His Eyes Set On Destiny

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 12 of 30

In my travels 'round The Big City, I've several times had the opportunity to engage in conversations with others. I met this guy, anyway, and in few days I hope to say a few things about a local monk who also turned me on to some really deep jive on Destiny. Both guys -- even though they’re both guys from around here -- could not have been more different. This guy was distinctive for the piercing fire in his eyes; he definitely doesn't have the gene for lazy eye. He was also distinctive for the force behind his opinions.

No doubt he would object to calling anything he said mere “opinion,” since he lives only by Truth and Truth alone. I kind of doubt his outlook and yet at the same time envy him. How great it must feel to be so certain of everything, not just your own destiny but the destiny of the whole world, the whole cosmos, the whole kit and caboodle and Tyler too! Like a guy I once met hitchhiking as a kid who said people in Texas only drive two speeds, zero and 150 mph. It sounds impossible but he was so certain of it I still can't possibly doubt him.

Anyway, let's get to it, here are some of the pithy (yet deep and forceful) teachings passed on to me by my John Brown-like acquaintance. I’d like to just note one more thing about the guy, his burning eyes. We were at DQ, me trying to eat a hot fudge sundae while agreeing more or less with everything he said, and him basically doing brain surgery on me with his piercing eyes -- it was endless and uncomfortable -- staring into my eyes with a rare heat, literally melting my sundae and making me uncomfortable in other ways too. The neck of my shirt mysteriously squeezed me till my eyes bugged out. I was kind of mad about the melted sundae. But still managed to drink it in a couple gulps.

HIS TEACHINGS:
-- Nothing is ever what it seems. The truth you think is the truth isn’t. The truth you can’t handle.
-- There’s a force bigger than anything imaginable always forever pulling all the strings.
-- Only he and a few trusted others -- “the elders” -- know what it’s all about.
-- You should do a virus scan on all email.
-- Never get your shots.
-- Up is down and down up and both are conspiracies.
-- Potty-training makes boys effeminate.
-- Dishpan hands is a media hoax invented to pay for soap operas.
-- It’s reasonably tough to distinguish Shit and Shinola. Most people can’t. (I had him here, since I recently studied Shinola.)

He had a few other extraneous points but these made up his basic doctrine, what he’s pinning his whole destiny on. In a way, yes, he definitely has it going on. I wish I could be more like him. The certainty would be great. Then the burning eyes, the judgmental fervor, so much like the typical Episcopal priest it’s uncanny, with his divine ability to see through to the very core of all things, definitely a street corner prophet if ever I've seen one, with utter trust in existence and only one fear, hellfire for everyone else.

The Ascension of Okibbeha

Part 6 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

My problem with The Ascension of the Great Okkibeha, and any such incident, is always suspicion that it's some kind of ruse. Because, let’s face it, the magic’s gone from everything. The spiritual realms these days aren’t held in high esteem, not credible to our modern way of thinking; it's nearly always a fast-talking guy in a traveling carnival with a blue curtain and puff of smoke. It's true, every one of life's "miracles" -- from childbirth to four leaf clovers -- somehow involves that guy.

And anything that depends on faith is out. The knowledge we have today allows us only to believe mundane happenings, such as that horrible roar outside is a car without a muffler, not a farting unicorn. There actually is such a car in my neighborhood, and if my claim sounds the least bit untruthful I could personally launch a satellite into space and take a picture of it for you. So that’s one form of knowledge, easy to believe given enough satellites and cameras, but there are stranger things. As in the case of Okkibeha, because I’m saying she did ascend into some kind of spiritual realm. And that’s not just my claim, since I didn’t personally make it up, but the claim of ancient Egyptian priests who just happened to materialize before she departed...

Born Cindy Lou M——- to a farm couple in Iowa, family memories say she manifested an incredible interest in ancient Egypt as well as detailed knowledge. Most of us — myself included, usually smart enough to rattle off all kinds of trivia — couldn’t recite five minutes of Egyptian lore. I know there were lots of pharaohs and Egyptian citizens in the land of Egypt way back when. But telling one from another, get outta here! Similarly, I’m not that great with flowers, but I've seen people pick them and pin them to dresses.

Well, everything seemed to be coming to a head for Cindy, or the Great Okibbeha. She kissed her mother and father goodbye and called down an ancient staff of attendants from the sky, and ascended a makeshift throne. This was all in a barn, about the time The Psycho Squad got involved, having been notified. We took the call and buzzed out there, sirens full-blast. As we came over the hill, we saw what looked like a palace lighting the horizon. Which was the family barn. The light rose higher and higher, then when it reached a tremulous peak, a breaking point, all was suddenly black except for a much narrower beam of light piercing the clouds. As it turned out, Cindy/Okibbeha had said bye bye to this level of existence and taken off, robe, throne, and pretty backdrop all.

Did I believe this story? Not entirely, at first. We called out to her: “This is no joke, Cindy, come out! Olly olly oxen free! Yo, Cindy, Cindy Lou! Where'd you hide the barn? Don't be afraid, we’re with the Psycho Squad, an emergency help squad that helps those who need it, usually the wacky. We only want to make things better for you!" I sent Benny over to some smoldering bales of hay to jab his pitchfork a little deeper. "Cindy, your Mom says you’re behind on homework. Come out, we will stabilize you and find a tutor to boost your home ec scores. Making a pan of biscuits isn't that hard.” But none of it did any good. "Obstinate little bitch," I muttered.

