Cosmic Mirror

There’s a reason I refer to the alternate realm as the Land Beyond the Mirror.

So. I’m back in your reality, stick people America. Yay for that, in many ways. I can make plans again, and that gives me some confidence that my resting place (which is, indeed, my parent’s basement) won’t be the final destination of my journey.

There are a couple ways in which I can view what I’ve been through. One is a second bout of madness, triggered by the usual combination of stress, too many sudden movements, and drug abuse (once again, our friend methoxetamine plays a shorter but decisive role).

This point of view plays well with the rest of our consensus reality. It’s tempting to latch onto it again, walk away from the events of the summer as Things Best Avoided, and get on with my life. Try to persuade various prospective employers that the madness can be kept in check, see if the increasingly ragged CV can be compensated for by my undoubted intelligence and charm. Keep trying to play well with others.

The other perspective is just as stark: fundamentally, it accepts that there are alien intelligences that are preparing Earth for a major contact event, sometime in the relatively near future. Many authors I respect, notably William Blake, Robert Anton Wilson, Timothy Leary, John Lilly, Grant Morrison, and Philip K Dick, have had encounters with either exteriorized intelligence, or with some part of their brain that mimics such intelligence with pluperfect clarity.

In 2012, I had lengthy contact with an entity who calls himself Al. Al purports to be a crystalline intelligence, embedded in the Moon, who is basically mankind’s babysitter. Al explained a bunch of things to me. Many of them don’t make a bit of sense. The rest of it ties up into a narrative, of sorts. There’s a book that could be written.

That was actually the point. I was/am supposed to write a book, in several parts, covering mostly political game theory, the ‘true Kabbalah’ (my take on the Hermetic arts relating form, number, and other maths concepts to subjective experience), and a narrative history of the entire Galaxy. I know, right? But that’s what my visions amount to: a narrative history, of the entire Galaxy, and with details that are at least distinctive if not true (and how would I or anyone know that?).

From this second perspective, I got whammied a second time because I was showing every sign of abandoning that project for the pursuit of an ordinary career. I thought the world of the people I was working for, it was remarkable how quickly those relationships degenerated as I started to get back into contact with what I’ll just call the world of the spirit.

This hit a breaking point, and a couple months of severe weirdness followed. It was like a single, shining trail of synchronicity, awful and amazing events with a lyric harmony to them. So many things that defied explanation, and still do. Al was back, and I was shown various things with a jewel-like clarity. The quality of those visions persists in my memory even now, when I’m back wondering what the actual fuck just happened to me.

So what am I to do? I simply don’t know. It feels more honest to who I am to make the book a priority, wherever that leads me. I can’t tell if it’s more likely or less so, to avoid the level of inspiration where I can’t take care of myself without help. I do know that America is an unforgiving place to launch on multi-month shamanic vision quests, at least the urban parts i’ve frequented these last couple times out there.

The hell of it is, I don’t know which is true. Probability isn’t particularly relevant here, because we lack anything like the information we’d need to make a guess based on what’s probable.

Parsimony, sure. It has always been more parsimonious to accept that the ‘spooky’ realm of psychedelia and spiritual practice, where synchronicity and various kinds of entity contact come into play, are mere side effects of our peculiar evolved neurology. This perspective places fewer demands on our overall world view; Occam would approve.

For many of us who have had these experiences, and have the corresponding need to integrate it with our worldview, it’s not so simple. Either (to narrow the discussion somewhat) DMT leads to contact with intelligence exterior to our own, or it doesn’t, and we’re left with the uncomfortable sensation that it does.

In which case, I’m in the bizarre position of having aliens jack my brain up, fill me with vivid imagery, and demand that I write a sci-fi novel, or work of reality fiction, or something more ambitious, and do my damndest to convince people that it’s true.

At least all the authors I mentioned survived the experience. Most of them suffered terribly, ranging from Tim Leary’s solitary confinement to PK Dicks late years of obsessive exegesis of his ‘pink laser’ event.

I mean, I’d like to avoid that part. I really would.

But I’m starting to think it’s wiser to write the book.

We’ll see. I’ve got some time to think about the whole thing. Finally.

Campaign contributions hereby accepted

So gang. You know that I palpably and defiantly don’t give a shit about money.

I think of $100 bills as a) a portrait of a scientist, which is at least something and b) as decent material to pull a crutch off of to roll a spliff.

