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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