Anthology Complex III by M.B. Julien - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
M.B. JULIEN
Do you want six dimensional-parameters or do you want seven? Surely you do not want to the combine them both for a total of thirteen, as complications and severe complexity are definite to arise. Thirteen different moving parts each interacting with each other in complex ways based on arrangement and a countless number of other values, that is simply absurdism by any means.
Let us not forget to factor in the way a 13-DP universe would affect DNA. You have to remember that setting sevens and undertoning sixes results in a cross-equal combination, thus resulting in chaos, something we have come to know and define synonymously as “free will.”
You see, what neither God nor Satan realized when creating their masterpiece was that they would leave a small piece of themselves in it. What I'm trying to say is that both God and Satan were also beings who were filled with wonder, which is why they agreed to embark on the project in the first place, but I don't think they could have known that their own blood would leak into the design. They couldn't have known that one day, all that lives and all they've created would eventually attempt to build a tower that reaches up into the heavens.
“The human condition encompasses the unique features of being human, particularly the ultimate concerns of human existence. It can be described as the unalterable part of humanity that is inherent and innate to human beings and not dependent on factors such as gender, race, culture, or class. It includes concerns such as the meaning of life, the search for gratification, the sense of curiosity, the inevitability of isolation, the awareness of the inescapability of death and the capacity of humans to be good as well as evil and weather or not this makes us worthwhile beings. In essence, the human condition is the self-aware, and reflective nature of Homo sapiens that allows for analysis of existential themes.” Wiker's Encyclopedia, page 14 notated.
You may or may not realize it, but you are witnessing history. You are witnessing the destruction of the individual man. It is extremely subtle and evasive to the naked eye, but it is there. I'd like to tell you about Chad, and another person who lives on the other side of the world named Melanie, but I think I'll save that for another day.
The only thing you need to know about these two individuals is that in their lifespan, they will have no great battle. No ideology that, at the end of the day, they are willing to die for. They will never wander past door forty-three, and ever will they wonder about the past of four plus three. They'll never taste the sweat of God nor the tears of Satan, so never will they know the great wonder and mystery of the world which they created with their own blood.
Very few people will be allowed to love something so much that they will lay down 91 | ANTHESIS
M.B. JULIEN
there life before it, even for it. Imagine what it would feel like to care so deeply about something, and imagine the individual who has had that opportunity taken away from them. The individual who never even knew that it was their right, simply because civilization, society, whatever you want to call it, took it away.
But let me say, this is not the fault of the individual, it is the fault of the civilization.
The individual will never be aloud to explore their own human condition because of civilization, and believe me when I say that civilization is where the individual goes to die.
Sitting in the corner rocking back and forth I begin to cough and my chest begins to hurt. “Eehhum,” I clear my throat, and from the pain of doing so I come to the conclusion that my throat has dried out and a previous headache has returned.
I stand up and begin to track water throughout the storage unit and wonder what the hell I'm doing. I don't even know him that well. For all I know these are all the ravings of his disturbed mind; fucking song lyrics mixed with equations. He can be the antithesis of logic. If that were true, would I even be able to tell.
I walk over to the corner of the room and select a group of religious texts, removing them each by specific order; the Sutras, the Vedas, the Tanakh, the Qur'an and the Holy Bible.
I go through all of these holy books and rip out certain pages that I have previously marked, and I then place them on the floor below me. Several pages per text and what I do next is outline them in a boxic figure with a chalkline. Yes, these are the pages I need.
They have to be the pages I need.
My theory, and what I propose, is that the ultimate truth resides somewhere in these texts, but no, not in just one, but in a selective combination of them all. I believe that one can study these texts, select certain parts, and combine them with the others to see further than any man has ever seen before. Sutras 43-20-7, Vedas 7-1001-2, Tanakh 66-152-49, Qur'an 79-01-4, the Holy Bible 92-02-4.
I think of the numbers as I stare at the metal bat sitting in the other corner of the room. I can't sleep and I'm constantly gazing. I cough. And I cough. And I cough again, and beat on my chest which is beginning to cause me pain. I clear my throat and rub my headache, “Now I understand what you tried to say to me,” I whisper to the bat, “And how you suffered for your sanity, and how you tried to set them free.” This that and the single entity that has kept me from becoming one of the many things I was suppose to be.
It is at this moment that the asylum is darkest, and at this same instant that a bell begins to toll. I listen to it for about a minute until I open up the gate to hear it more loudly and more clearly. I walk outside into what is now night, and into a place where a 92 | ANTHESIS
M.B. JULIEN
storm had recently passed. The raining, lightning, thunder, wind, it was all over and there was nothing left but a wet earth.
As I stood there listening to the tolling of the bell, I saw that the black vines were gone as if they had never been there, and when I raised my hand to cough I noticed that my thumb was again bleeding. I rubbed my headache, then my chest, and several more coughs later I began to observe the wounded thumb as the belling of the toll slowly crept into my mind...
The old man's circle, which is sometimes referred to as the “eternal return,” interacts differently depending on the associative medium. Under certain parameters, each revolution around his circle causes the area of the circle to expand, thus resulting in longer orbits, or, revolutions.
Where else does this occur? In the solar systemary revolutions? Political revolutions?
That's a stretch. As you revolve around the death of your father, doesn't it get less and less painful? What I know for sure are that my thumb continues to heal itself to a certain degree and then returns back to the state it was before, completely bringing the notion of rinsing and repeating to mind.
Why does this expansion occur? The ancient scrolls that I have studied and translated over the years defines one specific and important universal and physical law: Any time matter is disturbed from its current state, it expands. The cause of its expansion is due to the to energy, and energy is a dimensional-parameter property-concept that came to be from the very first disturbance; secondary transferred-energence. When energy is transferred, inter-dimensional planes, which may include a multitude of properties such as physical laws and subsequent predictable reactions, are created and then quickly die off depending on its drag. This implies that every process in the known and unknown universe, detektable or undetektable, that requires energy, in this same instant of its process produces relatively equal universe-like subordinates.
The translation of the final term “subordinates” may be off but it was the best that I could do. Then and now.
Once the slow bleeding stops I two notice that the tolling of the bell was over. When I cough, I feel something slide on the side of my throat, almost caught inbetween something. I cough and I cough but whatever it is is definitely stuck. I enter back into the asylum, caughing and pounding my chest which was becoming sore, and then I hear it.
The bottle of soda pops.
I am in complete darkness now. Any light that may have passed through here before no longer shines. The bell has tolled and the time has come. Oh, what does it mean, that to which to watch life bend back upon itself.
93 | ANTHESIS
M.B. JULIEN
I sit down on the unit floor and I close my eyes. I did not know it then, but as a younger person I must have had a predisposition for the obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Perhaps it was always there even if I was not displaying its symptoms, and then one day soon something comes along and triggers it and I learned of my dormant affliction. It has probably been here since my birth, or maybe it hasn't been. Maybe it was something that developed within me, something that was nurtured into me, along with a host of other mental illnesses.
The black therapy takes over my mind as I travel through my mind's time. It's been said that only the dead have seen the end of the war, but one begs to wonder what other ends they too have seen. These revelations that only death can bring forward. Journeying through the days of darkness, reaching end to end and coast to coast. Through it all you'll think you've seen the bottom of humanity, but the pit will continue to get deeper and deeper.
In all my study and through all my research, I've felt both the joy and the hurt that knowledge and wisdom has to offer. The gleaming liberation, and also the dim imprisonment. You must know that one without the other leads to the imbalance, and the imbalance leads to the divided soul, and the divided soul seeps into the chaotic world.
Don't let the scales begin to tip in any one direction despite your perception on the model, doing so leads to anger, and anger to madness. The scales must balance, even on both ends and unaffected by the influence of its center of gravity, because you see, madness, as you know, is much like gravity. All it takes is a little push.
“I have seen the writing on the wall,” I think to myself, eyes still closed, and in an auditory hallucination I begin to hear Clownface's laughter. He laughs and he laughs, and after he goes away, someone else comes. Various people enter my mind for hours until one final individual begins to speak to me.
“??? ??? ????? ??? ??????? ??? ????, ??? ??? ??? ????? ?????,” he says, but I can't make out his words.
I unwittingly open my eyes to hear better, but the only image before me is a shadow on the wall. I stand up to notice that the shadow is twice my size and height, so much that I have to actually look up at him.
I meant to ask him what he said but it's pointless. Right now, nothing is intelligible to me. Instead we both just stand there, staring at eachother. It has been a long time since I've seen him. Five, maybe five and a half years, and in all that time, much like myself he hasn't changed in the least.
I keep my eyes on him and he doesn't budge. Not once, and for ten minutes. The time turns into one hour and slowly he is diffusing. His contour shape is losing its definition 94 | ANTHESIS
M.B. JULIEN
and he is beginning to spread all over the wall, pulsating the very essence of his being.
He thinks his tricks will work on me, and maybe he is right, I don't know, but what I do know right now is that I am not fearful of him.
I close my eyes once more, and then I open them and I bring him back into focus as he once was. His contour shape is back in definition and we are again staring at eachother. My eyes have been opened and I see clearly. It has taken me years, but I know understand who you are. I now why you do these things that you do. What I have learned of your nature, and what I have gained through trial and error, that is what has made all of the difference.
Perhaps, if you shall strike me down, and I know that you will, realize that if you do not kill me I shall come back stronger. Know that I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.
Know that in this room full of mirrors I will sit and reflect, correcting all defects and errors. Know that I have become isolation it very self, and that I will not chase the enigma. Know that a moth is attracted to the light and is born to chase the flame. And above all, without question, know that it is not you, but I, that is now the darkness. The darkness that will be served with the bitter taste of pain.
95 | ANTHESIS
M.B. JULIEN
ʕblue raspberrieS ʕγɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ ʕγɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ ʕγɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ ʕγɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ
ʕγɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ ʕγɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ .γɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ .γɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ .γɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ
.γɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυl .γɿɿɘ
ᙠ
dqƨɒɿ ɘυl .γɿɿɘ
ᙠ
dqƨɒɿ ɘυlᙠ
.ƨɘɔɘiq lɒɿɘvɘƨ oɈni ƨɿɘɈɈɒʜƨ ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ niɒϱɒ ɘʜɈ no bnA .niɒϱɒ bnA .niɒϱɒ bnA .niɒϱɒ
bnA .niɒϱɒ bnA .niɒϱɒ bnA .niɒϱɒ bnA .niɒϱɒ ɘϱnυlq I bnɒ ˎγɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυld ɿɘqƨiʜw γlmlɒɔ ˎʞɔɒd llυq I .ƨƨoɿɔɒ llɒ ƨʞɒɘɿɈƨ ʞɔɒɿɔ ɘʜɈ bnɒ ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ oɈni bɒɘʜɘɿoʇ γm ɘϱnυlq I !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !
ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH !ɒH
.llɘʜƨ ƨ'ɘƨqɿoɔ ɒ ɘbiƨni Ɉoɿ bnA .llɘH ʇo ƨbnυoʜ ɘʜɈ ɘɔɒʇ bnɒ bnɒɈƨ ɈƨυM .bnυoɿ ϱniɈɈɘϱ
ɿoʇ lυoƨ ɘʜɈ ɈυoʜɈiW .bnυoʇ ɘd llɒʜƨ ɿɘvɘoƨoʜw bnA
.ɿɘʇiɔυ⅃ bɒƨ ˎɿɘʇʇυƨ ƨυ ɘbɒm ɘʜ ɘɿɘʜw bɘʜƨlooɈ ɘlɈɈil ɒ ƨɒw ɘɿɘʜT .მმ
მ miʜ ʜɈiw ɘƨoʜɈ
ɘviϱ ll'ɘH .ɿɘʇiɔυ⅃ ƨi ɿɘwoq ɘƨoʜw ˎbɒƨ ɘm ɘʞɒm blυow ʜɈɒq ɘlɈɈil ɘƨoʜw ɘno ɘʜT
.ɿɘʇiɔυ⅃ Ɉɘɘwƨ γm oɈ ƨ'ɘɿɘʜ ˎʜO .γvɒn ɘʜɈ nio
Ⴑ .ɘno γd bɘƨɒɘɿɔni ƨi ƨƨɘnʞɿɒb nɘʜw ƨmɿoʇ
ɈI .Ɉʜϱil ϱnυoγ ɘʜɈ ʇo ɿɘdmυn ɘʜɈ ƨi nɘvɘƨ ɘʜT .nɿυɈɘɿ ƨϱniɿd ʜɈnɘvɘƨ ɘʜɈ bnA .ƨɘϱɒɈƨ
xiƨ ni bɘʜƨilqmoɔɔɒ ƨi Ɉnɘmɘvom A
.ɘlɔγɔ bɘϱnɒɿɘb A .ɘlɔγɔ bɘϱnɒɿɘb ɒ ɘɿɒ υoY .ɘlɔγɔ bɘϱnɒɿɘb υoY .ɘlɔγɔ bɘϱnɒɿɘb υoY .ɘm ʇo ɘbiƨ Ɉƨɘʞɿɒb ɘʜɈ ɘɘƨ Ɉ'nɒɔ υoY .mɿoʇ oɈ ƨniϱɘd ʞɔɒɿɔ ɒ bnɒ niɒϱɒ ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ
ʜɔnυq I
.ɈɒʜɈ Ɉqɘɔɔɒ I bnɒ ˎɈi ʇo llɒ ɿoʇ ɘldiƨnoqƨɘɿ mɒ I .ob I ".γɈilidiƨnoqƨɘɿ ɘmoƨ ɘʞɒT .ɿɘɈɈɘd lɘɘʇ ʇlɘƨγm ɘʞɒm oɈ oϱɘ ɿɘɈlɒ ɿɘƨol ɘmoƨ ɘɈɒɘɿɔ Ɉ'nbib I .ɘm bɘɈɒɘɿɔ υoγ ˎγɘH" .ɘɿomγnɒ
Ɉ'nob γllɒɘɿ I ˎɈ'nob I ˎoИ ".ɘm bɘɘn υoY" ʕυoγ ʇo biɿ Ɉɘϱ I Ɉ'nɒɔ γʜw ˎnoiɈɒniɔυllɒʜ
ϱniʞɔυʇ ɒ ɘɿ'υoY ".ɘnim ni ɘɔiov ɒ ɘɿ'υoY" .bɒɘʜ γm ni ɘɔiov ɒ ɘɿ'υoγ ˎƨυƨɘ
Ⴑ ".υoγ Ɉυodɒ
Ɉɘϱɿoʇ oɈ ɘvɒʜ ɘW .won ƨƨɘlϱninɒɘm ƨi υoγ Ɉqɘɔxɘ ˎɈʜϱiЯ" .ƨiʜɈ Ɉnɒw Ɉ'nob I ˎoИ
".Ɉnɒw ɘw Ɉɒʜw ƨi ƨiʜT .ƨiʜɈ ϱniob ɘɿɒ ɘW .ƨiʜɈ ϱniob Ɉon m'I" .ƨiʜɈ ob Ɉ'nob ɘƨɒɘlq ˎυoγ ϱniϱϱɘd m'I
.ɘɔɒlq ʇo Ɉυo ʞɔɒɿɔ ƨɘlʞɔυnʞ γm lɘɘʇ I bnɒ ʞɔɒd bnɒʜ γm ϱniɿd I .ƨnɘqqɒʜ ϱniʜɈon Ɉυd ˎnɒɔ I ƨɒ bɿɒʜ ƨɒ bnɒʜ nɘllowƨ γm ʜɈiw ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ ʜɔnυq I .miʜ lɘɘʇ Ɉ'nɒɔ I Ɉυd ˎɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ ʇo ɘɔɒʇɿυƨ ɘʜɈ ƨƨoɿɔɒ bnɒʜ γm ɘvom I .Ɉ'nɒɔ I Ɉυd ˎmiʜ ʜɔυoɈ oɈ γɿɈ bnɒ ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ
no bnɒʜ γm Ɉυq I .ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ ni ɿɒɘqqɒ qɘɘlƨoИ ɿɘɈƨiM ɘɘƨ I .ϱniʜɈon nɒʜɈ ƨƨɘl ɘɿ'υoY
.ϱniʜɈon ɘɿ'υoY .ɿɒil ϱniʞɔυʇ ɒ ɘɿ'υoY .ɿɒi⅃
96 | OƆIⱭIƆO
M.B. JULIEN
!qoɈƧ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .oИ .ϱniʜϱυɒ⅃ .qoɈƧ
.ϱniʜϱυɒ⅃ .qoɈƧ .qoɈƧ .Ɉi qoɈƧ .ϱniʜϱυɒl qoɈƧ .qυ ʞɔυʇ ɘʜɈ Ɉυʜƨ ˎoɒT .ϱniʜϱυɒl qoɈƧ
ʕʞɘɿɘ .ʞɘ
ᗡ
ɿɘ .Ɉ
ᗡ on mɒ I .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon m'I .bloɔ ɘɈidɈƨoɿʇ ϱniʞɔυʇ ƨiʜT
.Ɉon mɒ I .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon mɒ I .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon m'I .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon mɒ I .Ɉon mɒ I .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon mɒ I .γsɒɿɔ
Ɉon m'I .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon m'I .oИ .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon m'I .γsɒɿɔ Ɉon m'I .lɒɘɿ ɘd oɈ ɘvɒʜ γɘʜT .lɒɘɿ ɘɿɒ
γɘʜT .υoγ ɘvɘilɘd Ɉ'nob I
.ɘɘɿʇ ɘd bnɒ ˎwon ɘʞɒW .biɒɿʇɒ ɘd Ɉ'nob ˎγɒƨ I niɒϱɒ oƨ ˎɈɘɿϱɘɿ Ɉonnɒɔ υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ɘʇil ni ϱniʜɈ ɘno ɘʜɈ ƨi ɈI .ɘviɈɔɒɿɈɈɒ oƨ ƨ'Ɉi γʜw ƨ'ɈɒʜɈ ˎɘɘƨ υoγ ˎɘbiɔiυƨ nwo ɿυoγ ϱniɈɈɘɿϱɘɿ
Ɉυodɒ γɿɿow oɈ ɘvɒʜ Ɉon lliw υoY
.ɘɿiƨɘb oƨ υoγ ɘɔɒɘq bnɒ mobɘɘɿʇ ɘʜɈ bniʇ υoγ lliw ɘbiɔiυƨ ɿυoγ ni bnɒ ˎbnɘ oɈ γɿoɈƨ ɘʜɈ
ɿoʇ ɘmoɔ ƨɒʜ ɘmiɈ ɘʜT .ʜɈυɿɈ ɘʜɈ bniʇ oɈ ɘlɔɿiɔ-llυʇ ɘmoɔ Ɉƨυm υoY .biɒɿʇɒ ɘd Ɉ'noᗡ
.nɒϱɘd llɒ Ɉi ɘɿɘʜw oɈ ˎniɒϱɒ bnυoɿɒ ʞɔɒd ƨɘoϱ nwob ƨɘmoɔ Ɉɒʜw ˎnwob ɘmoɔ Ɉƨυm qυ
ƨɘoϱ ɈɒʜW
.ʇlɘƨ wobɒʜƨ ɿυoγ Ɉnoɿʇnoɔ υoγ nɒɔ nɘʜɈ γlnO .qυ ɘʞɒw oɈ υoγ ɿoʇ ɘmiɈ ƨi ɈI .ʜɈɒɘb ʇo niƨυoɔ ɘʜɈ ƨi qɘɘlƨ ɘƨυɒɔɘd ˎqɘɘlƨ ɿɘvɘn I γʜw ƨ'ɈɒʜɈ ˎɘɘƨ υoγ bnɒ ˎmɒɘɿb ɒ ni ɘɿ'υoY
.ƨƨɘlϱninɒɘm bniʇ ɘƨiwɿɘʜɈo υoγ ɘʇil ɒ ni ɘƨoqɿυq ɘmoƨ ɿoʇ Ɉƨυ
Ⴑ .ʜɈɿow-ʇlɘƨ ɘmoƨ ɿoʇ Ɉƨυį
ƨiʜɈ ʇo llɒ bib υoY
.ɘʞil ʞool υoγ llɘʜ ɘʜɈ Ɉɒʜw bnɒ ɿɘbnɘϱ ɿυoγ ˎɘɔɒɿ ɿυoγ ˎɘmɒn ɿυoγ ɘɿɒ ɿɒɘqqɒ Ɉ'nob ɈɒʜɈ ƨϱniʜɈ γlno ɘʜT .υoγ Ɉυodɒ ϱniʜɈ ɘlϱniƨ γɿɘvɘ ˎɘɿɘʜɈ Ɉʜϱiɿ llɒ ƨ'ɈI
.bnim ɿυoγ qilƨ Ɉƨυį ɘʜ Ɉ'nbib ˎnobnɒɿ
ᙠ bnA .ɿɘʞɔυʇɿɘʜɈom ƨɘiɈiɿɒlimiƨ-bivɒ
ᗡ ɘʜɈ ˎɘɔnɘʜ
ˎɿɘɈƨiƨ ɒ bɒʜ υoγ ˎɿɘʜɈoɿd ɒ ɘvɒʜ Ɉ'nbib υoγ ˎγɒw ɘʜɈ γd bnA .bɘƨƨɘɿqɘb bɘnmɒbboϱ oƨ
ϱniɘd ɿoʇ noƨɒɘɿ ϱniʞɔυʇ on ɘvɒʜ υoγ bnɒ bɒɘb Ɉon ɘɿ'γɘʜɈ llɘW ʕoИ ʕɈɘγ γlimɒʇ ɿυoγ
bɘnoiɈnɘm I ɘvɒH
.noiɈɒɈƨbnim ɿυoY ʕɈinυ ɘϱɒɿoɈƨ ɘʜT .Ɉiɒʜ ɿυoγ ɘɔɒlq oɈ ɘɔɒlq A ʕɘmoʜ 'ƨɈnɘɿɒq ɿυoY
.ɈɒɘɿɈɘɿ ɿυoY ʕlɘɈoʜ ɘʜT .ɘɿɘʜɈ ɒmɿɒʞ booϱ Ɉoϱ υoY ʕlɒɈiqƨoʜ ɘʜT .ɘɿɘʜɈ ƨγɒwlɒ ƨɒw ɈI ʕɈɿɒM ɘƨɒʜƆ .ɘɔnɘiɔƨnoɔ γɈliυϱ ɿυoγ ƨ'ɈɒʜT ʕɈnɘmɈɿɒqɒ ɿυoY
.ɿɘqmɘɈ bɘdiɿɔƨɘb-ʇlɘƨ ƨiʜ ʜɈiw ɘnnγ⅃ ƨɒ γƨɒɘ ƨɒ Ɉƨυį ƨ'ɘʜ ˎɿɘʜɈiɘ ˎoivliƧ Ɉυodɒ Ɉɘϱɿoʇ
97 | OƆIⱭIƆO
M.B. JULIEN
Ɉon ƨ'Ɉɘ⅃ .Ɉυodɒ wonʞ Ɉ'nob I ɈɒʜɈ ɘbiƨ ɘviɈiƨnɘƨ ɒ ɘvɒʜ υoγ ɘdγɒM .moɿʇ ɘmɒɔ ɘʜƨ
ɘɿɘʜw wonʞ Ɉ'nob I .ʜɒɿɒƧ ˎɒɿɒƧ ˎʜɒɿɒƧ ˎɒɿɒƧ .ɿɘʜ no υoγ Ɉnɘmilqmoɔ oɈ ɘvɒʜ I .booϱ
ƨɒw ɘʜƨ ˎƨɘγ ˎɒɿɒƧ Ɉυ
ᙠ .γɒw γɿɘvɘ ni υoγ ɘʞil γlɈɔɒxɘ ƨ'ɘH ʕbivɒ
ᗡ ʜϱυoɿʜɈ Ɉʜϱiɿ ɘɘƨ Ɉon
υoγ blυoɔ woH
.ʞɔυʇ ʞɔiƨ ɒ ɘɿ'υoγ ɘƨυɒɔɘd ɿɘʜ γɈiq blυoɔ υoγ oƨ Ɉɿɒq γbod ɒ γɒwɒ ɘʞɒɈ oɈ bɒʜ υoγ
ˎɘloʜw ƨɒw ɘʜƨ nɘʜw ʜϱυonɘ Ɉ'nƨɒw ɘʜƨ bnA .ɘʇil ɘlɈɈil ɔiɈɘʜɈɒq ɿυoγ ni ɘvol oɈ
ɘnoɘmoƨ bɘɈnɒw υoY .ɿɘʜ bɘɈɒɘɿɔ υoγ ˎoИ ʕlɒɘɿ ƨɒw ɘnnγ⅃ ɈɒʜɈ ʞniʜɈ γllɒɘɿ υoγ biᗡ
"ʕɈυodɒ ϱniʞlɒɈ υoγ ɘɿɒ ɈɒʜW" .ɘʇil ɿυoγ ʇo γɿoɈƨ ɘʜɈ ƨɒw bloɈ ϱniɘd γɿoɈƨ lɒɿɈnɘɔ ɘʜɈ
ɈɒʜɈ bɘvɘilɘd γlɘniυnɘϱ υoγ bnɒ ˎƨɿɘɈɔɒɿɒʜɔ bnɒ ƨɘiɿoɈƨ Ɉi ɘvɒϱ υoγ ˎγɈiɔ ɘɿiɈnɘ nɒ Ɉliυd υoY
.xɘlqmoɔ γϱoloʜɈnɒ ɘʜɈ bɘɈɒɘɿɔ υoγ ˎnoiɈɔɒɘɿ ɿυoγ nI .γϱoloʜɔγƨq ʇo ƨoɒʜɔ γɿɘv ɘʜɈ ƨi Ɉi ˎɘɈiƨoqqo Ɉɔɒxɘ ɘʜɈ ƨi bɘɈɒɘɿɔ ɘvɒʜ υoγ γɈilɒɘɿ ƨiʜT .loɿɈnoɔ ɘvɒʜ oɈ bɘɘn lɒɿɘnɘϱ ɘʜɈ ƨi ʜɔiʜw ˎ Ɔ
ᗡ O bɘlɈɈɒd υoγ ƨɒ υoγ bɘʜɔɈɒw I
.ʜɈυɿɈ ɘʜɈ ϱnillɘɈ ɿo ϱniγl ɘɿɒ γɘʜɈ nɘʜw llɘɈ Ɉonnɒɔ γɘʜɈ ɈɒʜɈ ɘloʜ ʞɔɒld ɘʜɈ oɈni qɘɘb oƨ ɘɿɒ oʜw ɘƨoʜɈ ɘɿɒ ɘɿɘʜT .ƨƨɘnbɒm ɿυoγ oɈ boʜɈɘm ɒ bɘɘbni ƨi ɘɿɘʜɈ ɈɒʜɈ ˎϱniʜɈγɿɘvɘ
ɘɈiqƨɘb wonʞ Ɉƨυm υoγ ɘƨυɒɔɘd ˎbooᎮ
".ɿɘdmɘmɘɿ I" .wolloʜ Ɉƨυ