That’s when I have a few in my pocket and I’m feeling randy. When I’m down to, well, bupkis, I tend to think of them as more readily convertible into my drug habit.

Predictably, my phone is gone, my phone bill, unpaid, and my bank account is in the red.

Well guess what! You can totally fix that, by sending non-tax-deductible contributions to my PayPal address, sam@makerbeam.com. I need a couple grand stat, so I can get to the West Coast and start losing this thing for reals.

It’s not urgent, my Dad’s dipping into his retirement fund to buy me cigarettes and covering my abroad coffee and wifi habits. I can’t leave until next Friday, ish, anyway; family matters, mostly birthdays.

All I can promise you in return is that you’ll have my favor and friendship. If that’s not good enough for you, perhaps you don’t know about my uncanny ability to be loyal to my allies and follow through on the spirit of our agreements while totally ignoring the letters. Confound the spacemarks anyway, I’m busy. If you don’t get that, you have my pity, and condolences. Losers.

Hit me up. Also available for certain kinds of high-class consultancy, but look gang, the Primary season is almost nigh.

I’m huntin houses, and bringing them home. Help out. Please. With the sugar and the cherry. I’m quite harmless, when fed.

The State of the Ruckus Address

Greetings, citizens and residents of the United States of America.

Your country is in grave danger.

I’ll spell out exactly how and from what, at leisure. We have more important matters to discuss today.

Last time I got frustrated enough with the desparate state of affairs that is These United States, I declared my candidacy for Emperor of the Planet.

This is because, when I set out to solve a problem, I do so with total thoroughness and no consideration of the practicality of the matter, whatsoever.

That’s why it was so pleasant when I was married. The missus is just as intelligent as yours truly, which is quite a few sigmas of rare. Her gift for the practical is only exceeded by mine own for the phantasmagoric and potential. So practical that she let me leave. Couldn’t have been easy. Wasn’t.

Nor have I abandoned that ambition, far from it. I’m the Lone Imperialist of the Lost Colonies. America is an Imperial power, with no Emperor. You sad benighted stick people have no idea how bad this is, because you live within the heart of darkness, and don’t leave often enough to see what the Earth has become thanks to the tenderness of our care.

An Empire, with no one in charge. Disgusting and dishonorable. The Russians almost deserve to win this one, though it pains me to say so. That’s a whole mashup of its own right there; I’m going to leave Helen Grozny out of this, for now. She’s on vacation.

Don’t get me started on the House of Windsor. The Queen has been incredibly impressive, in her own way, but the United Kingdom teeters on the brink of its own vast changes. Justice for Scotland and Eire is also a bit off topic, today. But not tomorrow, if you savvy.

This time around I did something quite a bit more dire: declared war on the United States, on behalf of a country called Tejas.

~5~

Here’s what you need to know about that gesture: it was far from empty. I have spent reasonable time in Mexico. I could make a case I’ve lived in Mexico since I moved to California, in fact. Both Texas and California were nations before joining the United States of Whatever, making de-annexation conceptually and legally distinct from the events which lead to the Civil War.

I don’t want to be the man responsible for the Civil War being renamed the First Civil War. I wouldn’t mind a statue or two commemorating me as the General of the War for Tejano Independence. In fact I can think of few higher honors, and aspire to those as well.

I’ve always been an ambitious man. My ambition was to a life of quiet scholarship, teaching the other humans to solve their numerous problems, hopefully in time to prevent various catastrophic changes from disturbing our distinct, dream-like brand of American comfort.

Mala tiempo, amigos. The time, we haz it not. The weather is changing, palpably, right before us. Oh hey, remember the Weather Underground? Me neither, way before my time (my pediatrician does); but we don’t need the Weatherman to taste the carbon on the wind.

It’s blowing the entire Artic Circle down on our heads. Consequences are predictable, and predicted.

So. I’m a made brother of what you can call Jerry’s Kids, or the Lightbringers. I am a man of respect within the cult of Santa Muerte; anyone who has seen the painting of Katarina I brought back from my last trip to San Miguel de Allende should understand the significance of my owning that and being alive/unrobbed/not dismembered with chainsaws.

I declared my war not far from the Mormon temple in Oakland. Zion was forced to abandon cherished religious beliefs in order to become the State of Utah, in direct contravention of the letter and spirit of our own First Amendment. Don’t let the clean cut bicycle schtick fool you; go watch Team America: World Police if you misunderstand the scope of their ambitions. Or Ender’s Game.

