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Stalking Vol 2: The Bridge of Reason


"To you, our delightfully gentle soul, we also say that prejudice is integral to mankind’s
attractions, for you first embrace your own reflection. This narcissism undermines the potential
of a lasting relationship, because true love does not insist that one agree with you. Take that
forward from today and love will find you."
He looked around the room.
"Your friend is far from alone. There are many among mankind who wish to participate in
the coming changes, but losing their physical assumptions is a demanding challenge most of
them will be unable to fulfill, just as it was in your Biblical times."
"They weren’t," Meaghan hesitated, "sent by God?"
"The characters in your religious works were men and women of extraordinary energy, who
designed their lives to reflect the principles of how to live productively. There were many others
of whom you are unaware. In your terms some of these people made the cut and some did not,
but they all struggled similarly to how most of you quietly fulfill extraordinary challenges every
day. They were not religious people, but over time religion became the context for their journeys,
and their messages were skewed by the politics of self- interest."
"What was your relationship to them?" Josh said.
"The principals were Portions of Identities sent into your reality to adopt the roles of which
you are aware. In your terms, they were the sons and daughters, and the ir sons and daughters of
the creator of your world."
"O f God?"
"Originally, All That Is created of Himself two explorer entities that in turn created of
themselves other explorer entities. The first of these entities is the creator of your world. She
(Bonnie) will tell you of these events when it is time."
"I don't see how ordinary people, regardless of their energy level, can do anything for you,"
Jenny said, looking at the space where Rachel had been sitting: it was clear that the group’s
interest in any other topic was about avoidance, because we all felt like walking out.
"We are here to open your eyes," Kha- lib replied. "She has a story."
Still formal to the extent of not using contractions, Bonnie told us that Josh had taken her to
an establishment widely known for the semi-permanent aftertaste of its draft beer, the premature
aging of its patrons, and Dolores, the bar's resident hooker addict.
At his appointed time, a man whose face seemed suspended like a loose- fitting mask from a
pot of thin, gray hair extricated himself from a group of regulars. Shuffling to a low-rise stage, he
picked up an immaculate twelve-string guitar, caressed each wire intimately, then buckled on a
fret cheater with fingers that shot out of his palms at congenitally odd angles. The audience
quieted as this weary puppet prodded notes reminiscent of an arduous climb then, nearing the
summit, he slipped a split- fingered slide that a normal hand would have trouble duplicating. The
crowd gasped as if their chairs had dropped an inch.
The minstrel next palpitated a progression of chords, through pathos toward hope, before
stopping to tweak the tension of a string.
The crowd applauded his warm- up routine.
Blushing, the little man opened his set with a less stressful sequence of empathe tic riffs;
upon these he layered penetrating insights aimed at resurrecting sanguine dreams from amid the
haze and spittle that was his audience’s life. In time, not for the last time, a drifting note took
their imaginations into the warmth of better times… and gently left them floating there.
Belatedly, the audience erupted in unabashed appreciation.
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