The Link Above ... and then on to the Blog

This book is the cumulative knowledge gained through living in Thailand for eight years and traveling on a budget. It contains complete itinerary with logistics of a trip from Bangkok to the southernmost Thai island of Koh Lipe and then up along the Andaman coast and crossing over the Kra Isthmus and out onto the Gulf of Thailand. It contains notes on Chang and Samet and other islands. It is a kit in the sense that it tells you how to go about things, such as outfitting a hut with lights on the porch and how to avoid the rip-offs that can occur. Thousands of bits of pieces making up tips for travel in Thailand. While written by a budget traveler, it is also of value to the high-end traveler, who can use this kit to explore less commercial areas and as a guide to specific locations. It is not a mere listing of locations or a standard tourist guide that while good, often leaves tourists staring at a hundred places and not able to decide easily an accommodation or a restaurant. This is a ‘How to Guide,’ written by a guy who has stayed on islands many times, for up to eight weeks straight. He knows how to get what you want and how to take your trip to a higher level. Jack Wily, the author, is currently traveling in Thailand and will support you through email or guide services, if you desire, while you are here in Thailand. He might be convinced to give out his cell number. Jack is the author of a number of fiction books and stories. This particular book can be found on Amazon for 14.99 plus any related Amazon shipping charges. If you order directly from Jack, he will knock a dollar off the price and depending on location in America pick up the shipping charge or a percentage of it. The book will be shipped immediately on PayPal verification and probably it will arrive within 48 hours. Drop an email to Island of Sand Publications at islandofsand@yahoo.com if you would like a copy of the book, and after you have purchased the book, or if you have any questions. Your copy will be new and untouched by human hands ... except for the people packaging it that is. If you live outside the contiguous U.S. and wish a copy of the book, please email me for applicable shipping charges or order from Amazon. While I sit on the edge of the sea, I see a lot of hotel people walking by who are paying up to twenty times my cost per night, and while I, too, travel that way at times, I know and sometimes hear them say ... ‘We should try that sometime,’ and I wanted to tell them how and how trouble-free this kind of vacation can be, and that, along with my love of the sea, islands, and sky is what motivated me to write this book. Hope to see you out there ... and you know ... I just might.

This blog contains-buried on the Island of Sand in a treasure chest-five threads that can be separated out by clicking on the labels: Writing Craft, The Bazarre Tale of Golem L. Window-Island of Sand, The Non-Fiction Version of Island of Sand, Thailand Travel, and a writer's Journal. The chest itself is located not at the end of the rainbow but under its arc on Elephant Island. I buried it there. In front of the huts. The rest of the skeleton ha ha matey... I'll never tell. By the way, if you would like a paperback copy of my guide ... Thailand Travel Kit send me an email at islandofsand@yahoo.com and for those of you in the contiguous United States I will ship direct for about 13.99 (California, will inform if shipping cost exceeds limit for some states) Paypal available.


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Monday, June 29, 2009

Golem leafs through an in-flight magazine

The extra-ordinary event is when at age sixteen, Charls tries to give himself an appendectomy. It is weird enough to attempt such a thing, but Charls doesn’t have appendicitis. He spends several days in the medical library at the University of California, Irvine, and after reading all sorts of things, he sets up a contraption using mirrors. It isn’t until he gets into things, and is able to find the appendix, amongst other things, that things start to go wrong. An ambulance is called and doctors do have to remove his appendix, as Charls has tied it off and necrosis sets in before he gets to the hospital. He has accomplished something never before seen. He has caused a case of appendicitis. It is written up in a medical magazine. It is the last time he tried to take apart himself. Besides, he already knows what makes him tick.

ANTS

Golem leafs through an in-flight magazine. He sees nifty things for sale and chic restaurants in Asia and things like that. There aren’t any ads for huts on the edge of the sea. Only people who find them know their value.

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How the Heavens Laughed Just Then

Weaving through trees of life and fruit and a long distant past they thought. Golem bought a coconut and drank its juice in the shell and felt younger as he drank. Long ago a star clock like pose struck some distant chord, a note. In that note lay the path to heaven, but that path was in the soul and not in the machine as some kings thought and seem to continue to think. Some kings thought they could pave their way to heaven with gold, believing that with just the right pyramid that everlasting life was possible; if the passageways were aligned just right, they would make their way to heaven. How the heavens laughed at man just then, a granite lion grinned. It was a massive beacon, nothing more, nothing less. It pointed the way the ship went and came from. It wasn’t any accident that apes and monkeys and cave dwellers suddenly became intelligent. If the earth was 46 years old the last two hours would contain all contemporary history, he had read in The God of Small Things. The ship came two hours in the past and boy did men fuck things up fast. World Wars, death through famine, endless religious ranting. The Jews and the Muslims even battled over who it was that built the pyramids. God must smile, or would if it wasn’t so grim. It was neither of them of course. A ship left, leaving an advanced race. They knew the meteor was on its way. The bird like things applauded. Or a Sun exploded leaving no trace of an advanced human race. Would anyone know just how advanced a previous epochs people were? Egyptians who were not even Muslim then seemed to understand the pyramids as machines that would bring them everlasting life … somehow shoot their souls off into Sirius. They had read that those who understand the pyramids would have everlasting life, but had not learned that it was not a physical transformation, or perhaps a single soul on earth that was referred to in the glyphs. It seemed to Golem that these Egyptians had made up a religion around a machine that had another purpose. Then again it seemed to Golem that there were extremist Jews that wanted everyone to know it was they who built them. And now it was Muslims against Jews and Jews against Muslims … so what’s new?

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“I’ve got paper cuts Jack, have a heart.”

Perhaps, in order to understand CHarLie better, some familiarity with the Devil is necessary. What exactly is the Devil? Sometimes the Devil is no more than a perception of something against one’s own interests. This is a very practical definition that takes into account what we know and what we don’t know. “The Devil made me do it” is a phrase we might use to describe actions that we have taken that have adversely affected our lives. In fact, if you were able to ask CHarLie why he did what he did he might reply “The Devil made me do it” and in CHarLie’s case he might be right. Golem himself would be able to give no better explanation, perhaps believing that CHarLie was the Devil in disguise. Was CHarLie controlled by the Devil? Was he actually the Devil? These are things that the reader will have to decide. It will not be an easy decision; for, not all of CHarLie is evil, not all of his motivation wrong, and not all of his actions unexplainable. He may in fact have been saner than Golem. That is up to you to decide. Society will take years to come to a conclusion. I will not be here to hear the final verdict.

“That’s right Jack, and when I get out of this book, I’m gonna make sure of that. You’re making me out to be some sort of maniac.”
“You’re half in and half out now Golem, I could squash you with a stick.”
“I’ve got paper cuts Jack, have a heart.”

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At Some Point cHarLie Would Shut Down Golem...

Al Qaeda guano threatened the advancement of civilization and tried to bring people under the iron yoke of fundamentalist Islam. CHarLie was plotting to kill a good chunk of civilization off entirely. He figured the only one who could stop him would be the rightful owner of the body whose mind he now occupied; read Golem. Golem represented somewhat of a problem. CHarLie knew that Golem, no matter what his opinions on government might be, would never acquiesce to the annihilation of as many people as CHarLie thought would die. Already he was lying to Golem, telling him the numbers would be in the hundreds of millions. CHarLie thought the final results would be counted in billions. The amount of cyanide (At this time he was not sure if it would be cyanide or the final version of the bird flu virus.) he was planning on using was much greater than Golem knew. The mixture itself had an effect of enhancing the killing power of the cyanide gas emitted, causing it to disperse more and to be more readily absorbed into the human body. CHarLie had not told Golem the whole story. CHarLie’s spreadsheet told him the number would go from millions to billions. The question was how many billions. For years now people had thought about the effect of nuclear conflict — a conflict that might now be necessitated by Al Qaeda. In a surprise twist as many or more might be killed on a New Year’s Eve without the fission of a single atom of uranium. Golem had to be kept shielded from the facts.
At some point CHarLie would shut down Golem and take over the operation all together; he even thought that Golem might shut himself down, half insane with the existence of a second personality and planning such a murderous scheme; complicit in the endeavor, yet not able to carry it out to yield maximum results.
CHarLie was capable of carrying the plan to fruition. CHarLie would take over when the time was right. He would be the strong one. For now, he needed Golem. Probably he would always need him because it was in Golem’s mind that he existed. Golem had created an entrance for him in the beginning, consciously or subconsciously, as an outlet for his anger, but in the end had been unable to stop his creation from taking over his mind. At some point Golem would relinquish ultimate authority to CHarLie, but by that time Golem would be mad, incapable of exercising his own free will. Golem’s creation would take its creator by the hand and lead it to a place it did not want to go, and to do things it did not want to do. It would act on Golem’s emotions; carry out plans made in anger that might otherwise have been aborted. Golem had been pissed off at the world for its abuse of character and individuality. He, perhaps, wanted to kill for revenge, but there would be questions asked later about sanity and whether or not Golem, in the last months before the second coming, or something resembling it, was any longer in control of events. In actuality, he would not be in control of events months before the atrocity “he” was to commit. A plea of insanity would apply when the time came for justice. He would probably be the most insane man on the planet by that time. He would receive no punishment; only God could punish the CHarLies of this world. CHarLie was a creation of society that existed in someone’s mind, but never the less, CHarLie existed and was a result of sociological events in civilization. People had created CHarLie. Golem had been created by God and had been a vessel for CHarLie to grow in. The Devil finds ways to do its work. People’s actions affect the lives of others. Each interaction between people changes the people involved and future events. The people who have been changed go on to change others. In the end we affect each other. CHarLie was the result of the actions of many people. He was created by society as a whole. Society would have to deal with the consequences. God works in strange ways, say some. The Devil works in concrete ones.