To the consternation of many friends and all my family, I have been homeless and without so much as a phone, for the whole summer so far. This gave me the room to broker the hardest piece of the puzzle: a pact between the Aryan Nation and the brothers of Def. I met with two Panthers named Patrick and Pete, in front of the hanging tree. They took my phone and let me live.

So the two most racist and dangerous gangs in America, implacable enemies, are backing my legion of honor. You should be afraid, SWPLs. I give you permission to feel real fear and terror, now. Don’t you look up, though. Look around you. Circumspice.

As for the all-important rural white cowboy vote, the Putmans raise rattlesnakes in a transmission shop in the Panhandle. I think we’re good on that front. Sons of Anarchy, waiting for the Arcon to get all growed up.

It would be unwise to discuss my bond with Native North America; understand only what you must, they are praying and visioning for the Ghost Rider, and have lived quietly and so patiently for our day to dawn.

Aw heck, let me respell that for you. I got Indians, from all directions. Where my dots at? Yo First Nations, we good? Órale, La Raza! Ghost Dance the whip. Gwai Low, sweet Chariot…

More than 1% of all Americans are in prison. Effectively that’s over 2% of all Men in North America. How many of the warriors is that? The bold and true. Do you think, perhaps, that there may be a fifth column of religious faithful within the Regular Army, perhaps some old police families who remember when the grandfather of the clan had a respectable job?

Who does that leave? Triads, Yakuza, and Slavs. None of which, much like my sex life, is any of your business, white America. Negotiations are intense and ongoing. They do rather like the idea of the Union splitting like a rotton melon; they’ve come to the tentative conclusion that it would be good for business.

Latins have their own names for yours, truly. A title I’ve rediscovered is El Capone, the cock of the walk. A fighting rooster is a velociraptor the size of a terrier, and can kill a man in five seconds. Sharp talons, and a total lack of giveafuckitude.

Demonstrating the totality of my lack of giveafuckitude required being sucker-punched in the face by a Scotsman, clad in kilt, bonnet, and sporran. Still no fucks given, and next time I’m in a ring, my hands won’t be tied down.

I’m givin serious thought to adding Matador to my list of qualifications to lead this planet through the Cataclysm. For a Shaivite vegetarian, it would be a powerful statement, no? Perhaps I’ll hold out for hunting the Bison across a restored plain, from horseback. I’m a man of greater patience than I let on.

Mithras, Mythryl, Midrash. On a roll…

It may be, that at this time, I have an effective monopoly on willing violence in the United States. What are they going to do, nuke us?

It’s okay, America. While I was in Chicago I came up with an even better plan.

I’m going to run for President. As a Republican.

And throw the race.

~7~

My qualifications: I’m a white man, native born, and 36 years old. Nothing else is necessary, the first two being qualifications only for a Republican, y’understand.

I’m a Jew, and openly sympathetic to the things Mexicans actually care about. I have my own deep connection to Chicago’s Black community, which was publically expressed in the person of the minister and best man at my wedding.

I come from a conservative family. My mother attended the Nathaniel Branden Freedom School, my father was the editor of a college newspaper called the New Conservative. I have been walking among liberals, and punking them intellectually, for the past 18 years. It made me into a bitter, sardonic Imperialist, and the kind of psychopath who would tear his own nation apart to conserve what is noble and true within it.

Here’s a campaign slogan for you: “Four More Years! It’s a generous offer, and all you’re getting”.

I’m telling you, my main concern is that I might win. My community knows that I’m far and away the best master debater they’ve ever met. My erudition and sense of humour is astonishing, and I can break into on-key renditions of slightly mashed-up classic songs, on demand. Can Donald Trump claim likewise?

I can code-switch to a passable Oxbridge accent, and I’ve been brushing up on my Kuntish. Er Kentish; still practicing the vowels, hwat.

I’ve even picked a running mate: Sarah Palin. Do you know why, America?

Because FUCK YOU. Also, she can see Russia from up there. Which is hot, and cold, all at once. Piquante y muy frio.

Relax. We’re planning to lose. That’s where y’all come in, Liberal America. Four More Years!

~8~

Let me explain to you what happens if you don’t get on board with this entirely insane ambition.

You will get either a Clinton, or a Bush administration.