Ⴑ ɘɿɒ γɘʜɈ ʇi ɿo ƨɘbiƨni γnɒ ɘvɒʜ γllɒɘɿ γɘʜɈ ʇi ɘɘƨ oɈ nɘqo mɘʜɈ Ɉυɔ bnɒ mɘʜɈ qɒnbiʞ oɈ Ɉnɒw υoγ ƨɘmiɈ ɘɿɒ ɘɿɘʜɈ bnɒ ˎƨƨɘnƨυoiɔƨnoɔ ʇo Ɉɿoƨ ɒ
bnɒ ƨniɒɿd ɘvɒʜ γllɒɘɿ γɘʜɈ ʇi ˎlɒɘɿ ɘɿɒ γɘʜɈ ʇi ɿɘbnow υoγ ƨɘmiɈɘmoƧ .mɘʜɈ γbυɈƨ bnɒ
Ɉiƨ υoγ oƨ ˎbɘqolɘvɘb υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ƨɿɘɈɔɒɿɒʜɔ ɘɿɒ ɘlqoɘq ɘƨɘʜɈ llɒ bnɒ ˎɘivom ɒ ϱniʜɔɈɒw ɘɿɒ υoγ ɘʞil ƨlɘɘʇ ɘʇil ɿυoγ ʇi ƨɒ lɘɘʇ υoγ ƨɘmiɈɘmoƨ ɈɒʜɈ ɘm bloɈ ɘvɒʜ υoγ ɈɒʜɈ
ˎɿɘdmɘmɘЯ
.mɿoʇ ɿɘʜɈonɒ ni ɘɔɒqƨ bnɒ ɘmiɈ ʇo ɘbiƨɈυo Ɉƨixɘ υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ɘυɿɈ ƨi Ɉi ɈɒʜɈ υoγ
bnimɘɿ blυow I ɘɿɘʜw ˎɈnɘvɘ γɿɘv ƨiʜɈ bɘɈɒɘɿɔ υoγ mɿoʇ ɈɒʜɈ ni bnɒ ˎɘɔɒqƨ bnɒ
ɘmiɈ ʇo ɘbiƨɈυo Ɉƨixɘ υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ˎwonʞ oɈ υoγ ɘvɒʜ ɈɘY
.ƨnoiɈɒllɘɈƨnoɔ oɈni moʜɈɒʇ Ɉonnɒɔ υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ƨɿɒɈƨ ɘɿɒ ƨɈʜϱυoʜɈ ɿυoγ ˎɘliɔɘdmi υoY ʕɈɘγ
Ɉυo Ɉi bɘɿυϱiʇ υoγ Ɉ'nɘvɒH ʕwonʞ υoγ Ɉ'no
ᗡ .bnim ɿυoγ ɘbɒvni llɒʜƨ ˎooɈ ƨɘiɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ
ɘυld ɘʜɈ ˎɿɘɈɒl ɿo ɿɘnooƧ .ƨiʜɈ ɘʞil ʞɿow Ɉon ƨɘob Ɉi Ɉυd ˎγɒwɒ ƨɈʜϱυoʜɈ ɘʜɈ bnɒ ƨɘɔiov ɘʜɈ qɘɘʞ lliw niɒϱɒ ɿɘvo bnɒ ɿɘvo ϱniʜɈ ɘmɒƨ ɘʜɈ ϱniɈɒɘqɘɿ ʞniʜɈ υoγ ɘƨυɒɔɘd ˎdmυb 98 | OƆIⱭIƆO
M.B. JULIEN
ɘɿɒ υoY .γɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυl
ᙠ .γɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυl
ᙠ .γɿɿɘdqƨɒɿ ɘυl
ᙠ .ϱυɿb ɒ ɘʞil ƨɈʜϱυoʜɈ ɘʜɈ no
Ɉnɘbnɘqɘb ɘmoɔɘd υoγ ɘƨυɒɔɘd ˎʞɒɘw ɘɿɒ υoY
.ɘɿɘʜɈ ʞɿow Ɉon lliw ɔiɈɔɒɈ ɘmɒƨ ƨiʜT .bnim ɿυoγ Ɉɔɘįdo υoγ oƨ ˎυoγ ϱniɈnɘvɘɿq ƨ'Ɉɒʜw ƨi bnim ɿυoγ ʇlɘƨɿυoγ llɘɈ υoγ mɘʜɈ Ɉƨɒq Ɉɘϱ oɈ ɈqmɘɈɈɒ nɒ ni bnɒ ˎƨɘlɔɒɈƨdo lɒɈnɘm ƨƨɒq Ɉɘϱ oɈ liɒʇ υoγ ˎγllɒnoiƨɒɔɔO .ʇlɘƨɿυoγ γlqmiƨ ƨi Ɉi nɘʜw ˎbɒɘʜ ɿυoγ ni ɘd oɈ ɔiɈɒnυl ɘʜɈ ɘvɘilɘd υoY .Ɉƨɘυp ɿυoγ no υoγ oɈ γmɘnɘ nɒ ɘd lliw ɘϱɒɿυoɔ ʇo ʞɔɒl ƨiʜɈ bnɒ ˎbnim nwo ɿυoγ ʇo biɒɿʇɒ ɘɿɒ υoγ nɘʜw ƨɘmiɈ ɘɿɒ ɘɿɘʜT .ɿɘʜɈonɒ ɘɈɒɘɿɔ υoγ ˎmɘldoɿq ɘno moɿʇ
γɒwɒ Ɉɘϱ oɈ ;ƨƨɘnlli ɘʜɈ ɘvɒʜ υoγ ˎɘɘƨ υoY .γbɒɘɿ Ɉɘγ Ɉon ɘɿɒ υoγ ˎγlɘɈɒnυɈɿoʇnU
.lυoƨ ɿυoγ ɘɈɒliʜinnɒ γlɿɘɈɈυ lliw Ɉi ˎmobƨiw ɘɈɘlqmoɔni ʜɈiw wobɒʜƨ ɘʜɈ Ɉɘɘm bnɒ
ɘɔɒlq ƨiʜɈ ʜϱυoɿʜɈ ƨƨɒq υoγ ʇi ɿoʇ ˎʇlɘƨ wobɒʜƨ ɿυoγ ʇo noiɈɒɈnoɿʇnoɔ ɘʜɈ noqυ ɘƨiw ɘd Ɉƨυm υoY .ʇlɘƨ wobɒʜƨ nwo ɿυoγ Ɉɘɘm lliw υoγ ˎɘɿɘʜT .noiɈɔɘʇɿɘq ɘviɈɔυɿɈƨɘb-ʇlɘƨ ɘʜɈ
oɈ γɒw ɿiɘʜɈ no ɘɔɒlq ƨiʜɈ ʜϱυoɿʜɈ ƨƨɒq Ɉƨυm Ɉiɿiqƨ γɿɘvɘ ɿoʇ ˎƨƨɒq Ɉƨυm υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ɘɔɒlq ɒ ɘd lliw ɘɿɘʜɈ ˎƨƨɘɔoɿq ƨiʜɈ ϱniɿυᗡ
.Ɉiʜƨ nwo ɿυoγ ni nwoɿb ɿo llɒ Ɉi ɘvodɒ ɘƨiɿ Ɉƨυm υoγ ɈɒʜɈ wonʞ lliw υoγ ɿoʇ ˎbɘbnɘʇʇo ɘd Ɉon lliw υoγ Ɉυd ˎɘƨɿɘvinυ ɘʜɈ ʇo bnim ɘʜɈ ni ƨɈoϱϱɒm ɘʜɈ ɘɈƨɒɈ lliw υoY .qυ ɿɘʜ
bɘʞɔonʞ ɘvɒʜ lliw γɘʜɈ ɿoʇ ˎɘmiɈ bɿiʜɈ ɘʜɈ ɿoʇ Ɉnɒnϱɘɿq ɘd lliw ʜɈɿɒƎ ɿɘʜɈoM ˎɘʇil ʇo ϱniʞɒɈ ɿυoγ ʇo ɘmiɈ ɘʜɈ ɈA
.ɘʇil nwo ɿiɘʜɈ ɘʞɒɈ Ɉƨɿiʇ Ɉƨυm ɘno ˎϱnoƨ γɈɈɘɿq ƨiʜɈ ɿɒɘʜ oT .ƨiʜɈ nwonʞ γbɒɘɿlɒ ɘvɒʜ
oɈ υoγ ɘvɘilɘd I Ɉυd ˎϱnoƨ γɈɈɘɿq ɒ ϱniƨ ƨbɿid ɘʜɈ ˎmoɿʇ ɘɿ'ɘw ɘɿɘʜw ɈɒʜɈ ˎυoγ llɘɈ ɘm Ɉɘ⅃
.ƨϱniʜɈ Ɉɒɘɿϱ ʜƨilqmoɔɔɒ llɒʜƨ ˎʜɈɒɘb ɿɒɘʇ Ɉon ƨɘob oʜw bnɒ ˎƨƨɘnʞɿɒb ƨiʜ ƨɘɔɒɿdmɘ
oʜw nɒm ɘʜɈ ɈɒʜɈ υoγ llɘɈ oɈ ϱniγɿɈ mɒ I .livɘ ƨƨɘl γlno ƨi ɘɿɘʜT .booϱ ƨɒ ϱniʜɈ ʜɔυƨ on ƨi ɘɿɘʜɈ ɈɒʜɈ ˎυoγ llɘɈ oɈ ϱniγɿɈ γlno mɒ I ˎoИ "ʕɈƨɒɘd ɘʜɈ ʇo ɘɿυɈɒn ɘʜɈ ƨi ʜɈɒɘb ni ϱnilɒɘb ɈɒʜɈ ɘm llɘɈ oɈ ϱniγɿɈ υoγ ɘɿA"
.nɒm ɒ ϱniɘd ʇo niɒq ɘʜɈ ʇo biɿ ƨɈɘϱ ʇlɘƨmiʜ ʇo Ɉƨɒɘd ɒ ƨɘʞɒm oʜw ɘʜ ɈɒʜɈ ˎbnɒɈƨɿɘbnυ
ˎϱnibnɒɈƨɿɘbnυ ƨɒʜ oʜw miʜ Ɉɘ⅃ .ɘno nɘƨoʜɔ ɘʜɈ ɘɿɒ υoγ ˎυoγ bɘɘbni ƨi ɈI .ɘbiɔiυƨ oɈ
ƨɘƨƨɒm ɘʜɈ bɒɘl lliw υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ƨƨɘnƨυoɘɈʜϱiɿ ɘmɒƨ ɘʜɈ ni ƨi Ɉi bnɒ ˎγnɒm ɘviɘɔɘb lliw υoγ ɈɒʜɈ ˎƨƨɘnƨυoɘɈʜϱiɿ ni ƨi ɈI .ϱnoɿw ni Ɉon ɘɿɒ ƨɈʜϱυoʜɈ ɔibiɔo ɿυoγ ˎυoγ llɘɈ llɒʜƨ I ɿoʇ ˎʞɒɘqƨ I ƨɒ ɘm oɈ nɘɈƨi⅃ .ɘm nioį bnɒ bɒɘʜ ɿυoγ wod ˎɘmoƆ
99 | OƆIⱭIƆO
M.B. JULIEN
.bɘɈqmɘT .bɘɈƨɘɈ nɘɘd ƨɒʜ Ɉi liɈnυ ɘυɈɿiv lɒɘɿ Ɉon ƨi ɘυɈɿiv ɿυoγ ˎγlɈnɘυpɘƨnoƆ .ɘɔiv Ɉƨniɒϱɒ qυ bɘmmɒlƨ ƨi Ɉi ƨƨɘlnυ ɘυɈɿiv Ɉon ƨi ɘυɈɿiV .ɘɿɒ υoγ oʜw υoγ ɘʞɒm γɘʜɈ
ˎƨɘυɈɿiv nɘɘɿϱ ɿυoγ ʜɈiw ϱnolɒ ɘƨυɒɔɘ
ᙠ .υoγ ʇo ɘɿɒ γɘʜɈ ɘƨυɒɔɘd ˎnoiɈɔυɿɈƨɘb ɘʜɈ nɘvɘ
ˎniɒq ɘʜɈ nɘvɘ ˎbɘɿɈɒʜ ɘʜɈ nɘvɘ ;mɘʜɈ ɘvo⅃ .υoγ no qυ ʞɒɘnƨ Ɉon ob γɘʜɈ ˎʜɈɒɘb ɘʞil ɈɒʜɈ oƨ ˎmɘʜɈ ɘsinϱoɔɘЯ .υoγ niʜɈiw ɘbiƨɘɿ ɈɒʜɈ ƨɘƨƨɘnʞɿɒb ɘʜɈ wonʞ .ʇlɘƨɿυoγ ʇo ƨbiov γnɒm ɘʜɈ wonʞ υoγ blυoʜƨ ˎɘmiƨ ɘʜɈ nI
.υoγ ɘƨiɿqɿυƨ bnɒ υoγ no qυ qɘɘɿɔ Ɉon γɒm Ɉi ɈɒʜɈ oƨ ˎƨƨɘnʞɿɒb ƨiʜɈ ʇo nɿɒɘl oɈ γɈυb ɿυoγ
ƨi Ɉi ɘʇil ni bnɒ ˎƨƨɘnʞɿɒb ʇo γɿɘɈƨγm ɘʜɈ ni bɘbυoɿʜƨ γlɈnɒɈƨnoɔ ƨi ˎwobɒʜƨ ɒ ƨɒ Ɉɘiυp ϱniɘd ˎʜɈɒɘb bnA .ƨƨɘlɘϱɒ ɘmoɔɘd γɘʜɈ ˎɈi ƨbnɒɈƨɿɘbnυ ɘno nɘʜw ɈɒʜɈ ˎʜɈɒɘb ʇo Ɉqɘɔnoɔ ɘʜɈ ƨi ɘmiƨ ɘʜɈ ni ʜɔυƨ ɈɒʜɈ ˎwonʞ oɈ υoγ ɘvɒʜ ɈɘY
.γɿɘƨim bnɒ niɒq Ɉυd ϱniʜɈon ɿɘʜɈo ʜɔɒɘ ϱniɿd oɈ bɘɈɒʇ ɘɿ'ɘw ˎblɿow ƨiʜɈ oɈni nwoɿʜɈ
ɘɿ'ɘw Ɉnɘmom ɘʜɈ moɿᖷ .ƨƨɘniqqɒʜ ɿɘʜɈo ʜɔɒɘ ϱniɿd oɈ bɘnϱiƨɘb Ɉ'nɘɿɘw ƨnɒmυH
.ɘƨoqɿυq γlno ɿυo ƨ'ɈɒʜT .Ɉnɘmom ɘʜɈ ni ɘvil ɘW .ɘɿυɈυʇ on ˎɈƨɒq on ɘvɒʜ ɘW .ƨυ ƨɒ
ɘmɒƨ ɘʜɈ ɘɿ'υoY .Ɉnɘɿɘʇʇib ɘɿA ...υoγ Ɉυ
ᙠ .ɿɒw ƨi ɘɿɘʜɈ γʜw ƨi ɈɒʜɈ bnA .γɒw ɈɒʜɈ
bɘnϱiƨɘb ɘɿ'ɘW .AИ
ᗡ ɿiɘʜɈ no ƨƨɒq γlƨƨɘlbnim oɈ ƨɈƨixɘ Ɉɘnɒlq ƨiʜɈ no ϱniʜɈ ϱnivil γɿɘvƎ .ʞɔiƨ ɘm ɘʞɒm oɈ ʜϱυonɘ ƨɒw ɈI .bɘɘƨ ƨ'ɘno no ƨƨɒq oɈ ɘɿiƨɘb ɔiɈƨivɒɈɒ bnɒ ʜƨiʇlɘƨ
ɈɒʜT .noiƨƨɘƨdo ʇo Ɉɔɘįdo ɘlϱniƨ ɘmɒƨ ɘʜɈ ʜɈiw bɘʇʇυɈƨ ƨɒw oɈni bɘɿɘɘq I ɈɒʜɈ bnim ʜɔɒɘ bnɒ ˎƨbnim ƨƨɘlɈnυoɔ oɈni bɘɿɘɘq ɘvɒʜ I ɈɒʜɈ bnɒɈƨɿɘbnυ Ɉƨυm υoY
"ʕɘɿoʇɘd ɘɘƨ υoγ bib ɈɒʜW" .ɘɿoʇɘd nɘɘƨ ɘvɒʜ I ɘƨoʜɈ ɘʞilnυ ˎɘnolɒ bnɒɈƨ Ɉi bib ˎƨɘγ
ˎɈɿɒq on no bnɒ ˎɒmϱinɘ nɒ ƨɒw wɒƨ I ɈɒʜW "ʕɘɘƨ υoγ bib Ɉɒʜw ˎɿoɿɿim ɈɒʜɈ oɈni bɘʞool υoγ nɘʜw bnA" .bɒɘʜ ɿυoγ ɘbiƨni bɘʞool ɘvɒʜ I ɈɒʜɈ ˎwonʞ oɈ υoγ ɘvɒʜ ɈɘY
.ɘldiƨɿɘvɘɿ ƨi ϱniɈiɿw ɘʜT .Ɉon ƨi ɘmiɈ Ɉυ
ᙠ .ʞɔɒd nɿυT .ʞɔɒd nɿυT .ʞɔɒd nɿυT .ʞɔɒd
nɿυT .nɒmbɒm ɒ ʇo bnim γɿɒɈiloƨ ɘʜɈ ɘbiƨni qɘɘb oϱ bnɒ bɿɒwɿoʇ ɘvom ƨυ Ɉɘl ˎƨυ qoɈƨ
Ɉon ƨiʜɈ Ɉɘl Ɉυ .
