A businessman, slightly disheveled, sits beside a client in a house with an overgrown lawn. They come to an agreement and the businessman goes to open his briefcase. The latch refuses to unlock. The businessman says "damn", "it does this to me all the time". Looking over at the(more) client as he says the second line. Looking back he turns the briefcase over, pats it on the back, takes it by the handle and, while keeping two fingers on the weighted side, depresses the cams of the latch. It opens. He places it on the table. "I really should replace it, but, I've had it so long it's become sentimental." (less)
In a magazine which crackles as you flip through the pages is an ad for a brand of cigarettes which today we mock for being the cheap fare of women in faux fur.
A pack of them sits atop a table in still life beside a delicate vas(more)e containing long stemmed tropical shoots. The age of the paper has filtered the light of the photograph. You can see that it is from the 1970's.
There is an unspoken argument summed up in the word 'class'. These are cigarettes left by graceful fingers atop a small table in the waiting room of a grand home. The sun on the table passes first through the panes of a window looking out on manicured landscaping.
One must admit the urge to light up whispers in your direction from there on the page, but it is only a fickle and passing suggestion. The suggestion of an uninterested stranger who doesn't bother to ask twice once you've indicated reluctance.
The thought of smoking cigarettes in a grand home in the seventies summons thoughts of smoking in the seventies. Thoughts of smoking in the seventies conjures images of smoking other consumables. Thoughts of joints and nature festivals and hedonism forgetful of consequence.
In a way they had such a great point, the young people of the seventies. A counter point at least. It could be summed up as 'but why man'?
You've got to get a job and cut that hair. 'but why man'?
You've got to be respectable and not just go around sleeping with whomever you please. 'but why man'?
You've got to worship a dead god and pretend there's the slightest bit of proof for existence and follow ancient rituals and a violent patriarchal morality 'but why man'?
Cedar woodchips on a playground. Calluses on fingers. Dirt under fingernails. Domes, slides and platforms on springs.
An elementary school. Breezeblock walls painted a very light grey with a yellow stripe cutting the wall into child size.
Yellow tubing, textured plastics, blue skies speckled with clouds.(more)
Mothers in minivans watching their children beside mothers in minivans watching their children.
Children running, jumping, screaming shrill spouts of jubilation.
Near a baseball field wearing a flock of trees on it's outskirts.
A well ordered structure of trails ringing around and going over around and through.
A mother running a trail, her husband at home watching baseball a parental figure head for a child contentedly coloring in twelve shades of crayola.
A bend in the trail pushes out past the tree line into the far patch of fat grass beside manicured wetland.
A running mother sees the minivan caravan of mothers watching children beside other mothers watching children.
A new black Ford releases its speed and slows to a stop at the sign at the T in the road by the school where the children are running and jumping the mothers are watching the fat blades of grass are shivering slightly.
The mothers and daughters and sons and their fathers are gathered around in the fall with their family.
The pavement is dark with the cool of the mist that hovered last night then sunk to the ground to hide in the pours of soil.
The air that they breath is clean cool and easing. Their lungs drink it gladly their hearts pass it on.
In the beauty of midday at the park in the town by the small dome shaped hill capped in green, speckled red brown and orange in the cloud speckled sky fading softly from morning into darker blue hues.
Hamlet has no hand to do his dirty work. To be or not to be (infinity plus or minus)
Each has what the other wants as long as neither gives either what the other wants.
Tangled enigmas elliptically dancing among spikes among daggers around them in bunches the valley of thorns the razor blade lotus the tiger between the love of all things approaching its own contradiction.
I hope that you've learned what the terrible mess that I'm in when I spin the tale that I'm weaving I cannot endure it not to make sense I'm in love with obsession but I'm so mildly sane, I. (less)
He smelled like a penny because he was rolled in blood and the red dirt of the hill.
The shin of his right leg stung broken plod by crooked plod across the rock into the ocean.
(more) He smelled like sweat and the ocean bathed him in salt as he plunged into the shallow water and began to frantically flap into the waves.
He felt like he would kick off the lower part of his leg along a jagged line and the foot was uncooperative but he felt the need to plunge deeper into the current.
His heart beat against his ribcage, he kicked and swung his arms and thought about being smelled by sharks.
Behind was a winged thing that would swoop out from between the forest pillars, the pine canopy and wander over him.
He had to swim, had to find a place to hide, he thought he smelled like blood to the sharks.
His heart thumped in time to frantic breathing.
He knew it had come out of the trees and was near him and over him. He turned over onto his back and he felt the sharks below him and he saw the winged thing above him and he shot up sweat covered and heart beating.
He waded through the damp blankets into his bathroom and rested on the edge of the tub.
He looked down at the tub and thought of filling it with cold water and thought of sharks and thought of black winged women in the dark of 5 am along the street.
He thought of Beth and was uncertain and horrified and miserable for his inability even to have the courage to let himself go.
John slumped over his legs propping himself up like the thinker and felt himself feel doubt and fear. (less)
A skeletal hand is perched on red velvet. Fixed in position by surgical pins. The velvet is draped over a box large enough to fit a labrador.