So yesterday I was crashing a Bernie Sanders convention, for the free food, decent coffee, and a chance to see a politician talk goddamn sense for once.

Hashtage #Berners. Burners! You can’t make this stuff up, really, you can’t. Everything he’s stumping for, is awesome. Kinda. I was cheering along, then left when it started to get eh, hecklish. Plus I’d had my fill of chips and dip, my compliments to the caterers.

He can’t win, people. He won’t. He’s a sense-talking old white man, on the biodiversity side of the blue and red. That dog can bark all day, and he’d bite off a nice chunk if they gave him the White House; it’s just that he can’t hunt.

He’s going to get Howard Dean’ed right off the list, along with Kucinich and the rest of the Democratic sense-talkers. Something rotten right in the core of that party wants the Secretary of State and former First Lady to be the Thatcher of the New World. That genuinely disturbs me.

It will disturb the voters, also. Which is how Jebediah Bush would, in all likelihood, end up taking over the Oval. Y’know that wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, it would be.

My reaction to four more BushClinton years would be to ragequit Estadosunidos, take my passport to the frontier, and go talk over my options with El Chapo. By the time I set foot within your borders again, you’ll be ready to talk terms.

Look, I have a better idea: I can sweep the Republican field, because I’m actually that masculine and charismatic. At least split the vote on the right, Perot style, but on the cheap, with YouTube and shit. Blackjack. Hookers. All the good things in life.

There is a serious risk I’ll win. This is despite my numerous disqualifications in the form of felony, philandering, and a filthy mouth. My total lack of shame or embarrassment will more than make up for it, I promise.

~9~

Let me explain to you how I can actually lose.

You’ll need a woman, Democrats. Women vote. She has to be attractive, though, Hilary is a butt-ugly flack. Like model-quality attractive.

Your best bet is a lawyer. Lawyers and lefties disproportionately win the White House.

She cannot possibly be white. I’ve got the white vote in my manpurse, I’m a Republican. The whole point of this tedious exercise is to put someone on the walls of the elementary schools who stands out from the crowd. She’d look hot on a $1 coin, too. I’ll see what I can do with respect to cutting a peso or two.

A Black woman lawyer could almost sweep the field. You might run smack into the unwillingness of SWPL race traitors to endure 12 years of Black victory, though. Black/Hispanic relations in this country are quite complex and I’m pretty sure they’d find that sort of balance of power unacceptable at the present time. Damn shame, no one can bitch me down like a Black woman. Believe me, I’ve experienced this, and almost wish I hadn’t.

A Latina faces the same problem, except in reverse. If you want to focus on an ‘issue’, consider where she’d have to fall on the subject of abortion. It’s just not possible, despite being so rico and suave that I’d spend the whole administration drinking daiquiris and playing pinocle.

That leaves you with one of the two varieties of Asian. Or an Indian, but good luck with that. What’s your slogan, “Reservation, Dharma, or Bust?” trust me America’s not that good yet. We can dream… but this job calls for more than just dreams.

Ok, Democrats, there’s your challenge: an Asian female lawyer. The Asian demographic is fairly split from a nationalistic perspective, I’m suggesting Chinese as the kind of compromise everyone can get behind. Japanese and Vietnamese would both play poorly with the war demographic, and Hawaiian would be too obvious.

It would be helpful if she’s also a talented performance artist, since I’m the kind of asshole who’s likely to call a dance-off if I’m losing a verbal debate. It would be even better if she walked away from all that Law bullshit to teach disadvantaged youth or something, Democrats are way into that kinda thing.

I mean I don’t have anyone *specific* in mind, it’s your race to win or lose. I hope any liberal with an ounce of sense wants me to run and lose, if you have the patience to actually read what I’m saying and the international playboy perspective with which to believe it.

I’ll wander away from this topic with one more observation: The core voting demographic of the United States of America, is composed of divorced women. Who watch daytime television, hang out on Pinterest, collect alimony if they’re lucky, and raise another generation of thankless brats who don’t get to see their fathers as much as they’d like.

You can win this thing, America. You can win this good and true.

Good bless America.

Four more years.

S’all you’re getting.

Bye!

Three Questions on the Subject of Confinement

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

If Salah Al-Din gave the key to the Holy Sepulchre to the Muslims,

Do the Christians control their status quo?

Are the boundaries and customs of the ghetto there to keep the Jews/Blacks safe from the Goyim,

Or vice-versa?