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He Knew the Place Existed Somewhere

At that time long ago, before the first meteorite destroyed ninety percent of life on Earth, they buried their spacecraft deep in a mountain in France. It emitted a frequency that communicated with the human mind as well as the Venusian one. It just so happened that the transmission penetrated the Earth on its way to Venus at exactly the location of Golem’s hut.
These souls could not be tempted to return one day to Venus. The virus they carried would decimate any Venusian who then one day put on a body suit to holiday in Thailand. Life in other galaxies would be decimated.
And now these humans were only a millennium away from intergalactic travel. The experiment had to be ended before it was too late. That is if this sect of the Venusian race was to survive. Even amongst Venusians there was good and evil. The good were very good and the evil were very evil. May have been an institution like Heaven and Hell.
Yet, he would miss the beaches of Thailand and intercourse with the humans. He would exist once again in the sky and sand and water as a reference to spirituality for those who looked or asked where we came from or why we are here. This lengthy holiday in Thailand was good, and at times he fell dangerously close to falling in love with the humans as a few of his ancestors had done so long ago. Yet, the fallen angels reminded him of consequence. He slept with them, but did not allow much time with any individual for fear that he would not be able to execute his mission. The virus was far along, but had not yet reached critical mass. These rascally humans wanted to hang on for as long as possible. They seemed to be saying, each and every one of them, “I want to live forever.” The Venusian knew that forever was a very long time. People loved a physical existence and so did he, but he remembered home and of not having to labor for the fruits of existence. He pressed on. He kept an eye on Golem. There was something going on.
He had spied Golem the other night drinking his eighth light beer and heard him mumble … eight killed by nineteen-year-old in mall. He thought he saw a tear. He was looking into his mind. Golem was thinking that if someone walked into congress and let off a hundred rounds, he wouldn’t care. They were the ones who seemed to think that assault rifles should be stocked on shelves in the Seven Eleven and who built room additions on their houses with money from the NRA. He wondered if any of them ever saw the blood that originated in their hands. He knew if they were the ones being shot at a law would be passed tomorrow. It would be a hundred rounds fired in retaliation for forty thousand gunshot deaths each year. The government would have to take responsibility for its actions.
The amount of blood being shed in his nation made him think of a bottle of blood that had been attached to him once. He in no way saw himself as God, yet he did think that if we looked at life as a creation and a beautiful thing created in wisdom than we had to feel pain when we saw the destruction of it. The thing that had bothered him about his stay in the hospital when he had his operation was the small Nerf-sized football shaped bottle with flat ends and the words Redon Vacuum written on it. It was attached to him and each day a slow and steady flow of blood dripped into it and the depth of the blood in the bottle increased. He was okay with intravenous tubes attached to his hand, but this part of him was attached to him with a tube that was inserted into the wound and went deep inside his scrotum. It was as if the bottle itself was a part of him like an organ in a canopic jar, it contained his blood and was not a transfusion. Everywhere he went he carried the bottle with him in his hand. He carried a bottle of his own blood with him. For several days when he got out of or into bed he would pick up the plastic bottle or place it hanging from the rail of the bed or sit in a chair with the pet bottle of blood on the floor beside him. He felt as if it were his friend. It didn’t really matter where the bottle was as long as it sat beneath the level of that where it was attached. The thing that most kept his attention was that he could not go home until the flow of blood in the bottle stopped.
About the only place safe from the Venusian plan would be a place where there were no birds. Golem thought of those words and in what place there were no birds. Recently, while he was teaching a class a bird flew across the room and missed his head by an inch. He ducked in surprise and looked at the students. It was gone in a flash. Was it trying to tell him something? For an instant he thought that maybe this place of no birds existed only in the mind, but he could not be convinced that that was the case. He knew the place existed somewhere.

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Plan A Was the Only Way to Save the World

To think that one day this Charlie would become his running mate, and sometimes Golem thought that Charlie got interested in him in his younger days before the accident. And it was true, Charlie knew of Golem’s existence years before he started working at Windows, doing the killing and other odd chores that Charlie knew Golem could not do… and it was imperative for Window to be a successful corporation. Because it was years ago that Plan B was instituted into the plan… and things were moving along, credit cards were the next institution to go down after the housing market. Society was being slowly disassembled and if Plan B swept up the final mess there would be no people left. At least Golem’s Plan A had a chance of survival… after all a quarter of the world’s population would survive, and maybe Golem’s motivation had to be created in Golem’s mind, and maybe now Golem couldn’t feel a hundred percent terrific about its outcome, but the day would come when Golem would come to understand that Plan A was the only way to save the world and that he was in effect a hero, or would be if when the moment came he chose to leave on the spider that would leap into so many people’s homes. If he could leave the spider on even as he became more and more aware of how many would truly die on New Year’s Eve of 2012. If he could take and then handle the knowledge that he had played a role in such an event that surely dwarfed any responsibility that the pilots over Hiroshima might have felt, knowing they had wiped out an entire city after photographing it from above.

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Antother Piece of the Sea Will Die

Of course, it was he who created Golem… or so he had thought before Golem crawled out of the book. It was about that time that Golem started hearing the words … I created you Jack … all of you … consider yourself being born in this instant. I have projected you Golem and you are projecting your own life. You see what you hope to see and find what you hope to find. Think about it Jack. Think hard. What is the world really? Do the physicists know? Reality Jack, reality, and someday where will you go? Don’t confuse yourself with thoughts of death … this confuses you Jack. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. Think of a cycle and life and death, what is it really Jack. Would you like to know? Take my hand and I will show you. I know both places. What you do project in the end, is the end. Look at the guy on the page of your book. Is he any less real than you or I? The sand filters the seawater Jack. Filters the water. That new hotel will end all that. Jack, stop it. They are going to burn the bungalows down. Another piece of the sea will die, Jack … come along and hold my hand. The antenna … it’s a part of the plan. The birds … home in on it … Their going to put a Jacuzzi in each room.

“What birds?” he looked around, only a tourist was looking at him and wondering what he said.

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Golem Forgets About Jack

Right off he forgot about Jack and, as things turned out, he shouldn’t have, because it was Jack who created him and, of all people, Jack knew what was capable of coming out of life. When Golem took it upon himself to wiggle up the roots of the tree of life, he hadn’t the background to know that now he was capable of good and evil, and knowing a lot about it, and that the two came together so much as to make it seem as if they were inseparable, and a couple of chapters later when he was on his knees on the page and made himself stand up, and as he started to grow in size until the one foot that was still connected to the paper (the other foot came dangerously near stepping in Golem’s morning bowl of oatmeal most mornings) started to take up a considerable amount of the page, the first thing he found himself staring at was two chicks on towels in nothing but the lower half of a string bikini so small that a fellow couldn’t make out what color it was, all dressed in oil under a noonday sun, and he started to feel another bulge that he had seen written in words but was only now coming to understand. There wasn’t any way he was going to go back down the rapidly closing tunnel in the page, and at that point, he wouldn’t have fit anyway. Well, he might have fit if it weren’t for his continuous erection. He might have been able for a moment to jump up and sort of shoot down vertically into the hole, but the way things stood now he most certainly would have gotten hung up on the rim. He looked around him and started making plans and that’s when, shortly before he died, Jack realized that he had to kill him off quick and shortly after realized that he couldn’t kill Golem off no matter what he tried. The guy was alive and plotting things on his own and no amount of written words with plot could kill a living entity that didn’t have at least one foot stuck in the book. So there it is — a book that pulled itself up by the extension cord and started to write itself and releasing characters out on the world to create havoc. The seeds were planted by Jack, but now a whole vinous jungle of things was sprouted, and there was no way Jack could prune it all practically, or keep things from getting out of hand. So you see that’s one way that Jack could say that some of it was a mistake. He was going to bring this issue up at the pearly gates; one spirit to another.
For now, Golem looked down and yawned. There weren’t any way he was going to believe any more of what he read about himself that he didn’t say himself, so for now he looked around at curves and spaces left open beneath bikini bottoms and skin and at a few topless things on the beach and absorbed the warmth of the sand and longed for a beer and wondered if maybe he couldn’t convince Jack to write in a joint somewhere.

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Sunday, June 28, 2009

Golem Crawls Out of the Book

Golem was no longer content with being a character in a book, and he’d survived more than one attempt of Jack’s trying to kill him off. It may be that he got so many characteristics that he developed some emotion; it may be that he figured out the secret of life; it may be the expertise in cloning that Window’s lab came to have. It started somewhere in the middle of the story. Golem got one hand up and out of the page and held on for dear life. He hung on to words and sentences and just plain gripped the page and managed to stay there for a while, and then a few chapters later he got another hand out, and now he really had a grasp on the matter. He hung around that way for quite a bit longer, but when he was finally able to pull his head out, he was quite amazed. He looked around at a vast landscape of very flat looking letters and lines at first and sort of decided for himself what life was all about. At first, just as he got his eyeballs above the surface, the page seemed long and vast and it almost scarred him so that he nearly lost his grip, but as his shoulders started to push the page from below and a bulge formed in the piece of paper, things started to look like the real world. The letters and sentences and words and even the punctuation marks that he hated started to slide off the edge of the world, and a few chapters after that when he popped his shoulders into this new and wonderful dimension and looked up and saw the sky and the sparkling sea he knew right away that he wanted to be alive, and he somehow came to despise Jack for trying to keep him in a book. Why, he even thought of devising some way to kill him and would have except that the guy was so old he figured he’d just bide his time in the new world and wait for that rocking chair that looked so frigging stupid on an island to make its final to and fro motion. That Jack had written in some sin for him already and plenty of it and Golem didn’t want any more of it attributed to him after he got out of the story, made him even more upset. The way he saw things, his slate was blank from the day he lifted his head out of the page, he could not be held responsible for what Jack wrote him out to have done. The other thing that was coming to tick him off was that as he started looking at chapter six, by and by, he came to see that Jack was writing lots of things about him and even called him by a different name, and he thought the guy was making up lots of stuff about him that never did happen, and he had absolutely no recollection of ever having been called Charls or any such dumb name like that. He was ready to get on to chapter ten and out to the island for keeps, because Golem only felt really right when he was on an island, that being the first thing he saw in life and all. If Jack didn’t quit making up lurid tales about him pretty soon he quietly decided under Jack’s nose and around his pen to kill him. For now though he was still growing to the size of a regular human, so he decided to sweat out a few, what to him were phony short chapters of his life. He would set the story right later, and anyway he saw that chapter ten put him right smack where he wanted to be. He did glance something in chapter eight, some sort of plastic inflatable doll that he took some interest in. It’s just that some of the rest read like a Bible to him. He felt like he was being sent off to Sunday school in formal duds when what he wanted to be wearing was swim trunks and a tee shirt all the time.