John is stuck staring at it. He sits on seats edge, chest caved in beneath an arched back. He is tucking(more) his chin slightly, to hide in himself as he prepares the question. He is like a mother readying her favored child for their first day of school.
Elizabeth's economy apartment houses many oddities, but only the velvet draped box matters to John. The skeletal hand had moved a hands width to the right from its usual place since last week. It's presently causing John displeasure.
John can hear her hair dryer whirring. "She just started, he thinks to himself", "3 minutes" he whispers.
He sees himself scuttling over to the box, scuttling over and tossing off that velvet cover. He sees himself scuttling. He sees himself scuttling and he's doing it!
He is reaching out and taking hold of the skeletal hand. It feels cold. It feels like fear. It feels like...
Elizabeth is entering the room. She sees that bug of a man holding hands with him. She says calmly "John".
John wails out in a plaintive recognition of his sentence.
John clutches the hand dearly to his chest and retreats into the posture of a whipped mongrel, tail tucked, eyes averted.
"Weren't you told not to touch that?" Elizabeth asks with the air of a school marm speaking down to her pupil. "Weren't you told that looking is like touching and you're not allowed to touch it?"
Quickly and furtively a "sorry" is mumbled out.
"Put it back in it's place" she requires. "It was to the left" he replies.
She thinks she believes him, the fly in the jar. (less)
If you walk deep enough into the halls, you will come to a place where concepts exist. Like Plato's world of forms.
But the Gnostic Halls and Plato's Form World are odd cousins of one another.
Forms in Plato's reckoning are perfect. Not so in the Gnosti(more)c Halls, there they are fancies mingling together with oeuvres.
The residents of the deepest parts of the Gnostic Halls are the remnants of lives lived which never stop living and only attribute more and more rubbish into the openness.
In mingling together, the wandering concepts, ambitions and questions break slowly upon each other, like smashing ten tons of fine china with a wrecking ball and heaping it up into a tor.
This is how strange ambitions, perversions and thoughts too taboo to risk whispering to yourself enter into the mind.
A word dreamt up by a beat poet might very well have flogged its way backwards in time by millions of years, slooped down accidentally into the mish-mash at the end of the hall and re-emerged in physical form as the ancestor of the platypus. That's how it works deep down in the Halls that the Gnostic Mysticism will teach you to reach for.
Darkly now. Frightening you now. The will to power is a concept that dwells in us. We each possess a bit of its totality. Our other attributes crowd it out and damp it down but if those attributes of ours that temper their cruel brother fall away in the currents of a trillion trillion lives going on simultaneously. If they do fail. Then the self that was once the vessel for many things becomes the shrine of just one.
This will for power rules many worlds. This disembodied urge that lives through broken mangled minds of lords too deep.
Practitioners of the lords phenomenon are called lords by some, masters by others. Some call them puppeteers or bosses.
To some they are known as mirrors and bridges.
(more) For some the lord becomes like a mirror held between two selves.
A lord who holds two selves unites two selves. The lord can attempt to prevent the two selves from coming to know each other through the bond or may allow it. The lord may attempt to stop it and fail.
Many people who were bound together through the lords phenomenon will maintain a residual link to each other. It is possible to strengthen this link.
Some become lords this way.
It is not limited to just two individuals.
Some lords amass thousands of selves. The lord hungrily snatches up a few hundred selves here and discards a few hundred selves there.
Clans form in this way. Free individuals bound together.
Shared memories can blend together. Shared fears and desires. Shared dreams, shared nightmares.
Most lords of great power will lose their identity. Instead the lord becomes a unique composition of attributes. A lord whose original self was greedy may become a sort of embodiment of greed, as less tightly clung to attributes of the original self are lost in the kaleidoscopic seas.
A desire for power is a common attribute of lords and when it is rarefied. When the other attributes of the original self which once tempered the will to power are gone the remaining being becomes single minded.
These beings are like black holes which take hold of huge numbers and subsume their identities into a single mass.
The clan which emerges from such a being shares a bond closer than any other.
There is a kind of self which cannot take or be taken. An invincible self. (less)
I have seen a few writers maintain narratives lets create a group narrative.
It could be a choose your own path narrative. One writer starts a narrative and two or more respondents write divergent bits.
The tags section could b(more)e used to guide the reader back to the source.
It needs a reference to author, title and date.
Example: 12tm, "Trinity", 5/13/14
We could specialize. Some write characters. others describe scenes.
Since there are only 3 tags allowed we need a modifier within the title to indicate what function it plays.
Example: "Trinity" is modified into "CrTrinity" Where Cr means Character. Sc for Scene.
Necessary writer functions include: setting, theme/mood, character, scene and plot.
If you like this please let me know and share.
Here's a setting:
Two terms and their descriptions. Terms first. Lords Phenomenon and Gnostic Hall Phenomenon.
The Lords Phenomenon is the ability to inhabit an unlimited number of individuals and live as them. The inhabited victims may or may not be aware they are playing the host. A subtle lord can compel without detection. The Lord lives two or more lives at once. The experience of simultaneous existence is disorienting.