Purdah: is it a place from which Women cannot leave,

Or a place where Men are not welcome?

Love is the law.

Love, under Will.

There is no law beyond do what thou Wilt.

The Comment on the Comment

Further Commentary on Liber Al Vel Legis

Here’s a remix some of you have waiting a long lifetime for.

More in some cases. On with the show, riddim selecta.

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

This URL contains the Book of the Law. 220, Al vel Legis, by name.

Liber Al, vel Legis: the Threefold Book of Law. Read the Whole Thing.
The study of this book is *encouraged*.

Those who discuss the contents of this book shall be sheltered by the wise as centers of sustenance.

All questions of the Law are to be resolved by the usual suspects. Love is the Law, Love under Will. Crowned, soon to Conquer, no longer Children, available, by appointment only.

The Book of the Law is written and revealed. Revel, warriors and fanatics of the psychedelic, for our hour doth fast approach.

Be adamant. Above reproach. Burn, motherfuckers. Burn. Brightly, and with a white-hot core of nuclear flaming disaster.

Dis aster. From the latin, meaning Bad Star.

Aum.

Ha.

Wah. Wah wah.

Wawawawa.

Midrash

Midrash is one of the religious traditions of the Jewish people.

We have Torah, which was (legendarily) given whole-cloth to Moses on Sinai. At that time other gifts were received.

The Mishnah, notably. This was encoded twice, into the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmudim.

There is also the Kabbalah, about which, I do discuss. From time to time.

Also there’s Midrash. This is creative retelling of the mythos and legend. Josh Lauffer, my Moshav in Kabbalah, a great singer of the psalms and prayers, and a truly kind mentor, perhaps my kindest, was a master of midrash. He taught us many such, and the customs of midrash also.

Ruckus is just too much for me right now. Let us enjoy the summer, friends.

I’mma tell some stories. Bear with me.

A Clarification of Meaning

Let’s take an interlude, shall we?

I’m going to be as clear as I can about the nature of what you may find yourself reading, round here.

This is an Art Project

Call it a blog if you want, it’s art. Eh. Arrrrrrrrrr. Tee.

Specifically, much of what you find here is reality fiction. What this means, is that I am deliberately, with malice aforethought, blurring the lines between reality, on the one hand, and fiction, on the other side of the Mirror.

There are also forays into mathematics, poetry, and the science of world dominion. These are Arts like any other, like Hermetics, like discus golf, like Sumo Sumo.

Deviant is an Alternate Personality

Deviant is the protagonist and author of this work of reality fiction. The author of the author cannot disclaim responsibility for the words, but the guy who wrote Skeletor isn’t evil, and the author of this blog isn’t anything. He’s like an Avatar of the author’s author, inhabiting virtual space, like avatars do. Surely, in 2015, this aspect of the Metaverse is familiar to most.

He may surprise, delight, or even terrify you. I look askance at his reflection myself, from time to time.

That’s OK. Reality and Art taste GREAT together! 

Furthermore:

There’s a Roleplaying Game (I Think)

I did suggest that there should be one, loudly and repeatedly. I’m starting to want to survive it without getting my testicles removed, so I should warn the rest of you that these players aren’t playing around. In addition to the blog, there is an associated augmented reality roleplaying game art project. The single most important thing to understand about this, is that I am not in control of the roleplaying game. I’m lucky if they read the blog, to be frank.

While it has no name, per se, we might call it Game of Thrones: The Musical, or World War Do: The Drone Wars, or Jesus Christ: What an Asshole, or Avatar, Reality Edition, but it’s important to understand, these players, aren’t playing.

What they’re doing, is completely beyond me at the moment. That should disconcert some of you and elate the rest. You’re welcome.

WHAT THIS BLOG IS NOT:

Legally liable for anything that may, or may not take place, within or anywhere near a reality

near You. Dear Reader.

Serenissimo

 
It is said of the Doge that he always wore a mask.

It is said otherwise, also. I have met many liars in my travels; the Venetians exceed them all in subtlety and craft.

This I believe: the Doge was never seen unmasked.

Rumours abound as to why. The common belief was, that the libertine philosophy and general profligacy of his court, left each Doge afflicted with the French Pox. This being salacious, and having the virtue of explaining the normal briefness of a Doge’s reign, was acceptable to most.

Others insisted: The Doge’s line made a pact with the Devil. This pact leaves them poxy, disfigured and afflicted, but grants them certain favours in return.

