across from them: Hicks with book in hand and Lucille with arm in sling. “I mean, he was kicking and screaming when I left, but I just told the sitter to give him some warm milk and he’d go right to sleep.”
“Kids,” Lucille drones sarcastically.
“So, whatta we do from here?” Tobias beckons, aching for answers to the mysteries that had befallen them. “We got to have a plan, or something, right?”
“What do you mean?” Simon ponders.
“Oh, come on! We were all brought here mysteriously by some unknown foe, and then used as cannon fodder to capture you, then all the culprits get away! Shouldn’t we be hunting them down? Getting revenge?”
“Ew, revenge! That sounds . . . awfully John Wayne, don’t you think?” Simon raises a hand for service. “Is Sheryl working today? I’d love to have a cup of coffee before I go.”
“As a matter of fact she is,” Hicks beams, closing the book and setting it down on the syrup-stained table. “And you know what else? I did some checking on our buddy Rhino. Turns out he doesn’t own the place! Sheryl does! She just doesn’t like to manage . . . she’d rather just be a waitress! Can you believe it?”
“She never really cared for him, apparently,” Lucille adds, flicking ashes off her cigarette into an ashtray.
“Right,” Hicks agrees. “One day a couple years ago Rhino shows up out of the blue and offers to manage the joint for her in exchange for a place to stay . . . hence, his apartment in back. She’d had no other interest so she thought, what the hell, you know? But, he never did much but go on extended vacations and holler at everyone. When we gave her the news that he probably wouldn’t be showin’ up again she didn’t even blink. In fact, I think she even smiled! So, guess what? Guess what, guess what?”
“Oh just tell him for Pan’s sake,” Tobias rolls his eyes.
Hicks radiates with glee, leaning onto the table like an earnest child on Christmas. “I’m taking his place!”
“You what?” Simon’s jaw drops dumbfounded.
“I’m filling in for Rhino! Sheryl doesn’t want to do the work, I ain’t got no place to go but the road, and I’m curious to see how it’ll turn out! I’m the newest manager of The Cabana!” Hicks proudly hands the book back to Simon with an astute gesture.
“Well, my my,” he laughs. “That is some wonderful news! Whatever you do, do not change that biscuits and gravy recipe . . . it is exquisite!”
“Not to crash everyone’s party here,” Tobias pipes in. “But are we seriously discussing not doing anything about any of this?”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Lucille blows a ring of smoke into Tobias’ face. He hacks testily. “It’s in Simon’s hands now. Whatever’s left to do is beyond our scope.”
“That’s true,” Simon explains. “I will find out who is responsible for all of this, for putting a price on an Architect’s head, and make sure there is no further interference on the Earthly plane.”
Tobias continues his anxious diatribe. “I mean, I’m really concerned how he even found us. How he knew to contact us and get us to answer his beck and call.”
“Oh that’s easy enough,” Simon points out. “Rhino was well-connected in the mystic social circles, believe it or not. Lucille is one of Peru’s most well-known folk healers, so it wasn’t difficult to find someone who could pass a message to her. Hicks here was the subject of a roadside attraction: ‘The Girl Who Can Talk to Rocks!’ Only a state away, I’m sure Rhino knew how to get to her. And you, Tobias, well . . . you have a website, you’re easier than all of us to contact!”
Tobias looks sheepish. “It’s how I advertise my services.”
“You all received the same message for a call to assistance of a mystical quality. He probably backed that message up with a magical urging in each of you to be here as well, so you couldn’t turn it down. Except, Lucille of course.”
Tobias and Hicks look over to her. Tobias shakes his head in bewilderment. “What a minute . . . you knew you were bait for a trap and you showed up anyway?”
“I knew something was up,” Lucille drones nonchalantly. “I was curious. It’s my nature. Inevitably, that’s why we’re here experiencing this weirdness, isn’t it?”
They all nod in agreement. Sheryl eventually meanders her way to the booth and takes their orders. Tobias has a steak and eggs, Lucille a vegetable omelet, Hicks a stack of blueberry pancakes, and Simon satisfies his craving with a double order of biscuits and gravy. They munch away for an hour, chatting and getting to know one another. It was a merry moment. Simon soaks every second of it in.
When finished, he feels the nudge from Arturo and says his goodbyes.
“I’ll see you again I’m sure,” Lucille tells him, hesitant to say farewell.
As he walks to the exit door, Hicks runs over and stops him.
“One more thing, Simon,” she beckons.
“What’s that?”
“It’s just . . . the ground. It’s talking now, you know? All around, I can feel it rumbling under my feet, upset, pissed, mourning. I don’t get why it was so . . . so mute earlier.”
“Well, fairly easy, dear,” Simon explains. “Rhino clearly knew of your special talent. He didn’t want the ground sounding off any alarms your way, so that’s exactly what he did! He did some spell work and pressed the mute button, gagged the Earth in this particular area. It certainly caused some confusion for me as well. But, it was that very silence that tipped us off to something, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she looks down at her feet, covered by dirt-caked boots that have seen better days. “Um, I’m just wondering . . . will you come back? Will we see you again?”
Simon lays a hand on Hicks’ shoulder, their eyes meet. “I promise. Our paths will cross again.”
With that, he blinks his eyes in that particular fashion and taps the cane three times, moving the wavelength particles around him to the precise coordinates of his next destination. And he is gone.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Simon Myth stretches inside the oblong comfort chair of his sphere. He is home.
You forgot to pick up your de Chirico, or Magritte, Arturo fusses.
“So I did,” Simon glances out the porthole window, the deep empty of space stretching out to infinity. The vast void sinks into him, reminding him of his utter isolation, out here, all alone, floating above an endless nothing.
Maybe next time. You didn’t tell them Rhino was dead. You keep trying to play your cards close to the chest. That doesn’t always work well in social environments.
“Well, it’s not like any of them could come with me if they knew.”
Come with you, you mean . . . you’re going to find Rhino?
“That is the intention.”
Why don’t you just leave it alone?
“Because somehow The Corpus was either sabotaged or The Corpus tried to sabotage me. Either way, there is conspiracy. And, like my new friend Lucille, I am curious.”
Well, good luck with that.
Simon picks out a music cartridge and injects it into the player. Subtly, the eerie and doleful strings of Dmitri Shostakovich’s third movement “Largo,” of his 5th Symphony, lumbers throughout Simon’s sterile white sphere. The violins and violas start quietly, in a lament, and build and build into a crescendo of frenetic melancholy. The soft melodies channel elegiacally around and out into the twinkling, swirling stars of space. Out where they can bounce off of nothing, where they can no longer be heard.
He is alone. He is isolated. And that is perfectly fine by him.
THE END
STAY TUNED FOR MORE EPISODES OF SIMON MYTH - COMING SOON!