ᙠ ƨɈʜϱil ɘɈiʜw ɘlɈɈil ƨɈi ʜɈiw γlɿɒɘ ƨi ɿɘɈniw bnɒ ˎϱnisɘɘɿʇ ˎɈƨoɿʇ mɒ I
.ƨƨɘnɈiw ɘƨlɒʇ ɘɿɒd nɒɔ ʇlɘƨɈi γɈilɒɘɿ nɘvɘ ɈɒʜɈ Ɉυd ˎɘil nɒm ƨɘob γlno Ɉon ɈɒʜɈ
noiɈɒsilɒɘɿ ɘʜɈ noqυ γɈilɒnoƨɿɘq ɔiɈqɘʞƨ ɒ qolɘvɘb llɒʜƨ ɘno ɈɒʜɈ ˎɈi noiɈƨɘυp ɿo ɘvɘilɘᙠ
.ɘbɒɔƨɒɔ oɈ ƨniϱɘd mɿoʇ γm ˎwobɒʜƨ ɘʜɈ ʇo nϱiɘɿ ɘʜɈ ni Ɉƨixɘ I ƨA
".qɘɘlƨoИ ɿɘɈƨiM ʇo lɒviɿɿɒ ɘυɿɈ ɘʜT .bɿɒɔ ʜɈɿυoʇ ɘʜɈ ʇo ϱniʜƨɒɘlnυ ɘʜT .ɿɘɔnɒmoɿɔɘn ɘʜɈ ɿoʇ ɘmoɔ ƨɒʜ ɘmiɈ ɘʜT !ƨɿɘɈƨiƨ bnɒ ƨɿɘʜɈoɿ
ᙠ .ʇlɘƨɿυoγ noqυ ʞɔɒd bɘɈɔɘlʇɘɿ bnɒ Ɉƨɒɔ
ƨɘɿiƨɘb qɘɘb nwo γɿɘv ɿυoγ ʇo noiɈɔɘlʇɘɿ biɿɿoʜ A .γɿbɘʞɔiw nwo ɿυoγ γd bɘnɘʜɈϱnɘɿɈƨ
100 | OƆIⱭIƆO
M.B. JULIEN
ˎƨƨɘnʞɿɒb nwo ɿυoγ γd bɘɿɘwoq ˎɈʜϱil ʇo biov ˎwobɒʜƨ ɒ ƨɒ ƨυ ϱnomɒ ƨʞlɒw ɘH .won ƨɘϱɿɘmɘ ʜɈɿυoʇ ɘʜT .ɘnoϱ ɘvɒʜ ɘɘɿʜɈ ˎɘmoɔ ɘvɒʜ ɘɘɿʜT .ƨɘɔɒʇ xiƨ γd bɘl ƨi ɘɿɒmɈʜϱin bɘʜɔɈɘɿw ƨiʜT .ʜɈɒɘb bnɒ ˎƨɿɘlϱϱυį ˎƨʞɒɘɿʇ ʇo ɘbɒɿɒq A .noiɈɔυɿɈƨɘb ʜɈiw bɘυϱɒlq ˎwobɒʜƨ ɒ ƨɒ ˎbnɒl ɘʜɈ ƨƨoɿɔɒ qɘɘwƨ lliw lɒvinɿɒɔ ʞɿɒb ɒ ˎnoƧ lɘɘԳ ɘʜT ʇo ϱnimoɔ ɘʜɈ
ɘɿoʇɘ .ʇ
ᙠ lɘƨɈi ɘmiɈ ʇo ϱnildmυɿɔ ɘʜɈ γd bɘwolloʇ Ɉiƨiv lliw xiƨ ˎnɘɿbliʜɔ γm ˎbɘnɿɒw Ǝᙠ"
μ8:୧:Ɛ:Ɩ
OƆIⱭIƆO
μ8 ɿɘɈqɒʜƆ
101 | OƆIⱭIƆO
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 85
HELTER SKELTER, OR: L'ÉTRANGER
1:3:9:85
THAT is to say, the clownhead is missing an eye. “I'm just not sold on him,” the head says to me, “he's clueless about the rampant crime in our major cities. Houston, New York, Chicago, San Diego, Boston, these cities are literally dying and he's not the person we should have picked to solve these issues. And that's just the tip of the iceberg, what about the minimum wage? Equal pay for women? Cody Cooper? How are we going to fix our schools when we can't even fix our tax problems? During the debates, his solutions to these problems were simply uninspired.” The head of a decapatated clown lays on its left cheek as it stares me down with one eye.
A voice of politics, maybe even almost a voice of reason; America's next president has been decided and he doesn't seem to agree. I snap out of the daydream and the voice coming from the clock radio starts to come to me.
I'm just not right. Not right. I am not right. I am not right. I think it helps me think.
Not right. I'm just not right in this world, man. Not right. I turn it off and grab a tennis ball nearby and begin to bounce it against the Asylum wall. I'm just not right. I'm not right. Not right.
I've looked through so many of these composition notebooks but I can't find her. Four months? I don't know that it's that simple. I miss Miss Funnyenglish. Did I architect a hotel? Has it been four days? I miss the tennis ball and it lands behind me. If it's not here, then was it real? Four years? I can't find the birdman, or the guitarman, or the veteranman. When was the last time I slept? I can't find sleeping beauty, I can't find the hotel, I can't find the electricous sign. Did I create Sally?
I yell out at them and they all disappear. Little poops of poop incased in a liquidy feces. A cockroach. I thought the worst was over, but I soon realize that behind them, they had each left their own waste. An ant. I look behind me to sea where it has landed, but instead I see four insects quarreling with eachother. A fly. I smote my head and know that I will have to come fact to face with their mess. A spider.
I go there. I go to where they were. I am going there. I spit on it and begin to scrub.
I'm going. I go there. I find a toothbrush and I go to where they had been. I'm going there.
I am going there. I get on my hands and knees and stare at it for a while. I go to where they had been. I'm going there. I'm going. I continue spitting and scrubbing and spitting and scrubbing and spitting and scrubbing until it is all clean. I'm going.
I lift up my shirt and at the same time try to keep the very bottom form touching my body, especially my lips. Fuck. Fuck. I suceed and throw the shirt into the corner and then stair at it for a while. Fuck. After holding my breath for so long I finally breathe and stand 102 | HELTER SKELTER, OR: L'ÉTRANGER
M.B. JULIEN
up. Fuck. Fuck. This is when I notice that I had gotten a small stain of what I had just cleaned onto the bottom of my shirt. Fucking feces and on motherfucking shirt, fuck.
I have to burn it. It has to be burned. Burning. It's burning. I watch the shirt go up in flames. I get a lighter and set the poop-area on fire. I have to burn it. Only one thing can be done. One thing to do. One thing I can do. There's only one thing I can do.
For those things that kids play in. The only shirt I had. Of course at the same time, I realize that I have burned the only shirt I had. And now Mr. Nosleep is setting up metal chairz in my ear. What do they call them again? It's not until after it finishes burning that I feel the bizarrely cold winter air creep into the storage unit. Playgrounds, yes that's it, playgrounds.
I close the door behind me and look to see if anyone is around, then I begin walking towards my parents' home. Damn it. Should be able to find some shirts there. I lift up the Asylum door to find that it is still daytime. There should be shirts there.
“Kennedy was the last true president, true leader that America had, and it's a shame that we.” I walk passed a car that has its windoes rolled down and I here that voice again.
I look back up and I see the home in the distance; the problem is, though, that Lynne is sitting on the steps.
“Where have you been?,” this is what she asks me instead and I have no answer for it.
I walk towards her as she stares at me, than past her and into the home. I'm sure she wanted to ask me about my bloodshot eyes, why I had no shirt on, and why I smelled so very bad, but she didn't.
I look at her and find confusion on her face. She gets closer and takes it and attempts to look at it but I pull it away. She follows me into the home and up the stares and is still talking. “What did you do to your hand?” I look into her eyes and begin to wonder if she is real.
I don't have time for this. It stops me for a moment, but I then begin to walk again.
Sara and David, they will grow, learn to deceive and become just like everyone else, and by then I will hate them, too. “Silvio took Sara.” I go to the closet and don a black shirt, then switch to black pants and a pair of black shoes. I then leave the room and she begins to follow me again. I would rather die than become like any of you. She says this as I'm walking and it stops me. I don't have time for this.
What the hell does she want me to do about it? The speed of her voice increases, “He just came while I was at work and told Alondra that he was picking them up. David was at Olya's but Sara was home and now she's with him. I don't trust him with her.”
I don't fucking know. I don't know. I do not know. I do not know. “We're not really divorced just seperated but he can't just do that can he?” I do not know. I don't fucking know.
103 | HELTER SKELTER, OR: L'ÉTRANGER
M.B. JULIEN
“And now he's talking about some social services and shit and visitations and lawyers and how I'm not making enough to provide for them. What hurts the most is that she wants to stay there at his house, and she has no idea who he really is.” Why is she still talking in my ear, man, shit.
She doesn't follow. For a moment I think she's finally done talking, but suddenly my ears begin to ring as she shouts out my name. I walk through the living room and enter the attic. I stop, turn around and look her dead in the eye. I get the shovel and walk back down the stairs and past her once more. “What.,” I ask.
“Doesn't that mean anything to you?” “What. What do you want me to say.” “Sara has been asking for you every day and every night. I go to see her, she asks if you're back yet.
I'm sitting at home and she calls, just to ask if you are back yet.” “She wanted to ask you if you will have Thanksgiving dinner with us, but right now I'm afraid to let her ask you because it looks like you'll just disappoint her.”
Stop following me. I start to walk again, and I learn just how stubborn she is when she continues to follow me. Stop following me. “Lynne, I'm going to tell you this once, stop following me.” I turn around to begin walking again and the moment I hear her footsteps I stop.
I pick up the shovel and walk away, and she is not following me. I drop the shovel and I walk towards her and I grab both of her arms. She continues to repeat my name as I back her into the couch and forcefully sit her down. “Don't follow me.” “Don't follow me.” “Do not follow me.” “Do not.” “Do not.” “Do not follow me.” She's confused.
I then begin to dig, and dig, and dig, and dig and dig. That look of confusion still in her eyes. I walk into the middle of it and I raise the shovel up and then force it down to break the cold hard ground. I slide the glass door open then closed and enter the backyard. During the digging process I look up once, and I see Lynne standing behind the sliding glass door, just staring at me.
What a bad fucking joke. By the time I finished the first part of the dig, Lynne had gone home and it was night time. Funny, it's been almost a year and a half since I first created her and I almost tricked myself into believing that she might help me change.