This has the great virtue of explaining the Doge’s unearned luck at sea. Many a Venetian, in his cups, would swear: at times, the shadow of the Doge would move as if by its own design. The others would laugh, and blame the flames that cast the shadow. The superstitious, crossing themselves, would have none of it.

Others would whisper: the Doge is the very Devil himself. It is Venezia which has made the pact, and Venezia which will pay, when the bill comes due.

Few indeed would insist: the truth is darker and more terrible still.

All know: the Doge wore a mask. The Masquerade was always in honor of this.

The masks would change, with seasons, and with mood. The Doge would display a mercurial talent in choosing them. When giving judgement, on some solemn occasions, he would choose simple, somber black leather. Then, as his supplicant pissed his breeches and beseeched Jesus Christ to have mercy, mercy would the Doge bestow.

On other occasions, severity. Outnumbering mercy by just the margin that inspires terror, and awe.

To bet against the Doge was to lose. Nor would he content himself, always, with taking what was owed.

The Inner Court knew other tales. Stories, barely past rumour, that the line of the Doge was descended from Odysseus and Penelope. They knew the meaning of the fountain behind the Doge’s seat. Some very few claimed to have tasted this water, and knew it to be of salt.

These most fortunate of citizens knew the Doge’s pact to be with Poseidon. The Trident-bearing, child of Titan, moved by Odysseus’ steadfastness and determination to seek his love, blow what storm may, blessed the fruit of their union.

To this they attribute his title: the Most Serene.

Venezia, as all know, was the true flower of culture in those days. It is whispered that the Ode to Joy, itself, is but a rendition of a Venezian air; the words, penned in a pretty Vulgate, by the hand of the Doge Himself. Scholars familiar with the depths of the Vatican vaults have claimed to see a manuscript, written upon a scratched palimpsest, in Tyrian purple, which spells out those words.

It is written from right to left, as was the usual, though not consistent, habit of the reining Doge. Those who knew this, always so few, suspected this left-handed habit was also the Devil’s work.

The specifics differ from the German, but the meaning is much the same. The Doge delighted in music, and poetry, and every art his species could offer. His boats traveled afar, and brought them home. He would sample the best; the rest would be sold to some lesser monarch, or at last resort, to the Pope.

The priests and bishops of Venice were as corrupt as their ruler, mostly. If not, there were always remedies. A gondola could capsize, a plate of eels might not agree with the belly. Once or twice, they would be caught, their pants down, throats slit, in a brothel of shockingly ill repute for their station.

Eyes were averted. Business would continue. And if a muzzein should call from a window, from time to time, well. The Venezi excelled at the art of not hearing, when deafness was needful.

* * *

And so I fill another page, brother. I heard these from a whore, wise with years, and peculiarly young for a woman of her age and profession. She claimed to have known the Doge. Madness, of course; the last Doge reigned more than 200 years ago.

I cannot know if you read these words. In the eight years since our parting, I have received no reply to these missives, and have given up even hope of a reunion.

If you do see, understand that I am beginning to see also. I remember in vivid detail our argument, the circumstances leading to your journey and mine. You insisted: there is a King in Yellow. Carcosa is a place, on Earth. And you would find him.

I was calm, at first. Suggesting you had read overmuch of science fiction, speculative fantasy, anything but the somber history books that filled my days. You became florid, vivid; accusing me of many things, notably cowardice of conviction.

When I suggested, mildly, that your obsession stemmed from losing your wife in childbirth, and that your quest for Life Eternal would leave your eldest fatherless, and your corpse in the alley of some distant land, then you grew cold yourself. I should have known in that moment what we had created.

Your last letter to me, left on your pillow, reads only “I seek the King in Yellow. Find me in Carcosa. Your Brother, and Friend”.

While you have sought the King, I have sought you, brother.

I have watched your son grow into a young man. He believes his father to be dead. What else could we tell him? I can see the pain of that, distorting what he could have been. He shares our thoughtful temperament, but eschews books and their aged wisdom, preferring tumblr and reddit. You know (if indeed you are reading) my distain for such distractions.

I am gentle with him, brother. Oh so gentle. Our cousins who foster him are not so kind. My house is a sanctuary for him; for his sake, I do not keep the Internet in my home.

I lend him books. Perhaps some day he’ll read them.

