Saturday, January 27, 2018

Fresh Kills _ Tyranny of Chance - Day 20


Tyranny of Chance - Day 20
I begin to fade. I am feeling dizzy.
I am not in a physical body but I feel like I am being tossed back and forth with great pressures on me.
Is this some sort of punishment? This roller coaster ride effect without a body?
Am I being submitted to some anger from some other quadrant?  Do my relatives object to my telling of my tale which interweaves with part of their tale?
In fact I have to wonder.  Does everybody with a simple tale or a complex tale get the same forty pieces of time to dissect and reconcile a past life, the recent one that is? 
I used that past life term. I have nothing against the concept of reincarnation except that in my recent life I came to the conclusion that being reincarnated by reward and punishment levels is just another religion con job but only done mostly to the people in the east. 
That somebody is born rich because they deserve to be rich is so full of crap.
And worse than that, that I was born poor because I am being punished for some other life.  
It is all just a social con and another form of crowd control.
The whole universe revolves about the tyranny of chance.
It’s by chance that most things happen.  Somebody has to be the bloody Queen of England and somebody has to clean out her bloody stables. It is chance. It is a tyranny of numbers.  Just so many slots at the top of a pyramid or food chain.  And many more, in the to be eaten, bottom of the food chain, pyramid of life.
That people have memories of other lives is another con.  In a life of millions of frames of TV, movies, uncatalogued memory data, anybody can remember a childhood dream and embellish upon it.  Anybody can dream.  And sometimes a dream is just a dream. Like this one.
The shaking stops. 
I have been thinking of the Muslim limbo or purgatory where two nasty angels are supposed to rough you up or feed you questions in a test or some other nonsense. In fact in the back of my mind, I had been thinking that the two lost coffins in Number Two’s lobby might have been an entrance device for such angels to enter my post-death dream here.
In fact when I was just shaking and thinking about the two angel tour guides or whatever I remember the two Patricks.
I had not thought of them for decades.  They lived in some other quadrant of my community.  They were walking home another way one day and I remember them, not so much because of the pushing shoving kind of normal boyhood animus they were displaying but they were displaying it in front of me. I was not certain how to react.  I wanted to jump in and play their game whatever it was.
But on this one day in particular, I was supposed to bring home a loaf of bread and I went into a store I never went into to avoid them so to speak and they followed me in with youthful loud exuberance.  I got a dirty look from the German storekeeper as I made my purchase for the dinner table.
The bread was pre-plastic.  It was wrapped in a thick wax paper.  Needless to say the bread got crushed in the strange walk home that day with the two Patrick’s.  It was a strange social interface for me.  I was always so painfully shy all my life.  And I grew up in a strange corner of the geography where there were no children my age amidst the row houses and factories and the noisy elevated train one block away and visible across an empty lot.
Empty lot. The thought comes to mind.
My mind is receiving energies.  Energies?
What was it that Saint Peter said about energy?  Words are energy.  Words printed on paper are energy.  I exist as part of that energy.
In some essence, I, more likely what is left of my mortal body, is now part of some lot.  It is not empty yet but emptying out into another space and becoming an empty lot.
They are removing the World Trade Center piece by piece by bloody piece.
I see some photo on some Internet site.  I see a chuck of meat, is it meat? No is part of some body’s human thigh.  It is red. No. It is more orangey.  Is that what a body part looked like drained of its blood?  Or is the orange color some plastic or chemical that has merged with it as was part of the imploding building collapse and thrown out, tossed here and landing right on the sidewalk of 130 Liberty St., a building with a great a big mesh net over its façade.  I see the draping material is there to conceal a great gash in the façade of the building.  And I focus on a big American flag draped on the building over the mesh fabric.
It is the “black widow”.  The energy of the words, of the thoughts formed in the other real world, they are filtering into me and I can see the sad witness of a building still standing but wounded and still witness to what is left of the mess of the destroyed world trade center.
For some reason I cannot turn.  I do see a reflection of the mess in the reflection of glass, dirty glass, behind the mesh, and I hear the word Kaaba.
Kaaba?  What is that?
And as if to answer the question, I am in a crushing surge of living humanity all pushing and in circular motion around another masked building somewhere covering in a fabric material,.  What is this? It is that Arab thing. It is that Muslim thing. That pilgrimage thing I have read about. What is the name…
In my typical shy fashion, I wish to escape this crowd, this mob caught up in some animal like fervor.   
Am suddenly inside a strange room lite by hanging votive candles.  What is this, a church? The interior has white marble walls and paved marble tiles on the floor, there are three pillars supporting a roof.  The room would be symmetrical except that there seems to be a closet in the corner with a brass like door.
I am inside the Kaaba. A rare privilege. Really?
What is this curious building? What is it? What was it originally? A stable, a warehouse, a temple? …
Outside tens of thousands are marching in circles in streams of sweat, energy, chaos, purpose, energy.  Are they in imitation of a whirlwind, a vortex, a galaxy?
The noise and the smell are human but the thought is God. …
And in thought of the word God comes a phrase.
I am in the Hands of God…




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