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The Sand Filters the Seawater Jack

Of course, it was he who created Golem… or so he had thought before Golem crawled out of the book. It was about that time that Golem started hearing the words … I created you Jack … all of you … consider yourself being born in this instant. I have projected you Golem and you are projecting your own life. You see what you hope to see and find what you hope to find. Think about it Jack. Think hard. What is the world really? Do the physicists know? Reality Jack, reality, and someday where will you go? Don’t confuse yourself with thoughts of death … this confuses you Jack. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. Think of a cycle and life and death, what is it really Jack. Would you like to know? Take my hand and I will show you. I know both places. What you do project in the end, is the end. Look at the guy on the page of your book. Is he any less real than you or I? The sand filters the seawater Jack. Filters the water. That new hotel will end all that. Jack, stop it. They are going to burn the bungalows down. Another piece of the sea will die, Jack … come along and hold my hand. The antenna … it’s a part of the plan. The birds … home in on it … Their going to put a Jacuzzi in each room.

“What birds?” he looked around, only a tourist was looking at him and wondering what he said.

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Saturday, June 27, 2009

Imagine Jeffrey Dahmer Ready With A Spoon

What follows is a record of what Charls L. Window did. Whether or not you like him is by and large up to you. Perhaps, you will come to think that he did have some valid motivation—a raison d'être. Most will probably think that he was insane. Maybe he was. But in the world we have come to live in?
None will probably say that Charls was completely evil or completely good. It may not lie in the human spirit to be either of these entities without some of the other mixed in. That may have been where the problem lay. Just maybe, a quest towards a politically correct society had tried to eliminate one and was coming to find that the elimination of a vice, or whatever was determined to be evil at the time, came at the cost of the elimination of a good. The drive towards the ideal society may have been eradicating the good with the bad, leaving in its place a vacuum that filled with evil. There is a difference between bad and evil. Iguania had seen bad. In twenty-five years it would begin to understand evil. It wouldn’t care about bad anymore. Cindy Lauper already knew that girls just want to have fun. Bad could be fun. It wasn’t evil. Evil was more akin to boiling a passerby’s head in a pot and seasoning it with salt and pepper. It wasn’t a reefer smoked now and then or sex with a neighbor.

Imagine this vacuum and its creation. Imagine all the fun you’ve ever had
is gone. Think for a moment that you have done nothing wrong or even
too much bad. Think of the goodness you have done in striving to right
a wrong. What if that wrong is gone and the goodness done
undone? What if now there were only rules made by
others and downloaded to your soul? You go to
school and live your life and do as you are
told. Now look at how it used to be and
enter the void. The aggression and
hate of any soul has no place to
go. Think of the air leaving.
For some time it is okay
until the void breaks
and something
evil takes
place.
It comes in
to fill the void
of right and wrong.
It represents human nature
gone terribly wrong. Unable to
to do good and bad and live out sin
through fantasy, the soul has no place to
turn. It turns to evil as a part of a plan. That
plan is plan B. Think of yourself in a triangular room.
In one corner is Charles Manson with a knife. In another
Hannibal Lecter with a scalpel. You turn towards the third corner
in an effort to escape and in that corner is a pot of water near boiling point.
Standing over it is Jeffrey Dahmer ready with a spoon. You look around…evil fills the room. You are standing in the center. There are no doors. The lights go out, evil has a way with electric town. You feel an incision in the dark and the removal of an organ. Blood is running freely. It is warm. From somewhere in one corner of your mind—the plop of an organ dropped in water. There is pain as Dr. Lector stitches up. Charles Manson shivers with thoughts of an unborn child. And now from someplace in your mind comes a howling laughter.
“Funny huh, how a guy can get inside you and take control of your mind. I’m CHarLie, we are going to get on fine.”
“What?”
“If you like you can stay in the center of your mind. The three of them haven’t eaten in quite some time. It’s up to you. You can come with me by your own device or stay here and stand on moral ground. Hurry up and make a choice. I’m not here for long. There are a lot of souls that need to make decisions. Which way will you go?”
Outside is laughter and the sound of waves, and bungalows. A girl in a bikini and a guy in yellow trunks are walking separately and glance in your direction. Crystal clear water mirroring a sunny sky.
“I can save your soul. I can deliver you from evil. Look around the triangle, there is no way out. Go back to where the vacuum is. I’ll give you that option.”
After a moment’s hesitation you put your hand in CHarLie’s (if you are a woman—CHarLie’d never hold the hand of a man.) and go with him.

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Now I Get Bit. Snakelike Things Appear

I was born. I live in a village in India…
“Very clever Mr. Shaman. Why don’t you just tell them you came from between your mother’s legs and get a little more specific?”
“Golem, you said that to a guy in a bar in the outskirts of Tokyo once. I can’t repeat that here. I think it was after you answered the question about a million times.”
“Here you go … putting words in the mouth of a guy that isn’t finished yet. I haven’t hardly started speaking, and you have me saying bizarre things in bars. The next thing you’ll tell people I sang karaoke for free drinks.”
“You did Golem and one day you will remember it, but for now, slither on down a bit further beneath the pages. You are going to mess up the emotional structure of the story.”

I, like my father, was destined to be the next generation of snake charmers as my ancestors were. It was a fate my government decided for me. My ilk had blood on their hands, spilled by those in power. There were those in India untouchable — I thought not in your land. I thought in your land people controlled their destiny as much as fate allows. I see now those days are gone.

My father saw I knew a lot about snakes when as a kid I could get them to come out of their pots and pose without playing.
He didn’t know how I did this, but he was an old man, and on some days didn’t want to play his flute. He had some problem with his mouth. I cannot now recall exactly what the English term for his condition is. He may have been lazy. That is what I thought at the time.
On those days I sat beside him with a pot for money — I got the snakes out of the pot when customers inquired.
I don’t remember which customer it was that said to my father that I was a shaman in the making, but obviously, it got my father in a mood of contemplation.
Sitting in the Indian sun made me often in the evenings ill and unable to accomplish anything worthwhile, father was contemplating fate and figured he was about to give up work so when the village shaman and self-anointed mayor made an unexpected trip and stop and asked to see his son, he acceded. He may have known the reason. Knowing things is a family tradition.
As I remember … it is long ago, I don’t have a picture from start to finish — he brought and carried in his hand a large pair of dice. As soon as I saw them I knew the reason. What’s more, before he opened the door, I knew that he was coming.
He entered the room, he wanted to leave. He opened his hand.
From where my father was sitting, he couldn’t see the two cubes; I said six and four as if it were conversation. He threw the cubes at my feet in a disdainful, hurried manner. The two dice ended up, of course, on the floor, and on the surfaces pointing towards heaven were the numbers six and four. I had the feeling that he could have changed those numbers if he had been of mind, he let each die roll as a die will roll and my numbers came up the way I planned them.
He gave me a queer sort of look.
Don’t think I was elated.
He turned once again towards the door. He looked like a fly in a coke bottle looking for a way out of a sticky situation.
I saw the tale he wanted told, and didn’t see an advantage in telling it — other than to get me out of a very hot sun, and put distance between me and my father’s cobras. I never did like them.
I agreed to be sold to this man, though now I wouldn’t call him that. There was an indemnity. Forget the details; sit right back, enjoy the tale. It is the tale of a lost crew and a ship not yet wrecked but taking on water. I know you want to know if the ship will go under or not, sorry, I can’t tell ya.
Let me mention that my mother was a Jew, without religion and of mixed origin. My father was Muslim, but had once been baptized in a church. It wasn’t defining. I guess I will be accepted in your country now. I have no God to claim for my religion. Those words on your money. Tell me what they mean — One Nation Under God. It looks to me like that is better than what I see now. What are you to be?

“Come on man, I told you before, it’s things like that that make people mad. Political comments in a book. I’m having enough problems with Jack putting words in my mouth and making me out to be a fool, and now you’ve climbed a pedestal.”
“Listen Golem, you haven’t come alive yet, you can’t start popping up here and there and commenting on things. People aren’t supposed to know that I can communicate with you. Especially Jack. He’s got a plan to piss off the democrats first, and then the republicans. They’ll all be pissed at the end of chapter three. He wants them all mad … says it will bring some things to the surface that have been buried in souls and bothering them. He thinks it might be better if they all get mad and start working things out before it’s too late. Golem, there were two mass shootings in the last seven days. Who the fuck cares who is mad and who isn’t.”