Fucking waste of my goddamn time. I lay down on my back and star up at the stares.
I sit down on the ground and observe the unfinished treehouse. Fuck that too. People don't deserve my time.
My ability to live. Exploring isn't about visiting the mountains, it's about going into your own backyard and finding that place no one else knows about. I was fourteen when I first read the book of Ecclesiastes, and while even to this day I still believe it is the most truthful thing I've ever read, I do believe it did also indeed destroy me. Took away my life.
104 | HELTER SKELTER, OR: L'ÉTRANGER
M.B. JULIEN
When will I ever find piece. “You are beginning to see the puzzles you left behind for yourself, aren't you?” Put your dreams on a shelf and forget about them. My percepsion of time continues to deteriorate. I begin walking back to Asylum. Mr. Nosleep accompanies me. Every day this madness continues to bear down on me.
I continue to look at it as it comes my way. Surely, there must have been a door here in the wall when I came in. Another shadowy figure far off into the distence, slowly approaching. I get back to the storage unit, but as I go to lift up the gate, I see something in the corner of mine eye.
The thing about attempting to solve a puzzle is that, you can never know which peace will be the final piece you put down, and that last peice can change what the image is completely. The shadowy figure gets closer.
She had an abusive husband, but like most battlescared women, she had a hard time leaving him. The shadowy figure gets even closer. It looked like it was going to be a butterfly in the shape of a heart, but instead it turned out to be a dirty old moth. So she spent her life putting down the pieces to a puzzle, and halfway through she could almost see what the image would be. It's like this, a long time ago I use to know a woman named Lynnette Parker.
I can see him coming from afar with a scythe and that damned default and demoninary grim. The figure is now in sight and I can see him clearly. What he doesn't know is that I am no longer afraid of him, because you see, I've been living in darkness a long time, and over the years my eyes adjusted until the dark became my world and I could see.
105 | HELTER SKELTER, OR: L'ÉTRANGER
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 86
OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
1:3:9:86
THERE was a devilistic grin that grew on the face of the shadowy figure that continued to approach me. And for a moment, there we both stood, face to face, either of us lacking any pinerviousity whatsoever. It was then that I grabbed hold of the Asylum door and lifted, allowing him to enter first as I followed.
For no less than twenty days, the three of us occupied the storage unit without ever saying a single word, and on what may have been the twenty-first, I broke the silence. I began to speak:
I curse the day that I was born, and along with it, I curse all of the sorrow in this world. I curse the wretched life that draws upon my soul, and I ask, why not on that day of my birth did terror not strike then instead of now.
Why not was that day omitted from history, so that its morning stars could become dark, and so that such a day might wait for daylight in vain, and not see the first rays of dawn. Why not did the vast terror shut the doors of the womb on me, to hide the trouble of many days from my eyes, for now I might be laying down in peace; I would be asleep and at rest with kings and rulers of the earth.
I curse the Sun that was shown that day, that gave me life knowing that I would later ask for death. I curse the waters that waved that day, that would reach the heights and precipitate the storm that I am in now.
Why not was I spared, but instead dragged into this disease called life. Why not did my parents take rest that night, the night I would be conceived.
Why not did they simply lay to sleep, so that my child would never be born. Though now I live, I feel I have died. I feel that I have become a part of death, whose only purpose now is to wait for it to claim me in a physical form.
Why then, I ask, is life given to a man whose way is hidden, whom God has hedged in? For sighing has become my daily food; my groans pour out like water. What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me. I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil.
I have been given a great wisdom, only for it to suffer in total darkness. For this, I ask, why is light given to those in misery? It is better to be dumb in the mind, so that you may not know that you are suffering.
Why is life given to the bitter of soul? To those who long for death that does not come, who search for it more than for hidden treasure. To those who are filled with gladness and rejoice when they reach their grave?
I have worked with the poor and I have dined with the rich. There is no city I haven't 106 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
seen. I've lived among people who wasted their life, and I have seen those with great aspirations plummet into the bottomless pit. If all men are not created equally, then surely all men will be destroyed equally, for no man's life is worth salvation.
What then, is the point? Why does one not proceed quickly to their demise? Why does one not bring about their own destruction by their own hand? It is all meaningless, and we will all soon perish. Any change you may have brought to the world, too, will perish some day, again making it all meaningless and without lasting purpose. Again, no man's life is worth salvation.
Every day, you will see the promotion of materialism. You will see the weak minded flock to riches and at the same instant they will despise knowledge. You will see men wage wars over nothing more than pride, and you will see soldiers walk into death for nothing less than pride. You will see people from all nations and all places in a bitter struggle, as if Hell itself had settled onto the earth, and there will be no recourse, for by then the world will have been beyond saving. And on the day that a person arrives to where I am now, only a few feet away from death, they will feel as I feel, and wonder why not did someone guide their path.
Despite all of my rage, I am no more than a rat in a cage. But even a lowly rat is of life and has the right to expose his scientist. Therefore I will not keep silent. I will speak out in the anguish of my spirit, I will complain in the bitterness of my soul. I will reveal every thing that is hidden. I will continue my quest for knowledge, and I will expose God for who he really is.
I will go among the people, and try to answer the questions that burden their hearts.
The questions that I have asked myself all of my life, wherever I've wandered in the world, and which were answered for me by a dying man. I will wear the clothes of a slave, and kick the sandals from my feet, and speak to the wives as they fry their fish before their mud-huts by the river; to the porters on the docks; to the smiths by their bellows; to the slaves under their yokes. And I will say, a man cannot be judged by the color of his skin, by his clothes, his jewels, or his triumphs. But only by his heart.
Go and tell my maker that, should he not finish me, I shall finish him. I shall expose his poor design. Go and tell my maker that it has been far too long, and that my heart aches, and that my mind cries. Go and tell my maker that I despise him, with the most hatred I can gather from my being, and tell him that I am not afraid of him or his reply, because today, I am ready to die.
Mr. Nosleep and the Grim Reaper both saw the desolation on the face of the narrator, and knew then, from then, to choose their succeeding words carefully as a means to direct the discourse. And so after the narrator had finished speaking, there was a pause, and the pause was broken by Grim. Grim began to speak:
107 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
What is good, comes under the guise of darkness. In the beginning, were the heavens and the earth not covered in darkness itself? Does not the day begin with dawn, and did not dawn come forth from a setting Sun? You must look into the heart of darkness to understand why life is death.
Where did you come from, that you could test the will of God? What have you gone through, that you could question the method of God? Are you the first person ever born?
Do you listen in on God’s council? Do you have a monopoly on wisdom? What do you know that I do not know? What insights do you have that I do not have?
What are mortals, that they could be pure, or those born of woman, that they could be righteous? If God places no trust in his holy ones, if even the heavens are not pure in his eyes, how much less mortals, who are vile and corrupt, who drink up evil like water!
You must remember, that Satan reesons like a man, but God thinks of eternity. Where you end, will be determined by where you start; and your road has been one of great difficulty, because where you are going, no one has been before. One cannot pass through here, until he has been beeten by the Sun, fatigued by the steps, tempted by the thirst and the hunger, and destroyed by the cold of night.
It is easier, to fall victim to concedement, than to persevere. And for this man who fails, the Sun will not rise, and dawn will not come, and he will remain in the darkness, bitter and in torment.
After Grim was finished speeking, there was was a long silence. Grim watched the narrator, who was in deep thought and penetrating pain, and after so long, the narrator broke the long silence. The narrator began to speak: I have sewed sackcloth over my damaged hand and buried my brow in the dust. My face is red with weeping, dark shadows ring my eyes; yet my hands have been free of violence and my intention is pure. Why above, is there not a receiver to respond?
Am I the sea, or the monster of the deep, that God puts me under guard? When I think my bed will comfort me and my couch will ease my complaint, even then he frightens me with dreams and terrifies me with visions, so that I prefer strangling and death, rather than this body of mine. I despise my life; I would not live forever. Let me alone, God, and give me what has not been planned for me; my days have no no meaning.
Mr. Nosleep, who by now was only listening and had not said a single word, was intrigued by the discourse. Mr. Nosleep, after the brief pause, broke the silence. Mr.
Nosleep began to speak:
I am not in the business of selling light, I am only in the business of selling darkness.
Light will blind the fool who stares at the Sun, and he will seek peace but will find none.
But give to a man, darkness, he will not seek peace, because he will understand that peace is a phantom.
108 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
Christmas has passed and the New Yeer is upon us. A new day of life, and death is far away. People shall hold to them, their resolutions of the mind. Hope is nigh, they will better their lives. They will meet change. But the three of us, you, Grim and I, here, we have seen God's triangle.
As you have said, no man's life is worth salvation, and this is true. Mankind cannot be saved, because it exists in such a way that exposes its degenerate reaction to conflict.
Surely, by now, you have heard of the riot that plagues your city? A political aid has been found “not guilty” of his obvious crime; the slaying of a homeless man. And now crowds of men gather in the streets, and erupt for the purposes of class. They loot, they plunder, they pillage. They spill the blood of one another as they set fire to their civilization.
The walls in the city that is falling, they speak, for some of them read
“DESENSITIZED BRUTALITY,” and others read “GENETIC PEACE.”
Military personnel cannot keep the order, civilian rage continues to grow to the brink of complete and total destruction. Guards fire and murder without warning, even at those who attempt to drag the wounded to safety. Unjustly and outright, they take aim, saying
“No, this is not the time for revolution.” But it is!
Now is the time, you must take your bow and conquer the fields, for I have seen those with the skin of white holding hands with those who have the skin of black, but in my vision that road was laced in fire. I have seen those with many dollars mingling with those of few dollars, but that road too, was laced with the same fire. The path to world peace, it is blazed with the fire that comes from Hell!
The immediating step for change, is to strike down all those who oppose you. Spill their blood, and know that their sacrifice was not in vain. But on your quest, yet have you to know, but will know; you must be wise. Listen to me as I speak, for I shall tell you, I have many warnings for you.
There will be a man named Furlough. He will give you what you think you want, but he comes to you as a lie. In the world you attempt to conquer, there will be Kings and Queens who will blind your eyes and steel your dreams. They will tell you that black is really white, and that the Moon is just the Sun at night. And when you walk in golden halls, they'll tell you that you get to keep the gold that falls. Some will eat and drink with you, but they will just as soon sell you for a price. Above all of my warnings, remember one, this one; a priest will use Heaven and Hell to gain your obedience.
The evil that is done here, pales in comparison to the evil that is done throughout the world. You must rise above it all, even above yourself, to achieve the greatness of a king.
My truth, they will tell you is a lie, and their lie, they will tell you is a truth. Obey me, and you will have a new world before a new year. Obey me, for a legend shrines in 109 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
legacy. Obey me, though you cannot find a thing to live for, I have given you a reason to die for. Obey me, a revolution is all or nothing. Fiat justitia ruat caelum.
When Mr. Nosleep was finished speaking, Grim was appalled at his darkness. Grim immediately opened his mouth afterwards. Grim began to speak: In the dark, thieves break into houses, but by day they shut themselves in; they want nothing to do with the light. For all of them, midnight is their morning; they make friends with the terrors of darkness. With darkness, you can take a simple man's life and turn it into a circus sideshow. Listen carefully, darkness; do not call me Grim, for I am only a reaper of certain sows.
Now the Reaper was finished addressing Mr. Nosleep, and he turned his face to the narrator, and once again he began to speak:
Do not long for for the night, to drag people away from their homes. Beware of turning to evil, which you seem to prefer to affliction. The godless in heart harbor resentment; even when he fetters them, they do not cry for help. But those who suffer he delivers in their suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction.
You who tear yourself to pieces in your anger, is the Earth to be abandoned for your sake? A base and nameless brood, they were driven out of the land. People think, “One day I will die,” but I have news, you never have to go.
Why do you complain to him that he responds to no one’s words? For God does speak, now one way, now another, though no one perceives it. In a dreem, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on people as they slumber in their beds, he may speak in their ears and terrify them with warnings, to turn them from wrongdoing and keep them from pride, to preserve them from the pit, their lives from perishing by the sword.
God does not hold an abandoned son. Is he not the one who says to kings, “You are worthless,” and to nobles, “You are wicked,” who shows no partiality to princes and does not favor the rich over the poor, for they are all the work of his hands?
If the measure of a civilization is how it treets its weakest members, how then, would this make God look, if he abandoned his sons. Know that God above has not abandoned you, that he is always with you, and that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first.
After the Reaper had finished his speech, there was a long pause. Both the Reaper and Mr. Nosleep awaited for the reply of the narrator, who was still in deep despair and desolation. After thorough thinking, the narrator finally began to speak: In a room, without a window, in the corner, I found truth. But now that truth has imprisoned me. It imprisons my body, literally, it imprisons my mind, metaphorically, and it imprisons my heart, philosophically.
My skin grows black and peels; my body burns with fever. My eyes have grown dim with grief; my whole frame is but a shadow. The headaches that used to harbor me, they 110 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
were gone, but now in my distress they have returned. I am without purpose, I am jobless.
Though I cry, “Violence!,” I get no response; though I call for help, there is no justice.
God has blocked my way so I cannot pass; he has shrouded my paths in darkness.
Why do the wicked live on, growing old and increasing in power? God has failed to clean up after himself, and upon the viewtation of his mess, he says “No, it is not my problem.”
You say to me, “God does not hold an abandoned son,” but I think this not to be true.
God has abandoned the good son, who was like a well-watered plant in the sunshine, who spread its shoots over the garden; who entwined its roots around a pile of rocks and looked for a place among the stones. But when it was torn from its spot, that place disowned it and said, “I never saw you.” Surely its life withered away, and from the soil other plants grew.
Although I am blameless, I have no concern for myself; I despise my my own life. I loathe my very life; therefore I will give free rein to my complaint and speak out in the bitterness of my soul.
Where is judgement for the wicked? For those who take more than the body needs?