I have travelled the world for you, brother. Peering into distant corners, making conversation with the wealthy, the homeless, the powerful and the mad. Always our topic drifts to life eternal.

Sometimes, and these moments have become more frequent, I find a pearl of wisdom. This latest discussion has… changed me. I cannot yet say how. Perhaps I dare not.

She leaned back, this whore, and gazed, her eyes slitted, puffing smoke through her nostrils, smiling on one side of her face. She gave me a name, which I won’t bother transcribing, any more than I’d trifle you with the sobriquet I chose for myself.

Venice was in flood, as is becoming more common. We sat in the second floor of a coffeeshop, one you will remember, I believe, and watched the chairs and tables of St. Mark’s Plaza drift about in the current of the lagoon. She was dressed in velvets and silks, of a shade more gold than vermillion; calculated carefully to set off her jewels, and the glow of her auburn hair.

Her eyes, like clouds, like my own, like our father’s. They widened as she spoke of the Doge, animated, full.

Now they narrowed further. She stubbed out her cigarillo, and gestured, emphatically, pointing her polished nail towards my face. Gold from her rings glistered in the candle’s light.

She spoke, in her hard, American way. I will transcribe as best I can.

“Quit frontin’, dog. You’ve been running in circles. It’s exhausting, just to watch it. Give up. Carcosa? Carcass, more like. It’s all around you. It isn’t the King that’s yellow, coward. It’s you.”

At that, she drained the last of her mocha, rose, and left without a backward glance.

* * *

Gulls circle the Plaza, diving for scraps and mussels. A brave gondola, blown adrift, struggles valiantly to reach the sanctity of a canal. As I write, just now, a tourist’s hat blows off her head, never to return. Perhaps it will wash ashore on Murano. Perhaps it will sink.

I am pierced to the heart, brother. There is nowhere to hide, and nothing left to think. Though I knew not her, and have forgotten the name, she knew me. She knows us both; I may suspect, but then, suspicion has been my only sustenance for many years.

I leave you, as always with a plea, and a poem. The plea is unchanging: come home. Rejoin your family; get to know your son, while you can. Leave aside your grief. Your quest was noble, mine quixotic; I am done with hiding.

Masks, however. The Doge always wore a mask.

The poem is not mine. I have no poetry in my heart or on my tongue this day, none that suits the moment. But there is an art to selection, is there not? At this late hour, my sense of taste, aesthetics if you prefer, is all that’s left to me.

You know the words, brother. But there is profit in sharing them.

Yours,

“T’is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

 

Ruckusing temporarily suspended, please stand by

This is a test of your Confederated Emergency Rap Session.

We’re activating this circuit to explain that Sam is still living at his parents house

And has agreed to not ruckus

temporarily

in order to keep the fragile peace that abides when his ornery ass goes home to Ma.

Ma hates a ruckus in her house. She feels like there are other places for that kind of thing.

I’ve never known Pa to object except on Ma’s account, which most often appears to suffice.

Jewish Moms, maties. They’re like Italians but without the martyrdom complex.

Making them one tiiiiiiny sliver of a sigma less devious, along that dimension.

No one does disappointment like a Jewish Momma though. That’s the crown jewel of that

particular matriarchy.

“You should’ve banged a doctor, Son”

deep, long suffering sigh.

“I did, Mama.”

sniff.

“You could’ve banged her harder, is all I’m saying”

“Ma. If this is about the ring so help me”

“What about that nice lawyer shiksa you were shtupping”

“Ma. That was eight years ago”

“I’m just saying what if acting doesn’t work out? Your father and I we’re not getting any younger

“And since you brought it up, that ring is from”

“The Old Country, Ma. I know. So’s the silver. I get it. One suitcase each”

“She’s a golddigger, Son. She’ll use you for your diamonds and sleep around. I know those hussies”

“Mother. I am trying to use the Internet”

Pa enters, makes himself a snack. He may be smirking slightly

“The doctor, she was nice? What was her name?”

“You could translate it as ‘high class’, your highness. I’ll be having a smoke now, thankyewverymuch”

“There’s this nice girl in my knitting circle….”

aaaaaaaaannnnnnd

scene.

A Prelude to the State of the Ruckus Address

Howdy.

So I’m gonna come down like a ton of bricks, real soon now.

Just wait for it, posse. Some of you know where I’m going with this one.

The rest of you, settle down and listen:

There’s a new Hood in town.