There is something at this point that calls out for some attention. I am a bona fide shaman now. It’s a mystic thing … yes, but all you need to know for now is that I know your thoughts — excuse me for assuming so, but would it be better if I lied, and spied you as you read from somewhere in your head. In fact, I know the thoughts of each character in the story.
Forgive me if I mix up who is telling what. I am striving to keep all the points of view allocated to their rightful owners. I can tell you it isn’t easy for a shaman—more difficult because I am one. How can someone who knows people’s thoughts keep people separated? Hopefully, none of them will sue me if on a rare occasion I give away one of their thoughts to another.
The state of affairs is of inferior quality, one of the characters in the tale is more than one character, or — and at this point — I cannot be certain, there is only one character in the tale. The problem is that the guy has a lot of personalities if that is the case. The whole thing is untenable, and if I had not been looking in the window for some time now, I don’t think I would believe a word of it.
As for me, I certainly never would have chosen to tell the tale if it had not been cast at my feet. It is a double indemnity that ties me to it. One could be paid back, the other is more obscure. I’m fairly certain I could faithfully tell one side, but taken as a whole — as a two-sided coin, it’s a tale that is taxing; even with occasional air conditioning — I think I would be better off in the hot sun with the snakes.
You see … those iga … snakes in pots are easy to predict; I knew they would come out and how to coax them. To tell the truth, I was not a perfect shaman, I cheated a bit, and kept a mouse in my pocket just in case, on a cold day, the snakes did not always heed my call. I cheated a bit but, until now, was not bitten. In complete honesty, I might also add that most times when we take the lids off the pots the snakes come out to see the sunshine. And when I think about it, if I were in a pot and trapped in a place where the sun don’t shine, and someone took the lid off, I’d jump quicker than lickity spit on a griddle. I’d split the scene in the middle.
Now I get bit. Snakelike things appear. I can only tell it the way it happens. There isn’t any way to do that without getting bit. Things come after me. I’m a pickle in a jar in the new deli on the corner; unable to escape until a random customer chooses me, and even then I’ll be devoured. That’s the reason I stay in the jar — other than to see what happens — to try and keep from being eaten alive. Hopefully, when the tale is done, any borrowed funds can be repaid, and I can get back to my native sun.

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The Shamen in the Story

I am not the skin you will soon be in (more like the Iguana on Charls’s shoulder, peering) and I have seen enough not to envy you that. Believe me, in a moment, when I am gone, and you are poured into the mind of Charls, things will change.
The old man, if I met him, would call me snake charmer. I want to see what happens in the end. Of things we cannot see we want to hear.

“Who is this old man? Is it Charles or Jack?”
“Can’t tell ya Golem, not yet. But at least one of them is you.”
“Don’t jive me man.”
“Don’t talk Golem. This is a story of mysticism. Dialog can only screw it up.”
“You’ve got to learn to talk. Some people, when they read a book, only read the dialog.”
“Now, where did you hear that?”
“I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“I don’t think I can understand, or even comprehend, a person who’d skip through a book and only read dialog. I can only imagine someone who is illiterate. Get back in the plot before you mess the whole thing up.”
“Plot is supposed to be a vehicle for story.”
“Golem, your brain hasn’t been created yet. Shut up.”
“It’s just that I started out life innocent and now you guys are making me into a villain. I can’t put it all together. I’m a loveable little kid, and now, just as I make my entrance, everyone is telling me I’m a psychopath.”
“That’s a part of the story Golem. You were a loveable innocent kid, and society created a psychopath out of you. Just read the story and we’ll talk about it later.”
“But if I am a fictional character in a book, how is it that I am writing the book?”
“You were too young once to write a book. Someone had to do it for you. Of course, when you grow up, you’ll write on your own — maybe I’ll go along with that. A line or two at least.”
“No way Jack, the story’s mine.”

Frenzy finds us; it is near. Often nearer than we think — a lot to bear.
Patience, faith — words some don’t hear. But people who believe in people find in their fear, an answer that improves the souls that are not separate. If you could ask Charls what he has learned so far, he might answer that he has learned to listen and hear, and to see what it is in others that they feel, or fear or love. The path is long and tortuous and torturous, things he did he would not have done, yet things done cannot be undone, and the story can only be written as it has occurred. He had no wish to make something that looks bad look good. The parts of the story that are ugly are here. It is in this sea of ugliness and beauty that can be seen what beauty is. Who is it that said that truth is beauty and beauty truth?
Yet, he’s seen a child of one grimace at ugliness with fear. It is not something learned. The soul knows what is ugly and what is beautiful at birth. Do we have something in us at birth that tells us what is true and what is a lie?

Gold does not find you when you pick up a shovel. It does not walk out of the mountain, or float in the stream and take your hand, and exclaim that here is where the golden things lie. It is not a spellbinding thing, this search for the pot at the end of the rainbow. The story is in the looking and in digging a lot of holes and in finding yellowish things that in the end are tin. Diligence makes it right again in the end — we hope, pray, prey. People are looking to find what it is that is not right in the world. Charls has been searching for an answer.

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The Merry-Go-Round

Diary:

The merry-go-round is picking up speed. I, having decided to get dizzy for the first time continue pushing it around, one foot on the ground, another on the bumpy, rough metal plate of the base, and one hand holding on for dear life. Almost falling off, I land, both feet on the ground, my body not knowing which way to turn and my mind revolving still with the merry-go-round. I look in the direction of the nursery school, for me it was my prison; I lived just across the street. I had a home. Why couldn’t I go home? It seemed rude to keep me in such a place. It was the first intrusion of society and practical reality in my life. The other day, while swinging alone, recess long over, I found nine dimes buried in the sand beneath the rough rubber saddle of my swing. Some idiot teacher came out and I told her of my treasure, she said they weren’t really mine and that all the other kids had long ago gone back to their cells, I felt no affinity towards her. She was to me a non-entity, as I was to her. She was an alien I couldn’t relate to. She was the one who had criticized me for teaching the ten little Indian song to another toddler. She said it was a racist song. I thought she was the racist. Thought she was weird to tell you the truth. I was only four years old, our lips were stained purple with the pomegranates we picked from a tree by the fence that separated this place from my apartment. Those are the only two things I remember of these 1960s politically correct kindergarten aides. She only mumbled things and then disappeared back into the sanctuary of an enclosure. I think she was afraid to be outside … to be free, to have a character and a personality. She wanted all the kids indoors. She only felt comfortable there, I believe. Even at the age of four, I was enough of an individual to put off people like her. She didn’t like me. She was anal retentive and wanted to retain kids.

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He Heard Gunshots on the Horizon

But, as he sat on the porch one afternoon trapped by beauty in nature, it wasn’t so much Thailand he was thinking of as his America that was supposed to be an example and a utopia to the rest of the world. Mesmerized by a sunset, transfixed on the morning star, more and more it hurt him as he watched the Thais swimming in the sea, some dreaming of going to America someday. Many afternoons the sparkling water and ever-changing sky held him prisoner in his hammock. He had no idea it’d be this way. An island of sand that waves nibbled at each day as a gunshot rang out in his homeland and took another life and deposited it in a garbage can. He couldn’t take his eyes off what to him looked like a painting in a fresco in Arezzo, Italy— a painting with only ripples of water moving in it as if he had somehow gotten inside and were waving a brush soaked in pastel paints. How could this painting contrast so much with another scene—the thirty-two graduate students shot to death at Virginia Tech or the entire family of eight shot to death by their own daughter on Christmas Eve?

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Friday, June 26, 2009

Before They Ate People They Stole Meat

Before it got worse, before the infrastrucsure really failed, when it only seemed to fail,but actually probably only wobbled, people began to steal meat from the supermarket. Later when it really did fail, they began to eat each other. And that was the beginning of a totally diffent tale. Golem knew what would happen in the cities, how frail their infrastructure was now. Just the other day he was in Carrefour when the power was disconnected. The bar code readers couldn't read. The inventory updating cash registers couldn't update the inventory. Without electricity systems couldn't function. People wandered around dazed in emergency lighting. That system in an instant wasn't there and Golem with twenty baht in his pocket suddenly couldn't use his ATM card. Couldn't travel. Couldn't by food. And it made him wonder what would really happen when it happened. It was scary inside that mall.

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Thursday, June 25, 2009

A Possible World

A Possible World:

It has been said that God made the best possible world; That he did the best he could.
What if one event was changed in a chain of events. How would the outcome differ.

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It Wasn't a Yes/No Question

Charls L. Window is not well known by anyone. Since early childhood his parents have been dismayed by a small lanky kid who isn’t interested in people. He likes to take apart things to see what’s inside them. He breaks thermometers to get at the mercury and pushes the little ball of shiny metal around on the floor. He cuts open golf balls. They are wrapped in rubber band beneath the dimpled white enamel surface and in the center is a sack of liquid. He takes apart everything he can get his hands on. Some things he cannot put back together—they are dead. He wants to know what makes things tick.
At the age of five, he is given a very rudimentary Radio Shack electronic computing device that these days could not be called a computer. It has to be programmed with switches. There are still tube testers in the supermarkets for testing TV tubes to see which one is burned, but more and more, things are being replaced by transistors. Transistors didn’t talk a lot: they just said yes or no, but boy did they have an audience when assembled together. Corporations simultaneously everywhere were listening to what they have to say. As long as the question can be answered by yes or no, and instructions written, a band of transistors could come up with answers to a lot of things. The only problem is that the real question is not a yes/no type of thing.

ANTS

An eerie sound, as the wheels retract. Golem’s balls have traveled up to hide. The guy two rows up tinkers with a cell phone.

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The Van Sped Away With Golem In His Mind

He’s been to Vientiane before, and he loves it. It’s kind of a strange place to call a capitol. It isn’t even a city yet. It’s the largest village in the world. You wouldn’t know it was a country’s capitol at all, if not for the regular procession of sleek black government cars carrying happy diplomats and such from other nations. He knows they’re happy because they wave at him. A lot of contracts are being signed for mega-projects in the country. tic…

ANTS

Charls remembers reading the story in the Japan Times. It strikes him that a high school student said he wanted to know how it felt to kill. It’s one of those details that stick in the mind. Charls thinks if he killed, he’d not be able to continue on. Killing God’s creations is something he doesn’t want to live with—certainly when there is no requirement to do so; and, so far those he has killed were done when deep in the other chamber, and far away from memory, like a passing storm. So what is it that makes him consider it now?