They thrust the needy from the path and force all the poor of the land into hiding. Like wild donkeys in the desert, the poor go about their labor of foraging food; only the wasteland provides food for their children. Lacking clothes, they spend the night naked; they have nothing to cover themselves in the cold. The fatherless child is snatched from the breast; the infant of the poor is seized for a debt. Lacking clothes, they go about naked; they carry the sheaves, but still go hungry. They crush olives among the terraces; they tread the winepresses, yet suffer thirst. The groans of the dying rise from the city, and the souls of the wounded cry out for help. But alas, God charges no one with wrongdoing.
Yet, God charges I, and turns my days into dust. I say to God, do not declare me guilty, but tell me what evidence you have against me. Have I not wept for those in trouble? Has not my soul grieved for the poor? Yet when I did good, evil came; when I looked for light, then came darkness.
Why then did did you bring me out of the womb? I wish I had died before any eye saw me. If only I had never come into being, or had been carried straight from the womb to the grave. Are not my few days almost over? Turn away from me so I can have a moment’s joy before I go to the place of no return, to the land of gloom and utter darkness, to the land of deepest night, of utter darkness and disorder, where even the the light is like darkness. Turn from me so that you may not see my ugliness, and my deep desire to watch the earth burn.
Again I say, where is God's proof? If he has it, then let him face me. If I have denied 111 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
the desires of the poor or let the eyes of the widow grow weary, then let him come forth.
If I have kept my bread to myself, not sharing it with the fatherless, then let him come forth. If I have seen anyone perishing for lack of clothing, or the needy without garments, and I did nothing, then let him come forth.
When I went to the gate of the city and took my seet in the public square, the young men saw me and stepped aside and the old men rose to their feet; the chief men refrained from speaking and covered their mouths with their hands; the voices of the nobles were hushed, and their tongues stuck to the roof of their mouths. Whoever heard me spoke well of me, and those who saw me commended me, because I rescued the poor who cried for help, and the fatherless who had none to assist them. The one who was dying blessed me; I made the widow’s heart sing. I put on righteousness as my clothing; justice was my robe and my turban. I was eyes to the blind and feet to the lame. I was a parent to the needy; I took up the case of the stranger. I broke the fangs of the wicked and snatched the victims from their teeth.
And though I was good, God placed me before judge and jury, in front of wicked men and women who desired to have my soul. There has been one main thing that I have had on my mind, and that is to attain the highest amount of wisdom that I can in my lifetime, but my trail is blocked, there are nails in my hand from my creator, and they have been placed there in error. This is it. This is what I scream to God, and I shall say no more; you gave me life, now show me how to live!
When the narrator was finished speaking, a great storm began to develop in the skies.
The narrator opened the Asylum door and a powerful gust of wind entered the storage unit, nearly destroying everything inside. Mr. Nosleep, the Reaper and the narrator stepped outside into the thunder and lightning, and in the raging storm they saw the face of God, and God spoke to the narrator from out of the storm: Who is this that obscures my plans with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me.
Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it?
On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone, while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy? Who shut up the sea behind doors when it burst forth from the womb, when I made the clouds its garment and wrapped it in thick darkness, when I fixed limits for it and set its doors and bars in place, when I said, “This far you may come and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt?” Have you you journeyed to the springs of the sea or walked in the recesses of the deep? Have the gates of death been shown to you? Have you seen the gates of the deepest darkness? Have you comprehended the vast expanses of the earth? Tell me, if you know all this.
112 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
What is the way to the abode of light? And where does darkness reside? Can you take them to their places? Do you know the paths to their dwellings? Surely you know, for you were already born! You have lived so many years!
Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons or lead out the bear with its cubs? Who gives the ibis wisdom or gives the rooster understanding? Who has the wisdom to count the clouds?
Will the one who contends with the almighty correct him? Let him who accuses God answer him!
When the narrator saw that the Lord was finished questioning, there was a brief pause that was filled with deep thought, then the narrator answered the Lord: I am beneath you, how can I reply to you? Though I struggle against your hidden and mysterious ways, and though I find you at fault, how can I answer you directly, knowing that but a single breath could destroy me?
When the narrator was finished speaking, God remained the same, and once again, God spoke to the narrator from out of the storm:
Tell me, who is this that also puts words in my mouth, without understanding my mind? Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me.
Where were you when I put the universe on seven rather than six? Were you there when I put my own will into man? On which day did you witness me develop the rules and framework? Surely you know, and surely you were there!
Would you discredit my justice? Would you condemn me, to justify yourself? Do you have an arm like God’s, and can your voice thunder like his? Then adorn yourself with glory and splendor, and clothe yourself in honor and majesty. Unleash the fury of your wrath, look at all who are proud and bring them low, look at all who are proud and humble them, crush the wicked where they stand. Bury them all in in the dust together; shroud their faces in the grave. Then I myself will admit to you that your own right hand can save you.
Look at Behemoth, which I made along with you and which feeds on grass like an ox.
What strength it has in its loins, what power in the muscles of its belly! It ranks first among the works of God, yet its maker can approach it with his sword.
Can you pull in Leviathan with a fishhook or tie down its tongue with a rope? No one is fierce enough to rouse it. Nothing on Earth is its equal, a creature without fear. It looks down on all that are haughty; it is king over all that are proud, yet its maker can approach it with his sword.
Know that I have created them both, and ask yourself, who then is able to stand against me, if not Behemoth or Leviathan? Who has a claim against me that I must pay?
Everything under Heaven belongs to me.
113 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
When the narrator saw that the Lord was finished speaking, there was once again a brief pause, that too, was filled with deep thought, and then the narrator began to speak: I know that you can do all things. You asked, “Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?” Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know.
You said, “Listen now, and I will speak; I will question you, and you shall answer me.” My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you. I admit I was wrong to say, “God does not show his face,” but what will happen now? To Earth and its people?
Will there still be chaos, or have you come to guide us?
God, still being questioned, became angry, and said in the stead, that because of the lack of faith displayed, peace will never come to the narrator, and then God disappeared within the clouds. The narrator, still angry and bitter towards God, continued on in the days of deep anguish.
114 | OF BEHEMOTHS AND LEVIATHANS; A DISCOURSE
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 87
IN THE VALLEY OF DARKNESS
1:3:9:87
ONE shall walk, through the valley of the shadow of death, and one shall talk, simply but sadly about the battle bereft. And nary the cruel time, will it rule the mind, and shall it make the soul shallow. And so will it fuel the rhyme, on the final draft line, and give each man sorrow. Should you borrow one life today, shall you die tomorrow, should you borrow one life today, shall you die tomorrow.
Listen, and heard! How calmly, the story it can be told. Come, and see! Before the words, become the words become cold...
For once upon a February star, there sat a teller, near, here, there, and very far. The teller's back aback the Asylum door, wondered at the night sky in all its complete galore.
And after watching the bird soar for more than an hour's good tour, back, did the teller's back, sorely become sore.
Standing, from the help of a lever that was clever, now was the teller, calm as ever.
Metal bat in hand, the teller became of the voice in demand. And slowly-sized shaded-sulken, did the teller deny the choice of command.
Now on the way to a nearby traffic light, would Satan appear fostering rays of plight.
“You, you, over there,” Satan said in delight, and the teller would look, and the two did unite.
“Sir, sir, swiftly, suddenly, so soon did I sway,” skittishly, said the teller, said the teller in say, “with whom, which, why? What would you want with I? Today?”
“I called upon you, at this crossroad of two; I have been met in delay, for I am to meet a friend in the town of Salem, but which one is the way?”
Grossly grew a cruel ghostly green ghoul, and when Satan saw the face of the teller he rooled. “I have seen this expression before,” Satan remarked, “on the face of a saint, but more, for the journey he embarked.”
And the face that he spoke of was that of the Christ, and continue did Satan, to speak of his life. “You see, I was around, when Jesus had his moment of doubt and pain, and I watched, from the beginning of day to the end of night!, as he stared at the sky in vain.”
The constellations that night, was it filled with the stars, but the way to Heaven was dim, and the way to Heaven was lost.
Then Satan thanked the teller, for pointing him the way, and gave final words to the teller, before upon thee came the dismay.
“Do not expect to receive respect, lest ye wishes to be deceived and turned into a reck. Shall you never be relieved, and shall you go in to get checked. But come the 115 | IN THE VALLEY OF DARKNESS
M.B. JULIEN
morrow will they call you naive and a total reject. Be warned, that mankind, will never even try to believe the things that you detect.” And Satan went away, from this place and far away.
And so the teller walked, and walked did the teller walk, and in the mind of the teller, was there talk, was there talk for the teller talked. But quickly something stalked, and encircled like chalk; for soon behind a door, the teller saw whom many adore.
“You, you, over there,” the Christ said in delight, and the teller would look, and the two did unite.
“Sir, sir, swiftly, suddenly, so soon did I sway,” skittishly, said the teller, said the teller in say, “with whom, which, why? What would you want with I? Today?”
“I called upon you, at this crossroad of two; I have been met in delay, for I am to meet a friend in the town of Salem, but which one is the way?”
Ghostly grew a green grossly cruel ghoul, for the face of the teller now became disfigured by tool. And at first the Christ was silent, because he spoke of the nevermore, of the things of defilement, these things that became furthermore.
But soon his silence was broken, his lips lapped, the rattlesnake rapped, and he spoke of things of sunder, and this he said to the teller, that “No mortal was meant to know such wonder.” And this was all the Christ would say, and the Christ went away, from this place and far away.
Now the teller was back on the way, and thoughts invaded the mind of the teller, like night invades day. Imagine, to think cun, soon of those of the past, that they stared at the same Sun, same Moon, as those of us here now at last.
Say, what can be more mysterious or more captivating than space? Surely, anyone who ever did anything great, became lost in its grace. For this person would stare at the sky in awe, and the vision would drive them to do the things of their call.
Now grossly grew a cruel ghostly green ghoul and ghostly grew a green grossly cruel ghoul, and the face of the teller became sudden in sool. The teller appeared in destination of the parents' home, metal bat in hand, and surely again the teller became of the voice in demand, and surely again did the teller deny the choice of command.
And now did the teller become what one becomes when one has no sleep, and now did the teller become a reaper of souls with a task to keep. Not once, but twice, the teller swung the bat fore, and damaged the plank fence and corrupted its core. And when a neighbor walked by, and asked, “What is this, what is it for?,” “None of your goddamn fucking business!,” the teller replied, and received the great cor.
Then next came the flowers, who were in full blossom and awesome decor, and the teller went to them with a plan to demure. And were they yanked and were they pulled, 116 | IN THE VALLEY OF DARKNESS
M.B. JULIEN
from the shoot in the root, dandelions, zinnias, daylilies, all of them did they became loot.
And now all that was left in the garden before, were a few couple dozen roses, only this and nothing more. And all of this in vain, because death, in approaching stalked with the black shadow of lore, and enveloped the victim, and did destroy and did score.
“Prick!,” said a thorn, of a rose that was to be ripped, and the same thumb of a cut, now bled, when it was tipped. So in the stead, the teller foregoes, each hand, and stomps, with both feet, any rose that was still in stand.
And when the teller saw that all was done here in the now, the teller went inside the home and continued the tow. The teller stood still, standing with the soul who started to rot, and went up the stairs into the home's depot. And on the way there, nearly tripping on an orange, the teller traded demise, for a sope on a roap.
The phone, the teller saw, and upraised the bat, and came down with the force that shattered it flat. And not soon after that, the teller turned round tat, and smashed the television to shutter the voices that made chat. But even after its destruction the chat spoke stat, and gave the listeners who sat a few things to look at. And so did the teller swing on, saying “Scat!... Scat! Scat!,” but never did it leave, that fat of that brat.
Then the fatigue came, and settled in, into the mind of the teller, who after a short rest, regained the zest, and got up to begin again.
And this time, what was broken was up high, a half-built half-finished treehouse that was meant to reach the sky. Swing swung swung, each wooden piece detoured, love is lost, is it lonely, living lowly lives ignored.
For there was once a time, when the teller did believe, that all people, no matter who they were, deserved goodness and not suffering in the lives that they would lead. But day by day, the stance it changed, until it flipped vertically and itself rearranged. And in the valley of darkness, the teller came to see that we are not good, and that we deserve nothing but suffering, to fall deep into a ditch of darkness is the only that which should.
And when the teller was finished did the teller come back down, to stand on the Earth's ground, and as the teller walked backwards smiling with a frown, the teller listened carefully as the teller smelt a phantom sound. And after hearing the phantom smell, that of which the teller could not tell, tripped and fell backwards into a dug that was digged and reached all the way down to Hell.
Now was the teller trapped into a dig of no way out, and after many attempts the teller gave in and laid astout. And on the teller's back of which was still very sore, the teller once again gazed at the sky and its galore. And in the air above the ground of which the teller was found astout, flew a bird, an eagle of large proportions, of large proportions all about.
117 | IN THE VALLEY OF DARKNESS
M.B. JULIEN
And the eagle, circling above, did it make the teller think of blue, that any light at the end of the tunnel, was only a mirror staring back at you. That would be to say that any light you saw truly came from behind, and that you were headed toward an illusion, and severely past your prime.
The days of darkness clouded above the teller, and slowly did the teller become insane, and so the teller crept back into the hole, the terrifying hole, from which it came.
118 | IN THE VALLEY OF DARKNESS
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 88
E PLURIBUS UNUM
1:3:9:88
I am the shadow that resides within the mind. I am the thief who robs the hardworking individual. I am the man who beats his wife without remorse. I am the young girl who commits suicide and leaves a family grieving. I am the drunk driver that runs over a child. I am the serial killer with an unknown pathology. I am the puppet-master who deceives many people. I am the heartless kid who preys on animals. I am the selfish asshole who keeps all for themself. I am the idiot who believes they are always right. I am the oppressive human being who makes sure that others maintain their lowly existence. I am the cruel stranger who mocks you for your lifestyle. I am the woman who neglects her only child. I am the drug addict who is too dense to do something about their future. I am the racist scumbag who looks down on everyone who isn't me or mine. I am the mentally ill individual who racks up a body count at the mall. I am the lost person who pretends to know the truth and drags everyone else down. I am all of this and much, much more, but the difference is, when the coin was flipped, and the die was rolled, and the card was played, I did not fall victim to circumstance.
