A Man With A Half-Eaten Face

It is Sunday morning at five am. The full moon party was Saturday night. This one, the current one — there have been many moons spent on islands — this morning Golem prepares a cup of coffee at four and looks at the morning star. He has started reading about religious things on the internet, and he thinks he knows what has been in communication with him on the island. Her name is Inana, there may also be Balder—the god of beauty. Here we have the goddess of love and god of beauty. Well, and then there is CHaRlie.
He sits this morning in the same chair that he sat in the night before and looks at the morning star. Later that morning he will take a walk — well, that morning was actually a few years back. He takes a walk this morning but remembers back to returning from a walk on a morning years ago and finding that he had a whole part of the story written for him. When he sat down on the porch, the story came out of his mouth and through his fingers tapping on keys — some people wonder how people write — Golem walked. He thinks he has entered into a zone beneath Venus and on the sand that has enabled a sort of direct communication with the scribe — that person who occupied Venus with Inana for a time. He sincerely believes that something had a story it wanted written down. This mythology, which was nature that has since been buried through the ‘advancement of man’ and made un-seeable in the culture of machines, was trying to find some human entity to tell its story to, before it was too late.
Golem hesitated to tell anyone about this stuff, but he did endeavor to write the story down, and even this Sunday morning he sits near the center, the communicating antenna, so to speak, that runs through the KC Bungalows—that will be destroyed soon — the bungalows are going to burn and another new hotel will be built in a human or inhuman effort to block out this one remaining communication channel with the natural world; an effort made to keep people in shackles and to blind them from any natural existence that cannot be capitalized on and turned into cold hard, unforgiving cash. And it is here that I show you chapter one from Golem’s book. A book he considers so unlikely and so incriminating and so defining of his soul that he has chosen the pseudonym of Jack B. Wily as some clever manipulation to keep people from knowing what he has done. He has even further disguised himself through the creation of a ‘Charls’ with that odd spelling of his name and not directly related to the devil who goes in Golem’s head by the moniker ‘CHarLie’. The reality of the situation is that this Golem, who on this morning is sitting, scratching his feet against wood worn by sand, salt, sun and the passage of time, put together the story—part of it that he didn’t believe he wrote — and considered putting Inana’s name to it, or the scribes name since he sensed that this story was being told to him as he sat on the porch. We must consider what events led Golem to this conclusion that some will probably only deem him insane for considering, but alas, here is mere summary of years. Those who wish to garner an understanding as to what could make someone believe they were indeed communicating with an entity in space, may have to wade through the entire tale. May God be with you if you go there.
He finds on this Sunday morning, before sunrise, a mangled TV Tuner Box with its USB connection on his porch and pieces of it strewn about. A man with a half-eaten face lies in the sand, and he goes back into his bungalow and waits dawn. He thinks of his plan to kill a few billion souls. Some of them are women, many men, and as women read this tale they need remember that Golem was not an enemy of women — though he used words like pussy and stuff like that that may not be politically correct, he was their friend.