He screws the plastic top on the water bottle. He will throw it in the sea when he gets home from Vientiane. Will anyone respond?
In his own land, college students are on webcams, showing their bodies for money. Millions of them on the net, available for a meet-up. He downloads a video and sees two college girls get in a van for money. A thousand bucks or so that will be taken from them as they lie naked. They are laughing and having fun.

“Hey, mom, look what I’m doing during vacation,” the three guys shout, as they flash the money and drive off quickly. Both of the girls have sex with a man with a twelve-inch dong. They thought they were given a lot of money all along; but, they were wrong. Golem figured they had gotten justice. The guys in the van do.
The van sped away with Golem at the wheel in his mind.



Pot wondered what his own daughter would do if offered what to him was three months pay. He decided to put the thought away. Twelve inches. That’s a big one.

ANTS

Level flight, can I have a bottle of water, please. The window to his right, vapor expressing from a vent above his seat. Is something wrong with the plane?

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All Those Airplanes Scare Him

All those airplanes scare him. All his life he has lived under one flight path or another. Even now in Thailand. In Bangkok. Dom Muang airport just around the corner. Bang Saen. New airport built, flight path directly overhead. Los Angeles. Apartment complex next to Los Angeles International. A plane a minute when he was a kid. He doesn’t know when one will kill him. A prayer every time he takes a flight. He is Cain, and at the moment not very able.
Even in Bangkok the little blinking red beacon was just below his balcony. The pilots used it to guide their ships in. They had things to off-load. The planes remind him that he has to find a place with no birds. They follow him. There are other ships, off loading other things more pertinent to man, but at the time Charls doesn’t know that. A ship is waiting, not far away, with a plan for the human race. The surface of the planet is being photographed, as if by Google, and images are being uploaded to the Akashic Record. Memories and photographs—time in a bottle—a bottle with a message thrown into the sea— of eternity and space. An effort to write things down before the experiment is terminated.
Who will find it and know Plan B?

He takes his seat. It’s next to an emergency exit. It is a window seat. The thing he doesn’t like is that he is sitting above the wing. At least it’s just a fifty minute flight. Tic…tic…tic…

ANTS

Each day when he empties a bottle of water tic…tic…tic… he writes a short note and puts it in the bottle and tosses it in the water. Half out of his mind now. The birds are sick. It will soon be too late.

The plane is taxiing, take-off eminent. Little man—carefully clinging to the wing. Another man in a chair, hands clasped in prayer. Take-off and landing—he always has a few words with God then. He is on his way to Vientiane to renew a visa—a routine task, only daunting because he is insane. He found something on the island.

ANTS

Not all is right in Japan either. There is a rash of incidents—men walking into elementary schools and stabbing kids.
Golem thinks, after having lived in a big building full of middle-class Japanese who seemed to have in common as an ambition the creation of kids, and after having watched mothers congregate beneath umbrellas in the park across the street, telling all the latest gossip, and living for their creations, and climbing the social ladder, and on top of it all, like icing on a cake—the men stabbing children in Japan, that some are protesting a land that seems to base everything on the family. It is too much for some souls—Not an explanation of motivation, but more of an observation, because Golem, too, had been tempted to call that building a baby-factory.

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Smash: The Ball is Out of Bounds

Golem Goes to Laos

Down on it pours a precious stream from Valfather's pledge
Well would you know more?



Golem scuffs his bare feet as sandpaper on the boards of another porch on a hillside where he sits and looks through trees at water surrounding Koh Samet. He tries to write as if he is there now, on the plane, in Laos—then on his way back again. It’s a trip he took years back for a visa to allow him to stay in Thailand—even though he doesn’t think he will get out alive. He sips a beer and tries to put himself in the state of mind that he was in when he took the trip. It was different then. More schizophrenic—more bizarre … frenetic … than the state that he is currently in. He hears waves crash down on the beach. It’s calm. Not so quiet that he can hear that something not making any sound. Not quite, but quiet. Night. Dark. Not much is making a sound. Even on the plane he remembers things black—things that went down when he was a kid. Things he can’t recall all the time because he was too young—things that seem more scary to an adult mind. Kids have it easy—they don’t understand details. Then kids become adults and the memories start to make sense in a new way. Maybe some of us don’t make the transition well. Maybe some of us remember too much. Is it possible to remember too much? Rather than worry about Alzheimer’s maybe some of us want to forget—if not just a detail here and there. Like the time when you were a little girl and you tripped your brother in the mall and looked at your mother as if you didn’t know why he fell. Like the time years later when that brother was sick, and suddenly you remembered. Had you hated him then? Like the time I shot my brother with a rubber band as he stood in his crib, and then pretended like I didn’t know why he was screaming before he fell. I had hit him in the eye— though I was not trying to. All the mean things that people do to other people. Alzheimer’s might be a relief from that. I suppose someday, when we are clones, we might be able to program our memories and delete the ones we don’t choose to remember, but in the mean time we live with them, and some of us at least know that’s best and can foresee a horror that will come about when the soul leaves, and we are left alone with only humanity. Humanity is a horror. Look at what humanity has done. Humanity has exterminated Jews or allowed it to be done. Hasn’t humanity been responsible for the world’s woes? Why don’t we concentrate on the soul I think— on fixing one here and there. Then someday we can concentrate on humanity and see it for what it is.


Golem picks up his boarding pass at Dom Muang and says he will carry the box on the plane. It might be big enough to hold a bowling ball, and it’s wrapped in string. He’s reminiscing about a previous trip to Vientiane, most of the other memories he doesn’t know he has.

It should be noted that all murder is not committed by a known entity. There are those that will kill strangers for revenge. Others kill those they know in retribution for some atrocity committed against them. And some, they are the ones who are strange: tic…tic…tic…

He cut off the retarded kid’s head and put it in a box….He cut off the retarded kid’s head and put it in a box….He cut off the retarded kid’s head and put it in a box. The words reverberated in his mind, bouncing off the walls like ping pong balls in a box—then, in the wee hours of morning, he put the box on the parent’s lawn…. He put the box on the parents’ lawn…. He wanted to know how it felt to kill, he said. Smash, the ball is out of bounds.

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Wednesday, June 24, 2009

What is the Plan?

“Damn Golem, you’ve got to be clear now. What if, what if, what if?”
“I’ll tell ya later, it really happened.”
“Damn, if you can talk when you really want to. Tell us now.”
“No, now the listeners wouldn’t really listen.”
“Why wouldn’t they listen Golem?”
“Because pain is the precursory element of listening. There’s always lots of words. People who listen first, hear the birds. People who’ve heard big birds screech really do listen. Why waste the words. It’s in the second book Golem.”
“Tell us some words, the author’s dead or dying. We want to know the end.”
“Don’t ever ask what will be. What will be will be.”
“Come on Golem, four and a half billion in the first paragraph.”
“Four and a half billion is a lot. Could be more than that. It’s in the third book. What. Do you live for death?”
“No, it’s not that. We just want to know exactly how it happens.”
“What happens?”
“The 4.5 billion Jack, you said it in the beginning.”
“I’m drinking 3.5 beer now, give me some time.”
“Who am I?”
“Don’t know, Don’t know, I’m Golem. Jack never really did exist.”
“Still, someone started this story.”
“He’s dead man, leave it alone. The old man will tell you the end when he’s ready.”
“Fuck off Jack”
“Fuck off Golem”

He heard it in his mind. Fuck this, fuck that. Jack didn’t know who he was talking to. He picked up a seventh light Singh beer and went out and sat on the balcony.

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People Needed Supermarkets

Scanning the universe, projecting images, a plaything at first, now a more serious thing. Projecting images of Venusians onto lifelike dolls — the lives become the living. The clones saw them as a life of their own and sought to conquer these images. It was a life-sized world as the room in Isaac Asimov’s novel where people project their images in three dimensions and then suddenly one is really eaten by a lion.
These people believed it was their world and fought, and died. Now, the whole planet was like that.
To think it started as a toy, some sort of advanced computer game on another planet that played with the minds of men and women.
It started as some writing down of thoughts and then a year and a half later the system was on the verge of collapse. Society was breaking down, some sensed it in advance, Golem saw that something was happening to society; some sort of perversion — he saw the goodness in the collapse of the suits, but to have the system itself fail — it seemed to him a dangerous precedent as the edge of the sea can be when water is rising. What if the water rises to twenty-one meters?
People needed super markets; power supplied on demand through electrical outlets and Golem liked this world and couldn’t understand how some seemed to want to destroy it. Golem liked the beach and living out doors, but after a month he was ready for a hot shower, some air conditioning perhaps and peaceful indoor living. Sure, he wanted to be outdoors than most, and he knew what it could get to be like after a month or so.

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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.

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The monster on Elephant Island

A thousand times Golem has walked down the beach in the morning considering the monster that lives beneath the waves. The Thais think of it as a ghost, but Golem knows it is not a ghost; he knows this because the thing that he opened the door for several years ago resides in his mind. He has even named this entity CHarLie. CHarLie talks to him and tells him things. Of course, this verbosity is related to that most un-publishable tome that he has even given the name “The Bizarre Tale of Golem L. Window” —a story so ugly and hideous that no publisher can ever wade through far enough to see the beauty of the outcome, a beauty so apparent to its author, yet so murky and lost and muddled, containing half insane rantings, and at times, sunken to a depth that most don’t want to submerge to; and, so critical of certain aspects of present day society that many Americans see it as a sort of treason.
Golem as Golem now, not Jack, for the moment or Charls, chaffs his callused feet against the wooden floor over and over and hears that same scraping sound that he heard just before CHarLie emerged from his haven in Golem’s mind and made his appearance on the balcony — and went a long ways toward what it was that Golem found on an island that drove him insane. Of course, this happens somewhere around page five hundred in the crypt and the reader would have to see chapter two to know that Golem had found something that drove him insane. But, since that story is so unwieldy and long I will only show you bits and pieces of this thing, at present, that really happened, but is so bizarre as to make it hard to fathom—the idea of the monster on Elephant Island, the devil named CHarLie.