Why do we all of us have a tendency to classify people we don't know. The upper class does it to the lower class and the lower class does it right back, and then the difference becomes murder. In every type of division, words eventually turn into bullets.
You want to know what I say to that? Fuck it. Fuck your class-based society and fuck your difference-based world. Fuck your pride and fuck every flag of every nation.
We are all raised to be proud of our race, proud of our country, proud of who we are.
Fuck that. Fuck your ethnicity. Fuck your nationality. Fuck you.
Fuck your race and fuck your country. Fuck your religion. Fuck your gender. Fuck your social class and fuck your materialism. Fuck every person who's ever let an image represent their whole plane of being.
Fuck your rights. Fuck your opinion. Fuck your movements. Fuck the Ku Klux Klan and their primitive ass way of thinking. Fuck the Black Panthers and their short fucking memory span. Fuck all the feminist and their propensity to jump to conclusions. Fuck all the animal lovers who could give a shit less about the more unattractive forms of life.
Fuck the counter-culture and everyone in it, you're not different, you're not special, you are exactly like the rest of us.
Fuck all the religious fanatics who breathe down peoples' necks and fuck every religious leader who's ever taken advantage of a soul who was lost.
Fuck every person who alters their body to meet the standards that society has set for them. Fuck every single fucking celebrity and I swear to God fuck that fucking car 119 | E PLURIBUS UNUM
M.B. JULIEN
salesman who took advantage of me when I was nineteen. Fuck anyone who's willing to sell their soul for money and fuck anyone who lets other's direct their life.
Fuck every parent who doesn't play with their children. Fuck every high-class stay-athome wife who doesn't do more than lift up the fucking remote. Fuck every man who beats his wife and scares his children shitless.
Fuck every fat person who tells other fat people that it's okay to be fat, that the only thing that matters is what you think of yourself. Fuck every person who's ever said “It's your own damn fault you ended up this way. Try harder.” Fuck every drug addict that's ever dragged their friends into their own addiction.
Fuck every writer who doesn't respect the craft. Fuck every faggot who's ever actually thought that there was something wrong with them. I got news for you, fucker, everyone is wrong in some way. Stop fucking feeling sorry for yourself you fucking pussy.
Fuck children. Fuck every child who plays on their parents' emotions. Fuck dreams.
Fuck everyone's dreams. Fuck your dreams. It's always “Me this,” “Me that,” man fuck you. Fuck your happiness. It's not about you. Theres way too much suffering in the world to accommodate your feelings.
Fuck old people. Fuck the Sun. Fuck your couch. Fuck your romantic relationships and fuck your sexual needs. Fuck every person who talks too goddamn much. People spend their whole day talking, wasting energy and air. No one fucking cares about what you think.
Fuck that whole building back their. Fuck all those people in it. Fuck every single teenager. I don't know why, just fuck them. Fuck every person who has ended another person's life unjustly. Fuck the patriots of this country, who walk around proud and salute a flag that was raised on soil that was soiled with the blood of Indians.
Fuck this. Can't take this shit any more. I'm just smarter than all of you and it's a shame that I have to inhabit the same Earth as the rest of you. Yeah, I got a bone to pick with everyone and I ain't your fucking friend. Fuck you and this whole world and everyone in it. Let fire burn this place down. Let it turn to ash. Then let water rise over it and wash it clean.
Shit. Fuck it. Fuck this world. Fuck this world. Fuck this world. Fuck this fucked up world. Fuck this fucked up world. This world is fucked. It's fucked. This fucked up world. Fuck this world. Fuck this fucked up world. Fucked. Fuck this world. This is a fucked up world. This is a fucked up world. The world is fucked. Fuck it. It's fucked. This is a fucked up world. The world is fucked. We're fucked. We fucked the world. We fucked up the world. It's a fucked up world. The world is fucked. Fuck this world. Fuck this world. Fuck this fucking fucked up world. Fuck this fucked up world. Fuck the world.
120 | E PLURIBUS UNUM
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 89
RESURRECTION
1:3:9:89
THE narrator sat in a hole in the ground, fighting the very harsh and very bitter cold.
The flesh was now beginning to suffer from hypothermia, escape was now easily the most prominent object. After numerous attempts to climb out of the pit, the narrator laid flat and soon gave up.
Have you ever found yourself trapped, not only literally, of the body, but mentally, in the mind. Trapped and confined by the very limitations that control your being, that constrict your imagination, your creativity. This is how I feel now, gravitated into a black hole that just won't let me go.
Speaking strictly in terms of philosophy, “universalism” is a doctrine that supports the notion of “universal facts.” As opposed to “relativism,” this idea suggests that some truths are concrete, solid, written in brimmed stone. Regardless of which angle you look at these truths from, they will always stay the same color. And no matter your distance from the said truth, it will always stay the same exact size.
Sitting in a room all alone, you are forced to face the world, and more importantly, yourself. You are forced to look deep down within yourself, at the strange beauty and the horrid uglyness. And while some things may change over time, naturally or through hard work, some things will not. There will be certain truths to your being that are set in stone, things you must accept.
The senseless person will hate these things, to the point that it becomes a tastelessly bitter struggle. But to whom who studies these bitter truths, who studies themself as an individual, will come understanding. The universal fact will remain the same, it is in its nature, but you will have changed.
I stand up once more, my body crooked from the cold I touch the dirt wall before.
And again I find myself imprisoned in the same prison from my dreams, and here lacked reason. I should have burned them, all of them, every single one, every book, every page, every word. Maybe then I wouldn't be here now; maybe then I would have a normal and satisfying life. But no, instead I am here, surrounded by walls that conspire to keep me trapped within confusion.
I don't want this anymore, there must be a way out, a way to end this circle. I upend my palm and slam it against he frozen the dirt, I hear a bone crack. I take it again, slam it over and over until I see the wall begin to crack. I take my other swollen hand, smash the crack, it begins to frown, chunks of dirt fall.
Now that there was an opening, I began to dig and dig, though the dirt would scrape.
Off my nails and skins and leave behind bloods and scars, I needed to do this now. There 121 | RESURRECTION
M.B. JULIEN
was no time to be spared, it was now or never, else I would die here.
For hours, I dug and dug, making only a little progress through the day and the night.
I did not go too fast, nor did I go too slow, and took rest when needed. All I had to consume were the insects that I found in the process, no water found.
In my darkest hour, I began to sing to myself, as my teeth quivered, eyes blinking uncontrollably. “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily-merrily, life is but a dream.” I sang this throughout the nights, thinking of its many implications on life and the universe abroad. To what more can you owe a children's song, that it is not simple but indeed complex. “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily-merrily, Hell is what it seems.”
The time came when I began again, halfway to my destination, but also halfway to apparition demise. Fingernails removed, fingertips sawn, I dug and dug and felt the aching pain of a thousand souls. The spit spewed from my mouth, almost foamy, as I raged on with every fiber of being. It was now that I understood existentialism, its school of thought; I had finally become the beast.
My energy did not slow down, it only elevated, and I continued to dig upwards in escape. Only a few moments later did I begin to see the handle of the shovel up above. I jumped for it, numerous times, but failed each one; not to be part of my escape.
When the pain of digging became unbearable, I then began to use my feet, absolutely no choice. Like my hands, they suffered the same fate, and I used them until they were bloodily raw. I was nearly there, and though I could barely stand, I used my elbows as I crawled. I began to tunnel out, not with hope, or the thought of freedom, but with sheer will. Whatever was there, on the other end, I would then deal with it when the time came.
And so it was, just before dawn, I could raise my grotesque hand and feel the surface.
I raised the other swollenly disfigured hand and grabbed tight surface, and prepared for my final bout. I pulled myself up, first beginning slowly, feeling the spent muscles clamp and pull out of place. And little by little did I speed, did my heart begin to pump acid, flowing into veins.
“I am nearly there,” I thought to myself calmly, cooly, “I am nearly there,” “I'm nearly there.” And when I made the final stroke, and broke free from the chains of captivity, came imagery. I received a flash of an image, terribly lucid, of a dark horse riding through a storm.
I was there, I was free, my face against the cold hard disturbing ground; I was liberated. And though I had no energy remaining, nothing left to spare, something came to me and spoke. I rose up to both my knees and I threw my arms up victoriously into the air. Not for triumph, because there was none, but because I couldn't understand what it said to me.
122 | RESURRECTION
M.B. JULIEN
I laid there, laughing for what seemed to be many days and nights, laughing with sharp pain. Afterwards, I got up and began to walk towards the shovel, and picked it up, and proceeded. I went to the pile of dirt and took from it, putting it back into the hole.
Each spoonful reminding me that what I was burying today would not stay buried forever, not forever. Speaking again, now strictly of religion, sometimes universality is a quality that is given to an entity. An entity whose existence is consistent throughout the entire universe, manifesting its essence anywhere and everywhere simultaneously.
When I was done with my task, I entered my parents' home in search of an exit. I went to the central unit and turned on the heat as high as I possibly could. I then walked into one of the many lavish bathrooms with a plan to take a shower. The heat of the water burned away everything, both the physicality and the mentality, my rawed-skin wept.
After I left the bathroom, I could feel the heat begin to sink into the entire house. Still very much disorientated, I realized that I had completely forgotten to eat, that I was starving. With that same disorientation, I walked into the incorrect room and witnessed the work of a genius.
Lynne had finished her room painting, illustrating all four walls, the ceiling, and even the lowly floor. When did she do this, how long did it take, just how long was I gone for?
Ravens, plants, city-lights, people, animals, country-side, stars, riddles, life, death, resurrection, masks, monoliths, dresses, suits, bridges, islands.
I remember “White Lights,” more so its simplicity, but compared to this has her talent truly riped. I must have staid there at the very least several hours, observing every segment of the piece.
Once done I scrounged for something well to eat, made due with the little that was there. Upon the course I pondered Sarah, along with her the words that her mother relayed to me. Who was Mona Lisa to Leonardo; what I mean is, what did she really mean to him. What did she so much mean to him that he would take the time to paint her.
Was she someone he actually created in his mind, a person who he gifted personality and character? Was she someone he saw in dreams and felt compelled to remember in some way or another? Was she a realistic caricature in one of his many stories that took place in his mind.
What does Sara mean to me; that the mention of her name briefly stopped me in time.
What could she mean, that thinking of her evoked response that required body-and-mind, when neither was there?
After resting for a while, got up to walk and felt no pain from my raw feet. Nor did I feel the blistering pain from my raw hands, I was rid of the pain.
I eventually left the parent's wasteland home and walked across the street to a neighboring neighbors' home. The elderly woman peaked open her door, she said “hello”
123 | RESURRECTION
M.B. JULIEN
and asked the nature of the visit. I told her I lived right across the street from her and needed to use her telephone. She opened the door, looked me up and down strangely, and then allowed me to enter in.
As I made the call to Lynne, the neighbor watched me, noticing my fingertips and their unusuality. “How are Sara and David?,” they were both fine, Sara still with Silvio, David playing games all-day. I noticed strangeness in her voice, something far-away and distant I hadn't heard in a long time. It didn't feel like she wanted to talk, atleast not with me; I cut the call short.
I wanted to tell her someone I knew died, what flowers should I bring to the funeral? I didn't, I said goodbye and hung up the phone, turning to the strange eyed elderly lady. As I left, as she was going to close the door, I turned around and said “Wait.” I looked at the doorknob, took a while to begin again, “A friend of mine had died.”
“White stargazer lilies,” that's what she says to me, answering my question before I can ask it. She read me like an open book, and I have no idea how she had done it. “Is there a place I can buy those at?,” I asked, “You won't have to,” she replies. She tells me how she has walked by many times and noticed them growing in my garden. And just before I leave, she shakes my hand, strange tooth-chipped smile, says her name is Joyce.
I crossed back across the street, searched all around the perimeter of the home for the stargazers. I did eventually find some, only problem was that they were rooted from their roots and dying. I took a few of them and put them into plastic-wrap and entered back into the home. I went into the master-bedroom and into the closet, and there found a suit of my father's. I tried it on and it was an unsually perfect fit, there is nothing more to that.
I left the home again through the front door again, checking the lock before parted permanently again. It was locked, but I checked it again, again making sure that it was actually locked again. I knew it was locked but I just had to check it again, to again make sure.
After I was sure it was locked, I check one last time then went into the backyard. I go over to the pile and kneel down, and take a small piece of rocked ice-dirt. I put it in my pocket, and like a dream, I find myself sitting on a train. Where was I going, where had I been, these were the questions I asked myself over again.
And there I was, my second time here, standing in front of the door to Derek's family.
A man opened the door this time, who I soon found out was Derek's uncle, visiting now. I told him, along with whomever was present there, that I knew Derek and his brother, Jamal. We locked into discussion, somewhat small talk, and as I hated it, I needed to do it.
I was amazed when they told me how much they had left to pay for his casket. Not that it was expensive, because it wasn't, but because it made clear the division of wealth.
124 | RESURRECTION
M.B. JULIEN
The first time I offered to pay the rest off, they refused, denied, told me simply no.
But like my feeble mind, I was completely persistent, persuasive, pertinacious; “I have to pay,” I said. “I have to pay,” “I have to pay,” “Please just let me pay,” “I have to pay.”
Suffice to say, they eventually told me I could pay, and so I handed over the flowers. I asked them to put the flowers on his graveside, and then went to make my way. “I might as well show you the tombstone you're paying for,” his uncle said to my back. And once again, like a dream, I found myself inside the Andromeda Cemetery, walking to a grave.
Just before we got there, his uncle stayed back, giving me privacy that I didn't ask for.
I think it was because just like Joyce, he could see it on my face, pensive sadness.