The Gnostic Halls Phenomenon is the ability to travel into parallel selves. A self that would have existed if you had chosen differently at such and such a time in your life. Think Butterfly Effect except that you are simultaneously aware of both identities. You are living two lives at once.
The danger is that the selves can merge into each other and become directionless. Being lost between selves for some leads to the realization of a meta self. A self which is simultaneously all selves. For some it can lead to a self composed of all selves. Not necessary. (less)
John is passing insignificant beneath the monstrous weight and scale of the overpass.
His arms beyond the short sleeves feel the cool breeze of the sorbet pink dusk.
(more) The city and history and the rest of mortality are stretching before and behind him and laying down beside his path.
Tiny in the landscape, John is walking the soil of his testament. Treading dust in a land of fantasy.
Prophet of his own greatness.
His philosophy would be born immaculate and work miracles on the lonely and lost and forgotten.
Ambling over daydreams, on cracking streets he is walking half awake upon, fragments are tessellating into the "Be OK" the B-O-K.
John is seeking out the secret hiding places of the broken pieces. Looking out for the truth that lay there with the broken bottles and discarded scratch tickets and muddied pennies. He has faith. It will Be OK.
Prophet of a new meta-story. Bringer of a new arc.
John is the hunter and he is tracking down the clues he knows are tucked between every prime numbered frame.
John is past the bus stop and electric vehicle sales warehouse. He is turning to his right and taking off down a broad alley where he is new and fresh between rusty smoke stained walls.
"There's the Be OK" John is saying to himself every single time when he is looking on factory walls.
He is rolling out of bed now and he's looking back at the dream he's had had since he first passed insignificant beneath the weight of the distant overpass.
An angel is bringing him a message and walking beside him. John is walking beside his angel and together they are pointing at the edges of the puzzle which one day will assemble into the testament of be OK.
Headsman, injection, passing out, going deeper, dead. Is retribution justice?
Harm done, undone? Harm remains, repented for?
Repentance, Retribution, Justice. Nothing without forgiveness.
Forgiveness is execution of self. Letting go the lottery ticket that entitles the winner the right to hate.(more)
Hate justified by impossible grief from loss. Strong ego. I, me, my! mine! mine! mine!
Letting go of hate an injustice to those lost? Ego rebels. NO! I, me, my!
Hate goes on. Loss goes on. Lost do not return.
Only life fails to go on. Only life is temporary.
Forgiveness does not go on. Hate goes on.
Forgiveness is impossible. Hate is automatic.
Forgiveness like life must be worked at, must be sculpted from steel by slow rubbing with smooth cloth. Must be gone over, gone over, gone over, gone over, gone over, gone over, gone over, gone over, gone over...
Hate is like breathing. Inhale, hate is easy. Exhale, hate is right. Inhale, hate is justice. Exhale, hate is necessary.
Retribution is artificial. Torture is artificial. Captivity is artificial. The lost are lost. What's left is to move on. Hate does not move on. Forgiveness only moves on.
To move on an injustice to the lost? A rude goodbye. An abandonment of their right to be justified against their rapist or murderer.
Hate the only just response. Forgiveness allows injustice?
Ego says so. Ego says I, me, my!
Rapist or murderer cannot be released. Why keep them alive? Every breath they breathe is an insult to their victims. Much less to feed them, clothe them, give them a bed and access to even meagre entertainment.
Paying for the living of a killer. Offering dignity to a person who stole the dignity from others.
Some of those convicted are later proven innocent.
Scalloped silver surrounding the oblong turquoise pendant. John finding it in her jewelry box.
Beth coming in to see him.
Beth's sad eyes, left eye twitching slightly, quick, quick and under control.
John awkwardly replacing the object into it's place.
John's palms sweating, nervous(more)ly wondering at the knife.
Beth's perfect victim, she is loving him so haltingly.
She is softly placing the affection down into it's place beside her sick fascination.
John is thinking of how to apologize.
He is showing tea stained teeth and muttering apologies.
"It's OK", "I-I", "It's fine, you can keep looking"
John is feeling relieved.
He is horny as he thinks of sitting on the bed and he's recalling the perfume of the sheets she pulls across herself when she lays down to sleep.
John is saying "I'm so scared"
Beth is beckoning him to sit down onto the bed.
She is thrilled as to the reason why.
John is beginning to explain.
"You know I want it, but I am afraid that I can't let it happen, and then I'm afraid that I won't let you do it and I will..."
Beth is asking him to "continue..."
John is finishing his sentence with the word "live".
Beth is being approached by a realization.
Her left eye is twitching, quick, quick.
John is watching her sad eyes and feeling tremendous desire.
John is obsessing on the adequacy of his size as Beth is realizing something John has pondered over.
Beth is speaking:
"You're not innocent", "You've given up", "You're a willing sacrifice", "You're throwing yourself into the fire".
John is panicking now.
His heart is picking up it's pace. His fear is coming true.
"I can fight you when it happens", "I won't just give in", "I'm scared, like I said".