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I May Have been Seeing a Arezzo, Italy

So deep was I in a trance-like state that sometimes I didn’t know if I could get out. I was trapped by beauty in nature; held prisoner in my own hammock. I couldn’t have imagined that so much of my time on the island would be spent mesmerized by these scenes of beauty. I couldn’t take my eyes off that painting. I didn’t know it at the time, but I may have been seeing a fresco in Arezzo, Italy. And some scene from long ago.
I would pay special attention to Venus this evening. It may have transferred something to my soul. Something had certainly been downloaded

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Phi Phi Island Before the Tsunami

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What is the NEW Government?

What can symbolize the government referred to in the post below? I was having a nightmare, I thought, or a silly meaningless dream where this lady was asking the president of the United States how many cigarettes he smoked, when he smoked them, and if he smoked around his family; all of this in a nation on the brink of failure. I laughed hysterically and thought of Harry Truman ordering the dropping of a bomb on Hiroshima, and reporters gathering around, asking him how many cigarettes he smoked. Then I realized it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare. I was not asleep. I must have been in the middle of-an Island of Sand.

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Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Were We Here Too Long?

Maybe it was because the ship had been away for so long. Maybe it was because they were all alone on Earth. For whatever reason people seemed to be saying in mass that life was no longer worth living. Every day there was another shooting in a mall or another child killing its family. Twenty-four seven media was on autopilot now, and heading in the direction of nuclear conflagration. It was as if the world could be ended without anyone actually having to push a button or to be held accountable for it. Hal was running things now. A psychotic computer program out to end life on Earth. The people followed blindly, as society crumbled, and almost seemed content to let the plan succeed. The new politically correct society didn't turn them on. There was now so much media out there that it was easy to insert bits and pieces of Armageddon targeting the mind. The bird Venusians could sit back now and watch as their committees told us how to live, making rules only they could follow or that suited only them. Time Magazine first asked the question: Is God Dead? The new government (Not the New New one of Obama, but the NEW one of the last thirty years or so.) had no need of God. They planned to become God. They were the new God in town.

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The Three Horns of the Plot

Golem thought about three horns coming together and Israel deceived by a land with a huge army, an alliance. He came to think that the situation had to be corrected. Israel was out of its UN borders, the US was fighting a war for them, and many in the current government of the United States had dual citizenship with Israel. There was a lot of money in the story. And Golem thought that until Israel left the occupied territories all together that the US would not be able to defend them through a morally correct vision. Just what would be so hard as telling Israel to leave these lands and get back inside their nation? And if a comment like this is anti-Semitic, then no discussion can really be had, can it? –it is not an issue of Auschwitz, of previous suffering … it is an issue of right and wrong and currently we are in the wrong … Golem thought, when he thought of the Middle East, which plays a role in this story, since two different towers are down, and fighting still going on.

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What Is A Poodle Really?

At least if you have imagined a meal of poodle, you can rest assured that there is nothing so worse so horrible and scary than that in these pages—at least nothing from the third dimension. Rest assured you have tasted worse, and continue on … And all of this from a guy who could communicate with animals … a guy who really did love dogs, but who was disgruntled at having them shoved down his throat and up his ass as if they were the answer to complex problems — by a mass media gone mad. It may have been that buying sunglasses for dogs and keeping them in hotels was a bit much for Golem, who thought more of kids with bloated stomachs around the globe; — buying gadgets for dogs didn’t really turn him on. How did a nation once thought of for innovation become a nation that didn’t have anything more interesting to say than it loved dogs and on and on as if the dog was something invented recently like some kind of weird new toy? They even elected a President who had a child that was allergic to dogs, and now that family certainly had to buy one just to prove he really was an American. It was going to have to be of the hypoallergenic kind. That meant it was going to be a dog once designed to be a roast — that most wonderful adorable poodle kind. Nobel ideas? Where were they to be found?


And then there was, again … the plan to burn the bungalows down, the afore mentioned plan that may have led Golem to the Venusians in the first place. They were going to build a new hotel on the last open stretch of White Sands Beach on Koh Chang Island in Thailand. They had been taking photographs and surveying for a year now. It was only a matter of time before Golem would be homeless. The Prime Minister of Thailand had bought up a lot of land and magically enough, out came a plan to turn Elephant Island into one of the main tourist islands. A lot of people were making a lot of money on the deal, but Golem mourned the day when the bungalows would burn. He sometimes thought that if anyone was going to burn them it should be him.

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Cloning Had Done That To Them

Then their languages were confused and one day they woke up alone. If not for the Venusians they’d be simple clones killed off in a madman’s plan, without souls, without the tree of life in the back of their skulls, without knowledge, without knowing they’d been supporting a garden of eden with slave labor. If a few good Venusians had not deceived with a Trojan horse like plan—the evil bird-like Venusians. Now we had a chance to live.
Eons in the future these people on another plane and planet galaxy would realize their mistake and try to travel back to Earth to right a wrong. Out of the fourth dimension they would come to eliminate cloning in their past. They’d have to come back to the first time. The first time it was done and stop it. The father was engendered by his son.
Two galaxies trying to meet each other. Two galaxies as one dependent entity. Cloning had done that to them.

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When Cain Screwed the Gorilla

Before Pot, it may have all started when Space Shuttle number 105 reported that it had sighted ants on the surface of the planet. Houston… we have ants. Copy. And then everyone in Thailand downloaded a picture of an ant. The thing is… these ants walked on water. They had long spidery-like legs that made them look like ships. They were photographing the planet. They were sent here. They were sent here to investigate the evolution of Venusians and Apes. It had all gone wrong when Cain screwed the gorilla. He was drunk. The gorilla was good looking. The birth of a child was something that had not happened in the history of interplanetary travel. Half the crew was left behind all because Eve ate an apple. It was about two thousand years later but the ship had traversed galaxies and returned. They didn’t like what they saw. These inhabitants of planet Earth were investigating cloning. Soon they’d have all the powers of God. They’d have the power to create life. And they wouldn’t know that they had initially been clones themselves and currently were working on making their own clones. These ape-like Venusians on Earth could even use these clones to explore another galaxy and certainly would, if they were not destroyed. The inhabitants of the mother ship found it somewhat amusing that a bunch of clones on a ship of their own were now discussing the moral implications of cloning. God had decided long ago that it had been a big mistake. But he had as consolation the fact that all of this stuff on Earth was in the image of God and in fact they were the shadows of the Venusian spirit mind.
Before Venus got too hot they had developed 3-D entertainment for their own kind. The soul without a body could project images in three dimensions on Earth and change the plots of their imaginations at will. They created their own stories. They had a lot of fun at this. Their projections felt pain, reacted with artificial intelligence, displayed emotion, all the things that a pure spirit could never experience, and of late the empire had even started allowing trips to Earth by Venusians in special suits that they called body suits. This allowed the Venusian soul to experience the perception of life in a three-dimensional world with orgasms and all of the sensual pleasures that were not possible in the present climate.

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Monday, June 22, 2009

They Are Really Just Popcorn Farts

He glanced around him. On either side, tourists were in front of their bungalows in various stages of undress — putting on dry clothes or taking off wet bikinis and trunks. On that night three girls were chatting about his farts, which to one were just popcorn farts bursting open in a sizzling frying pan and to the other a more grievous departure from public mannerism and social norm. The one who viewed the spacious and almost imperceptible little bursts of sound as not bad things was the horniest of the three; the other two were more reserved, yet wouldn’t be applying for a position with a queen anytime soon. Certainly, none of them would have seen anything wrong with using a bagel to scoop up cream cheese, or using an errant moving index finger as a knife. None of these girls were of that breed, and a girl so inclined, probably would have been conspicuously out of place in a setting on an Island of Sand. These types of people — who grimaced at the thought of eating with unwashed hands, were more likely found at a company or some other social gathering where they could criticize the behavior of those who were not adverse to loading up a bagel beyond the socially accepted limit to satisfy an urge—who might scoop up the cheese with the bagel even when they clearly could have seen the knife set out for that occasion. It was these kinds of socially adept, ‘advanced’ women and men that had so much to criticize in this type of soul that they saw as uncontrollable and not abiding of their contrived rules.
Golem looked at a part of the ocean in front of him that was a different color and thought about the time, that while loading a bagel with a bit of cheese, that this kind of woman had approached him and pointed out to him the presence of the knife (which she may have been holding behind her back) and he had let out a ripper that didn’t even start to peter out before she turned to leave, having got out only two or three words before the gas — it seemed to start to sputter more infrequently and to come to a full-stop in the manner that air will stop hissing out of a bicycle tire when the pressure sufficiently reduces to a level more suited to its atmospheric condition, more equal to its surroundings.
It seemed to accomplish all this, as the socially adept woman crossed a point nine feet or so away from his location. Golem figured now in his hammock that this woman had probably reached her level of incompetence in some high-level government agency, probably making rules and revelations to crush the spirit, or whatever was left of it, much in the way that a communist society creates rules to crush out non-conformity — perhaps she was inking up a letter this moment to promote giving government booty to people who agreed to have at least three children, as her government looked on the current lack of interest in child bearing as a problem and something disagreeable, since if the population declined there would be fewer people to shackle and transport on ships and to pilfer twenty-five percent of their income from, in the form of quadruple-taxation in a country where double-taxation was looked upon as one of the reasons for the separation from England and the Revolutionary War. Golem let out a ripper that permeated his wet trunks and the underlying skin of the hammock to such an extent that he felt the warm gas rush out of and flow through the sand pasted on that hammock, and out of the corner of his eye he caught the gleam of a smile from the girl not bothered by the occasional popcorn fart.