A few more steps and I was there, the general headstone that most of us will receive. I kneeled down on one knee just before the headstone in respect and laid down the flowers.
I believe that it is in Hinduism, that the word “I” is the ultimate illusion, greatest trick. How many times have I used that very word, how many times do we all use it?
Many problems derive from this word, but the real kicker, we don't have the-mind to avoid it. We have been put into an impossible situation, the universe did not work out in our favor. We are not designed to “win,” not as the individual and for sure not as the people.
One thing that I've learned about life is that it does not discriminate, it's evolved beyond that. At any moment and to anyone, in any given place, fortune or unfortune can begin to brew.
I reached into my pocket and removed the solid dirt, it was still frozen from the weather. I laid it on the edge of the stone and after a while of thinking, looked up.
“Derek Wise,” I read the tombstone and the years that he had lived, and followed the epitaph. Reading, “'To be born again,' sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens,
'first you have to die.'"
I was confused, and after getting up to meet back with Uncle, I asked about the epitaph. His own confusion told me my mind was still seeing things that it wanted me to see. I've made mistakes connecting my dreams, and I'm sure, at-times, I've led you to the wrong tower.
After I was finished, the uncle dropped me off, location of my choosing, just near the Asylum. I gave him thanks, farewells, and that was the end of it, I never saw him again.
I walked back to the Asylum, through a desolate-ridden place, and with only death on my mind.
125 | RESURRECTION
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 90
PORT IN A STORM
1:3:9:90
THERE are certain dreams that we all share. Public nudity, flying, falling. Teeth falling out, being in a position of power. An inability to psysically speak. Losing loved ones, friends, finding them in the dreamworld. Being unprepared.
All of these dreams transcend any type of classification, they transcend cultural boundaries and are both relevant and fundamental to all people. No matter who you are, this human condition concerns every single one of us. We are all bound by the same dreams.
As I continued my way towards the Asylum, darkness continued to fall. And after it had completely fallen, up and in the distance I could see a storm of black clouds that were outlined in red being carried away from me by lightning, and I watched as they would periodically flash, though no noise would ever come from them.
I lifted up the door to the Asylum and when I looked inside I saw that nothing was in order. The desk was upside down, the chair was broken in four places and the lamp smashed into several pieces. Every sheet of paper that clung to the walls was torn, especially that of Satan, who was shown counting all the residents of Hell.
I stepped over the piles of mess and found my way into an unoccupied corner, where I sat with my back against the ninety-degree angle. I thought to myself for a while, and for the first time in a long time, I could hear the sound of my own voice.
One hour passed, two passed, three, then four, and that was when I noticed the dark red, marooned=colored stain on the floor of the Asylum.
Sooner or later I noticed that next to me was a box full of artwork that depicted various scenes from my dreams. Penciled in drawings of a wolf overlooking a cliff.
Another of some sort of three-dimensional pedigree. One of a bank robbery that was in process. And possibly my favorite, a simple design of a gapped circle.
I have written down many, many dreams, but there are some dreams I choose not to write. Dreams that I don't need to write, because they had such an impact on me and were unforgettable.
I had a dream where I saw a rich man, at the turn of his life, give away all of his possessions and every thing he had worked so hard for in life. And I watched, in that same dream, that after all of his sacrifice, his life was finally returned to him and he had received something more than any amount of wealth could afford him.
In another instant, I had a dream where I this time saw a poor man, who was given the opportunity to become like the rich man, but he denied it, because the wisdom he had gained from such a hard life taught him that he would one day die and the tale of his life 126 | PORT IN A STORM
M.B. JULIEN
could not be counted up in dollars.
Call me crazy, stupid, naive, but mark my words; in the future the equal distribution of resources will be more prevalent, and we will look back on today and wonder how we let things like economic inequality govern our world. We will view it with the same disgust we feel when look back on our past and wonder how slavery existed. Future generations will think, “There was a time when the world was actually like that?,” and in that moment, the division between the rich and poor will become obsolete. It will become, as they say, “history.”
There are places all over where you have sections of families who live in big homes, who, some of them, hoard the resources, and then not even a mile away, man, you have the families that are barely surviving on government assistance. Not even one single mile.
Think about that. Think about the person who walks that mile. The person who sees these things.
I had a dream where I saw an old black woman take in a young white boy from off the streets. It doesn't get any more opposital than that, and where there is difference surely follows friction. But it's not even that. It takes a truly deeply compassionate mind to look beyond differences. To say “I have no people, all people are my people,” in some areas that will take much courage to say, because in the world we live in you are either this or that.
It takes courage to go against the current of what everyone tells you. What you need to know is that we live in a physically chaotic world, where no one has the right to set the rules to the game that we all have to play. We as people are far away from justice, so each of us as a person is responsible for questioning the status quo, each of us is responsible for forming our own moral ground and not simply and blindly accepting the grounds others try to make us stand on. But be warned, it is easier to sink an island than a continent.
When you begin to think more critically about things, like the nature of being or the complexity of perception, the world around you changes, almost literally. Two-dimensional shadows on the wall begin to adopt form, they inherit characteristics and identity and it is not too long before you realize that behind that simple shadow are things that you cannot see with the eyes, but only with the mind. Concepts, ideas, like spitting the atom, of an unknowable design.
We have to remember that we have very feeble minds, but in humbling and humility we can learn to conquer this feebility. In humbling and humility and critical analysis, something happens to the human mind. Pathways and connections in the brain are rewritten and other biological functions transform, the process of metamorphosis begins.
I would go as far as saying that to the catapilic eyes of evolution, you become a better 127 | PORT IN A STORM
M.B. JULIEN
organism.
When one person changes, the world changes, akin to a single gene turning on or off in the human body and potentially changing the entire genome. This genetic peace. But achieving that peace, individually and as a whole, starts in one place. It starts with an education. Not just the education you get from a classroom or from educating yourself, but foremost from the education we get from each other.
The education that parents pass on to their children, what they teach their children about the world and the people in it. And on the flipside, the education that children can give to their parents. Some of the more important things I've learned from life came from the wisdom of children.
The education that friends pass on to other friends, expressing their own world-view and their own perception on the world. What's more is the education that is passed on that comes without speaking. Always remember that someone somewhere is watching you, and you will educate and influence them whether you realize it or not. Whether even they realize it or not. And while these influences and learnings are sometimes good, unfortunately, half of them will be bad.
The education that strangers pass on to other strangers. I believe this to be the most prevalent education because the amount of people we know pales in comparison to the amount of people we don't know, and this is the type of education that you have to go out of your way to give. You are almost dutied to teach your friends and family, but to volunteer your time to someone you've never known, that takes true empathy, a genuine compassion to teach others.
If you've read this far, if you're still reading my composition notebooks, then a lot of these things you'll already know. You'll already know of their importance, but still, I feel I need to say them again. Most people will never open up these pages, and that's why it's important that you extend your wisdom to them.
I say this with the upmost sincerity and without any elevation of myself, but there is a good chance that the drugged out junkie who lives below you will never finish a book, but you can teach that person, hopefully without ego, the things you've learned about life, about the world, about death. Not even just that junkie, but anyone who is in that bad place who just doesn't have the sense to understand that they will die some day. You can teach them about the things you've learned from my pages, from the pages of others, and most importantly, from your own pages.
I know this chapter is strange, but I broke the fourth wall a long time ago and we are way past being strangers. I guess what I am is just an unreliable author.
Any revolutionist will tell you that all revolutions involve blood, and while I do agree I'll also say that the revolutions that matter most are the ones that start within the heart 128 | PORT IN A STORM
M.B. JULIEN
and the mind of the individual. The revolutions that matter most are the ones we have within ourselves, the struggles we endure as we fight to conquer the beast within. The revolutions that take everything out of us, that bring forth pain and suffering, misery, desolation, and when they're done with us, they change every thing about us, our identity and even the way our mind processes information from the world. Before you can change things exteriorly, you have to change things interiorly.
Never forget that life is a series of wins and losses. You'll win some battles, and you'll lose some battles, but keep in the back of your mind that you are fighting a war. Don't over-celebrate your wins, because soon you'll lose, and don't over-grieve your losses, because soon you'll win. Above all, do not ever incorrectly judge the life based on that final battle, whether it was a win or a loss, because behind each battle there is an important story to be told, and the last story in that anthology is not always meant to be its ending.
Flipping threw the anthological art I find something that I haven't seen in a while. A story about red and yellow turtles who seem to be unaware of their own being. I read the short story, over and over and over, trying to see something that I perhaps did not see before. Trying to read between the lines and see something that many others have not.
I stand up, walking about the trashed Asylum, reading this story, over reover, what am I missing? What am I not seeing. What m'I not seeing. There is something here.
Something here. That's when it hits me. The story is not about race, not really, it's more about taking advice from the wrong general.
Most people, maybe even every one, would like to project intelligence. Every one wants to be smart, and some of those people would like to show others their intelligence. The problem with some of those people is that they are not genuine in their wisdom.
If we use light as a simile for knowledge, then I think ultimately you have two branches of people in the world; the people who are truly enlightened, who absorb the light into their essence and therefore appear unlightened, and then you have the people who do not absorb the light, and simply have the light reflect off of themselves, appearing to be lightened but lacking in any true wisdom. That person is a red turtle.
There are some people I wouldn't follow into a kitchen. They give you advice on life and how to live it, but when their own beast arrives they have no idea how to deal. It gets even funnier when these same people can't solve the very problem they gave you advice on. What good is the salt if it loses its saltiness? How can it be made salty again?
I'll end this segment with a quote from a dead friend, “Trust those who seek the truth but doubt those who say they have found it.”
Once I had a dream where the haves and the have nots were together at last. No more was there imbalance, for each man took his share. No longer did the scales tip, for each 129 | PORT IN A STORM
M.B. JULIEN
man asked for wisdom rather than riches. No sooner was the world in harmony, for each man parted with his knowledge and shared it with the others. Make no mistake about it and do not mix my words, but instead know that a man's true identity is not based on what he has, but what he has given.
What will people say at your funeral? In our darkest hours our shadows become taller than our souls. Even though you can't see your mind, it will be the biggest enemy you'll ever face. Nothing else will come close to its evasive ability, but despite this, there is something to be heard in it. It is very silent, but if you listen very hard, the truth will come to you at last. Nevermind the fork, because there will always be time to change the road you're on. There will always be time to choose a separate path.
Through all of this, regardless the severity of my mental illni, they were often overshadowed by my passion for peace, not just for myself but for the entire world, and this is what helped me to operate the dial.
I'm not some kind of maniac. I'm not a freak. It's just that I needed to get some of this bad blood out of me and onto paper, so I could see it with my own two eyes. So I could read it. There isn't much to do when you're stuck in an asylum complex, but one of the better things you can do is think about death. Speak with death. Go to its parties, its conventions. Talk to it on the street, in the car. Don't ever think he doesn't have something important to say.
I stand up back sliding against the Asylum wall and I reach into my pocket and take out a lock. My distorted time here is done.
What are you leaving behind? That's what you ask yourself as you begin to make your way towards the gate. What are you missing? What aren't you seeing? What aren't you realizing? It takes the singular mind to see past the design. To escape the clutches of society. To understand, ironically, that others have the same dream as you. To realize that all your life, all your love, all your hate, all your memory, all your pain, it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream, a dream that you had inside a locked room. A dream about being a person.
Anyone who reads this, let them understand that I don't care for who they are. I don't care for the color of your skin, nor do I care for your heritage. I don't care for your class, whether you are rich or poor, educated or uneducated. A have or a have not, a sinner or a saint. For in this dark and silent Asylum room, he today who sheds his blood with me shall forever be my brother, and she, my sister.
130 | PORT IN A STORM
(1:3 / 3 / III)
Part 10
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 91
DAHIJ MIYAMAHS
1:3:10:91
THEY say a dream takes only a second or so, and yet in that second a person can live a lifetime. They can suffer and die, and who's to say which is the greater reality; the one we know or the one in dreams, between Heaven, the sky and the earth.
I made my way through the alley that would lead me to my apartment's back door. I look up to notice that leaves were beginning to reappear on the trees, and just a bit shorter I was blinded by the light that came from the Chase street lighthouse. Strange, that winter was gone as quickly as it came. How long was I gone? Just when did spring arrive? It seems that distortion has rung the neck of time.
Just a few yards away from my apartment building I notice a sign on the ground of the president-elect. Walking closer to it I read its message, “A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on.” A time ago I would have had more words for this account, but my mind is too tired to dwell and I cannot find the words for a reaction.
I get to the door of my apartment and search my pockets for the keys. I place the key in the lock but for some reason it won't turn. After a minute of attempted turning this begins to frustrate me and I eventually end up breaking the key to the Asylum in my apartment door. Fucking bitch ass door man, I swear to God. Yeah it's my fault, whatever.
I have no choice but to go through the front door of the apartment building, and I do so quickly and finally find myself in a place I hadn't been in for so long. Home, home again. I like to be here when I can.
I bypass my favorite couch and head for the bathroom, and there I wash my face.
Looking up and at the mirror for the first time in months, this is when I realize that my eyes have changed.
Like a young man who went to war with a clean face and came back four years later bearded and with a strange and bizarre thousand-yard gaze in his stare, put there by all the things he had seen during his tour. Or like a woman who finally gave birth for the first time after seventy-five days in labor, and she's so crippled from the physical pain that she can't even talk, she just lays there staring into space almost unaware that she is now a mother.
The last time I remember sleeping was before the roadtrip, and I am not sure if I have slept since then. I bypass my bedroom and go to lay on my couch, and maybe for an hour, I lay there staring, thinking, staring, thinking. “Someone stole my toothbrush,” I say as my mind catches up with me.
I turn on the television and watch the news as I lay wide awake. Now a day has gone by. I've eaten, I've showered, I'm tired, but I still can't sleep. I'm going to have to do it 131 | DAHIJ MIYAMAHS