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They Almost Got Away With It

Light reflecting off the curvature of the Gulf led Golem to see some things he might otherwise not have seen had he been in an enclosed structure such as a room. It was this new way of living — outside of walls, that gave Golem room for a view. As he looked at the sea, it was reflected to him that he was on a voyage, while lying in a hammock tied to two eves with air above, below, and all about him. The creaking noise that the ropes made as they chaffed against the grain, gave rise in him of the sensation that he was on a ship traversing a sea of infinity. Back and forth he rocked, and the hammock creaked out an image of a thousand black men shackled in chains on a great ship crossing the Atlantic, carrying men as product like cattle for meat—transporting a cross section of DNA that would become twenty million souls fighting for their rights, as his forefathers had done against England—the continuation of a vicious, ongoing, ingrown circumstance of men against men, one group preying on the other, justifying their actions in the thought that it had once been done against them.
Then there was the idea that he had seen in a novel — Native Son — that perhaps this struggle for individual actualization was a struggle that many made, regardless of race, creed, or color, against those who held the reins, made the decisions, and in general schemed against the human race, guided by the sole objective of getting gold and riches, without regard for the shackles they place on the arms and legs of society as a whole. Enron.
For a long time they had gotten away with it through the guise of capitalism and the preservation of wealth, but technology and education was making the masses smarter and less willing to part with a quarter of their wealth in the form of a myriad variety of taxes.

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He Had Decided to Stay on Earth

He had decided to stay on earth. He knew the consequences of leaving earth behind. He told them to put him and his double in the pyramid. The bird Venusians would never leave a known rebel behind. His double was with the birdmen now. They probably knew of their mistake. He walked out of the pyramid reborn. People bowed before him. They followed his commands. He told them all of what needed to be done to ensure immortality. They thought each and every one of them could live forever. Their souls could. As a people they could go on. He never promised immortality to them as such. But the people believed, had seen with their own eyes. Had watched the granite blocks rise up in the air and settle down as if some attracting beam from the Enterprise was doing the building, yet all they saw was the hand of a man guiding each block into position. Soon, none of these people would be around. The man knew that. He knew it was too late to save them all. He knew that the day would come when people would look at the pyramids in awe and with reverent wonder again, wonder who had built them. At least there would be some reverent wonder and that was a step in the right direction he thought.

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Sunday, June 21, 2009

Why People Really Loved America

You hear a lot of stories about people overseas and their love for America. There is one story that sort of wraps it up like a box of See's chocolates. I am writing this as a plea to President Obama. Take a minute out of a busy day to save something dear to lot of us. This item on the agenda may not seem like much, but a mirror on the wall can see only your face and people overseas can see you from the inside out. Thanks Amy Tan for that expression of a mother looking at a daughter, even though it's Father's Day. But this story is sweet and I'd like to keep it that way.

I remember the first chocolate donut I had in Tokyo twenty-eight years ago and the thin waxy brown chocolate that tasted like a candle. I'm not criticizing the Japanese. They know it. I remember always holding up the chocolate bar in the supermarket to see how heavy it was. Usually, it rattled in a box twice as big as it was and then it was again diluted with vegetable oil and whatever else that wasn't as expensive as chocolate. Which brings me to the point.

A month ago I noticed that a chocolate consortium is lobbying Washington for new regulations that would allow it to sell oiled down chocolate on the American market. The first thing I thought was Oh My God. They said it would give them lots of opportunities to sell new products. Oh My God. They said it would be great for business and I guess it would be because cardboard chocolate must be cheap to make, and then there is the big box you put it in, so it looks like a lot, and the double price tag that you stick on it that means you only get a little bit.

And then there are the Japanese who go to America and bring home lots of real chocolate, and, I used to get it sent to me on a ship. Now, I am in Thailand and things seem cheap, but the chocolate comes in very small packages and often rattles in a bigger box and is expensive, and contains things that I don't want to eat sometimes.

So, President Obama, while there are important things you are working on... please take a moment out of a busy day, and tell that chocolate consortium to get lost. Maybe they can come up with a different business plan... like calling people at home and explaining to them how taking out a loan can help you reduce your debt. Because the things people overseas love about America are things no more complicated than a real chocolate bar. Happy Father's Day.

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Where Does All the Money Go?

Sometimes Golem wonders about this situation. There isn't any money to pay for education. There isn't any money to pay for health insurance. The bridges and that type of infrastructure are falling down. We know where the money comes from. We have a federal tax on our income. We have a state tax on our income. We have a tax on almost everything we buy. That's three. Property tax and probably a whole list of others, too. But they tell us we have no P.E. in schools and people are getting fat. They tell us they need another tax to fix the roads and stuff like that. But they don't tell us where all the money goes. I remember in high school when all of a sudden they came up with a 3% sales tax in California, they said ah... don't worry about it, it's only 3%. By the time I left it was 6%. When I bought stuff in the stores in Japan it was bliss to pay the price on the sticker. You knew exactly how much stuff cost. I remember ten years later when the government of Japan told its citizens not to worry about the new implementation of a 3% sales tax. Suddenly, the abacus became a rare thing in shops. They started pasting little charts next to the cash register and the calculator became fashionable. And I lost a little pleasure that all of us used to have in America; paying the price of the product. And I thought to myself that the last time I heard, the sales tax in California was fifteen percent and well, welcome Japan to that. So, where does all the money go? Maybe McCain and Cheney have some idea and the congress and the senate and the people in Washington making up little rules to make us better people. I mean now they have done research and figured out that until the age of four, children should face the back in their obligatory car seats. Maybe we should all drive backwards. Of course, the longer they can keep a citizen in the dark, looking at the fascinating scenery of upholstery patterns, the longer they can soak us with taxes. I think I'll look out the window. I prefer to have a point of view. And I wasn't driving in the sixties, but hey, I saw the cows along the road, wern't all the roads pretty sharp then, and the funny thing is that I guess they must have used tax dollars to provide an actual service and maintain them. Of course, we didn't have a sales tax then. Where did all the money come from?

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Enter the Fourth Dimension

INTERIM—Enter the Fourth Dimension

Robots, designed to explore the universe, looking for a new home for a species that may have been God, on Earth. Bots, so to speak, now considering cloning on their own and nearing the ability to do it. Those with souls, souls the Venusians had planted in them, knew this idea of cloning was a mistake. They knew it innately, had no memory or much written down to go on. But if humans cloned themselves, would these clones look upon them as god. This bothered those with souls.

These clones, previously cloned, who were now considering cloning and perhaps thinking of themselves as clever. The ones with souls, like the Trojan horse at the gate, held the only hope that good could triumph over evil.

It wasn’t only in the humans that they waited, it was also in the plants, things that didn’t move on Earth were also involved in the plan.

Palm Animals… things that stood on shore and in the night looked like giant chickens. Everything was watching in its way.

The devil and god were warring, the human heart a battleground. When that heart is pierced, the battleground ceases to exist. The setting of war undone, the Bird Venusians will out like a light switched off. Then Golem thought, if all of this was about mankind—bird-like Venusians—they had wings, of course the pure Venusians likewise had them and were angelic. Where does evil come from?

Thousands of years in the future—as man considered cloning man and nuclear conflict became possible again, as man came to want to kill again—


He was sitting on the porch on the edge of the sea, one of the new energy saving bulbs shined on him. This time it was at a place called Tiger Huts, on the Beach. In the evening, in the darkness on a beach, he first saw them. Giant things, guarding the beach. They stood on either side of him. At day they stood silent, fronds rustling in a breeze perhaps. Green, on the water, nothing more. But this evening when Golem glanced them, one of them was looking at him. Two small palms, about eight feet in height, stood together, merged and became a thing with wings and legs, a majestic bird. Imagine a gigantic chicken with its head turned to one side, simply watching, seeing, yet seeming not to see. Watching as something connected to some record of the universe. Tail rising up in the air, feathers to the side stuck out in the fierce pride of some all knowing nature, the beginning to the end. As if waiting for some profound event and having waited for it from the beginning of time. There were two of these creatures. The next day Golem noticed another on the right, out in front of his hut, they lived just above the high tide line. They stood four meters in front of his hut. One of them watched him each evening, watching, seeing, yet in solemn recognition, saying nothing, and without words saying so much.

The next morning these palms were in there places, appeared as palm, harmless plants in morning light. Darkness had been forgotten. Golem didn’t fear them in the daytime—in the late evening, night when they were seen in the dim, hazy light of fluorescent bulbs attached to poles along the edge of the sea they came alive, still. Total silence on a sandy shore, unmoving water, ripples really. Staring through the light, Golem starting towards them and shore. They rustled their feathers and Golem sat and watched and feared them, so stark they were, so understanding. They stood, gallant sentries of another age, from another age, guarding another age. They were waiting, ready to correct some wrong. As if waiting for some tilt past a balance. Waiting as if in silent statement saying to humans that the poles might shift again, ten mile high waves might splash over mountains, continents fall in the sea, ninety-five percent dead and as if no one respected them and they did not need respect.
These creatures from the fourth dimension waited, Golem liked things that waited in a world of haste. They were beasts burdened by consequence. They looked like statues of Gods of Rome waiting to take over Earth when the time was right.

These sentinels waited silently, knowingly, with the wisdom and the age of man and would have waited as long as necessary and hoped they never would pull their trunk out of the sand and make their way inland. Their communications were of the fourth dimension, humans could surmise their reason and thought processes, but their thought was the thought of stone, solid, fierce, unchanging, except for nuance, small movement, and through time, as the sands shifted and new islands appeared, old islands diminished, cultural moors changed through additions and subtractions of minute amounts of salts and essences of life. Theirs were the thoughts of DNA, adjustments made that had once allowed something to crawl slowly out of the sea and make its way on land, as something to be inseminated with wisdom, called man.
These sentinels observed as a tower fell and societies were shattered, fragile as thinly blown glass, existing through the will of human kind. Glass that had been shattered many times put back together again, of silica absorbed by and then retaken from the sand. This silica that held within it, the origin of every man, woman, and child on the planet.
The guards of life these palm disguised bird creatures in the sand—yet their ranks had been infiltrated by the Birds of Venus, symbolic of the devil. The devil had another plan. An alliance with God that would end all life on Earth when the balance of the ATM of Good and Evil came out negative. A plan put together through the odd alliance of two groups of warriors, one wanting total destruction of life on earth, one having decided that only should man be perverted beyond the reason of good that it would have to be destroyed. These two clans of Venus often battled on the hearts of man, yet both seemed to understand that good needed to remain triumphant in order for either to exist. Ancient Venus, ancient Sun, age of galaxies, some battle that had gone wrong. Survivors of the pure Venusians now occupied Earth, had built a tower, it had fallen, inhabitants in disarray, having lost the most natural element of humanity—the common band of society that binds all people everywhere to the faith that we are in our hearts, all the same. In illusion, the devil caused each different separated peoples to think of themselves as the one that was different and above the rest. Giving them reason to annihilate their neighbors, making them lose sight of the common vein that runs through us. The devil had a plan— They will kill each other off. They will do our work themselves through confusion and kindness expressed in words as if those words could mask the underlying killing.
Plan B, the devil knew when good was gone they would cease to exist. The Venusians, the clan uninfected by the birds knew that when good was gone that they’d have no reason to exist. Plan B was not a plan to save the world, but merely one to save another galaxy from a vacuum of evil.
If these clones on earth were lost, cut off somehow from the mother ship, they’d have to be destroyed. True they were created in an image, then clandestinely given a soul as Venus was dying and the devil winning all the major battles. The devil overlooked the fact that there were some Venusians hiding away their souls in clones, giving them their only sons and daughters, life on Earth required two sexes, Venus had none—clones the devil planned to use as soldiers of their own. This devil, this bird-winged Venusian clan did not foresee a Trojan in the clones, as they forced their creations, and later would force them on the animals of earth to create man.
Those sentries on the beach—most of them, inside them had a soul. Oh, there were soulless ones on shore as well, but the Venusians had succeeded on the last days, as Venus daily grew hotter, in inseminating the clones with their own DNA Little did their clones, who would one day near the ability to clone themselves, realize that they themselves were the result of artificial insemination of a clone. And that, as they slept with the apes, had developed into their current three dimensional form— if it was real and anything more, then the shadow of Venusians in the fourth dimension. The sun still shone and would for eons, hopefully, long enough to sort things out. The Venusians needed to separate themselves out somehow, they were a mix of good and bad, that would have to wait until their ship, in which they had escaped, swung through light years in outer space, until those mixed up souls on Earth sifted and sorted themselves out. In inseminating these clones and absorbing the animals the Venusians had absorbed vast quantities of genetic ennui, in an experiment to create good. They had even, if unwittingly, disseminated their essence throughout a galaxy, now people were considering travel to new galaxies; Would it all work out?

These sentries on the beach made Golem think of the great sphinx of Egypt. Watching and waiting from one sun to another, one darkness to another light. Created by an advanced colony from another galaxy. Somehow we were critical in their plan. The good Venusians needed to survive to fight the evil birdmen. When the ship returned to Sirius, the birdmen removed the souls of all the good Venusians. The only ones left lived on planet Earth. When life on earth was destroyed every 13,000 years or so, not very much information survived. There were good Venusians out on trips to other galaxies when the birdmen took over. There was a chance that one day a ship would approach earth. The good Venusians caused huge stone statues of people to be built on the Pacific Islands. They looked at the horizon. If one of the ships approached and saw these statues looking out to the horizon, it would know there were horizon watchers here. The good Venusians knew the sky. Of course, they did. They caused the pyramids to be built. Pyramids that pointed the way home through mimicry of the stars and provided shelter from neutron bombs falling from a fallen sky. Earth had been a noble experiment in the minds of men. But towards the end of the fourth sun the Asians and Caucasians went to war. It had all been done before, one earth as in heaven. These horizons watchers with their fire throwers were seen as gods and asked about war. They put their fingers in their ears.

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Saturday, June 20, 2009

This Observer Type of DNA

Time passed and in the twenty-first century — a Golem sat in a hut on Elephant Island — site of one of the few remaining points on the compass that was so near the transmission fountainhead that a soul in a body-suit could communicate with Inana — the name of their ship’s creator. People didn’t come here often for that purpose, as that information was within them and not upon them. That information lay within their souls. Many reached this place as a means of passing time — a means of pleasant relaxation while awaiting a destination. Golem’s hand rested on a wooden plank floor beneath his hammock and was covered with sand. His eyes were fixed, as they most often were — on the sea offshore, on a point near the horizon. He was deep in thought. He wanted to know his purpose. It was blurred….
Somehow, this Golem, this observer-type of DNA, had chosen a bungalow directly in line between the transmitter on Venus and the ship buried deep within a mountain. As he sat on the porch, five meters from the edge of the sea, he saw heaven — something was trying to get a message to the ship, but the ship was in poor repair; its inhabitants in rational quest had undertaken the building of other ships and ways of communication, and in doing so, had not thought to look within; if they had, they would have known that each DNA body had its own antenna that could connect with the universal soul, the collective soul, the pool — that was what the journey was really all about. That pool of fresh water that exists just before the salt of the sea takes over. That pool that some hotels have on the edge of the sea... That is where Golem gets his ideas from … the better ones of course are garnered out of the salt in the sea. But that pool with a cement ring around it and water circulating within. And the thoughts that occur there in the water. That is what fascinates him. And moreover, those thoughts gathered from further out from shore. Those thoughts taken while floating in the ocean. Floating offshore. In the throes of imagination.

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They are Searching

They are searching. They are searching. They lived as souls unclothed without the need of clothes, but now they are clothed—they call the things body suits. The ships computers having been programmed before they left need no further guidance. And anyway, those were destroyed when the craft was struck by a meteor a hundred thousand years ago and could no longer be guided or corrected, even if there was anyone left with specific knowledge of their existence or the knowledge to program them. Those people were gone. And they had been gone for a very long time. It is a huge ship they think, though a goldfish probably thinks the outside of his bowl looks vast. There are vast open empty places. It was built for a maximum capacity of seven billion souls. Four and a half billion died on the day of impact. The ships infrastructure was wiped out. What remained were two billion sophisticated brains and a lot of creatures looking for a new home. The journey was immense, the space traversed vast, the time elapsed impossible for the DNA based soul capsules to comprehend or experience as individuals. Each day, each individual spacesuit clad soul’s experiences and observations were automatically uploaded to the higher place that people no longer knew in concrete terms. They had known before the impact. Theirs was an advanced ‘culture’, more advanced than any of the myriad of ‘created’ artificial cultures they used as templates after the tsunamis wiped out so many people that culture became related to a past so far away that no one was any longer sure of what premeditated current moors. A rock hurled by the hand of God—landing in Hudson Bay. Shortly before impact, another ship had taken off, on its way for a loop around a sun and no one knew for sure when it could come back. They were the chosen ones. The watchers of the horizon.
Their purpose had been confused; their tower toppled. Only deep within their DNA did each soul think they carried something important—something irrevocable if lost. They all existed in some way, as if biding time until some future generation reached the mother ship. They fought, they loved, they ate, they slept. They fell so deep into their creations of passing time that they were lulled into life aboard and almost unconscious of the journey they were making—the tree now buried by generations of forests, fallen decaying wood, layers of soil, granite broken down; you see — this ship that was created was a bio-sphere that one day would be returned to again by some entity, as planet Earth. That much of the record remained.

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There Are Some Survivors

We join our crew midway through their voyage. Venus has been destroyed. There are some survivors. They are searching. They are searching. They lived as souls unclothed without the need of clothes, but now they are clothed—they call the things body suits. The ships computers having been programmed before they left need no further guidance. And anyway, those were destroyed when the craft was struck by a meteor a hundred thousand years ago and could no longer be guided or corrected, even if there was anyone left with specific knowledge of their existence or the knowledge to program them. Those people were gone. And they had been gone for a very long time. It is a huge ship they think, though a goldfish probably thinks the outside of his bowl looks vast. There are vast open empty places. It was built for a maximum capacity of seven billion souls. Four and a half billion died on the day of impact. The ships infrastructure was wiped out. What remained were two billion sophisticated brains and a lot of creatures looking for a new home. The journey was immense, the space traversed vast, the time elapsed impossible for the DNA based soul capsules to comprehend or experience as individuals. Each day, each individual spacesuit clad soul’s experiences and observations were automatically uploaded to the higher place that people no longer knew in concrete terms. They had known before the impact. Theirs was an advanced ‘culture’, more advanced than any of the myriad of ‘created’ artificial cultures they used as templates after the tsunamis wiped out so many people that culture became related to a past so far away that no one was any longer sure of what premeditated current moors. A rock hurled by the hand of God—landing in Hudson Bay. Shortly before impact, another ship had taken off, on its way for a loop around a sun and no one knew for sure when it could come back. They were the chosen ones. The watchers of the horizon.

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