I asked for her parents’ phones. The photos indeed showed various strangely-costumed men posing as Egyptian priests, but the place where Cindy had allegedly sat was nothing but a ball of light. So I didn’t know what to do. The Squad was there, so we gave the parents a few downers and shipped a couple of traumatized cows to the vet, and that was it.

Her mother then told us of the mysterious prophecy, that Okibbeha had been manifested again in the earth, born of a virgin, and is prophesied to return in 10,000 years, by which time most of us will be passed on. I don’t always believe such things. But the pitchforks didn’t hit anything and the heavenly beam of light, a million watts without electricity, had to mean something. It meant this much at least: I’m risking the Psycho Squad's credibility by believing it. Gotta put it outta my mind. And Cindy's gorgeous mother a virgin? That'd be the biggest miracle of all, hubba hubba!

The Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow

Ho, boyd! You’ll never guess what I saw today! In a flighting moment, there it was, The Illusive Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow, up from the ditch, as big as life! Meaning — purple as in the color of kings! — I’m in for great treasure, a kingly reward, or, since king’s also mete out harsh punishments, maybe I’m just in for it... A bounteous wind lifts the Swallow, but could I swallow a harsh fate?

This lovely bird flies freely, without a thought, but I have to remain grounded and testify of the significance of such a sight. Because you never can tell in these modern times, there’s many a youngster without the lore, know-nothings unfamiliar with the facts of life beyond their own narrow rutting habitat. As I think back, yes, there was a time when I myself, callow and barely cowled, was unfamiliar with basic life facts. Then my nearest of kin stepped in and brought me up to speed.

When your eyes are opened, that’s when you can see. As I did that gladsome day when I saw my first Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow. They filled me in on the significance, which I never fore got till then. But till today I hadn’t seen one in so many years, I haven’t even been thinking of it. Of course sometimes I wish for it, but hoping isn’t happening, till, up it jumps, it dashes, it turns tail and impresses me deeply. You know I’m forever a seeker, seeking omens, checking my Tarot, watching the chakras in spin, and even looking at life cross-eyed — or with one eye closed — I buy reading glasses and immediately take one lens out — I’ve found it the best way to narrow my gaze to truly see. Then it happens and I have to wonder, are Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallows everywhere, but I only see them when they’re definitely out of mind?

Like today! I wasn’t thinking of them, and there it was, jumping up from the ditch, managing to keep its place on the driver’s side, where I could see it so clearly. Indicating 100 percent, the vision was for me! The beauty of this omniscient little creature waiting till just that precise second to bound out, when I was a mere 20 feet from it, is significant beyond anything else that’s happened lately. My heart’s racing, my breath is elevated. I haven’t had my innards tickled so dramatically since my first taste of Mountain Dew, then later when losing my virginity. I’ve seen the promised land in this brief flight of the spirit bird, being gypped thus phar but no more.

Watch for them! They’re always there when a major life change is coming! That’s what I’ve heard. I remember seeing one when I was a kid, without the faintest idea of any of this, and we later moved. So hard, but it led to good things. I was a third grade dropout! True. But when we moved I joined a different third grade. In that case, though, the Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow sighting was just a few months before.

The next time I saw the Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow was about the time of puberty, when it’s supposed to start. I was a late bloomer, OK? I’m not ashamed to admit it now, but back then I tried my best to shrink from sight around other boys and girls in the dressing room. O for those days of innocence now! I would’ve proudly strutted my stuff, but till the Swallow reappeared, I felt shame. Then I saw it and POOF! Just that fast, I had the pubic bush like everyone else! Not overnight, folks, the same damned day! My dad was glad, but said to be careful not to catch that tangle in a zipper. Man to man, he said it hurts like hell.

I mentioned losing my virginity. Please understand, my prospects weren’t great. I looked at the girlie magazines they had back then like everyone else. My cousins informed me of the various goings-on down there, I clipped photos, etc. I got in major trouble in 9th grade when I had some of the innocent girlie pictures — back then you didn’t know if they’d experienced a POOF like me; those things couldn’t be shown. I asked my cousins why that was, and the true answer we came up with was, “Must be something wrong with ‘em down there.” Anyway, I had the pictures and this nasty teacher came up behind me and busted me. My mother had to come in the next day and vouch for me, “He’s a growing boy, has a natural curiosity,” etc. The only thing she was mad about was I didn’t tell her about seeing the bird the day before. I never wanted to disappoint her, so her words were a bitter pill to swallow.

Then came the virginity thing a while later; sorry I got ahead of myself. Up popped the Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow, and that same day I was in the hardware store and told the guy I needed a good screw. He fixed me up with his sister, also. She had one of the local shabby apartments, top floor. The floors were weak, the walls were mildewed, parts of the ceiling were literally hanging down. I looked pretty good to her and she to me. I didn’t tell her what we owed the tryst to — having read the bird’s omen — she just laid back and enjoyed that beautiful minute of paradise, once I became fully aware of the geography of the female physique. It reminded me of the slip n’ slide mat the other kids had, very smooth. My mom wouldn’t let me have one because of her fear of discarded razor blades possibly on the lawn. The rest of my time with Monique was without dreadful consequences, despite the Freudian possibilities of her haven of best becoming life’s worst gaping maw.

Those were such major times, I’ll leave it at that. The other times can be summarized by various moves, job changes, and starting this blog.

Now, though, today — literally within the last 20 minutes — the Purple-Breasted, Yellow-Eyed Split-Tail Swallow jumped up again, one of the closest I’ve ever seen. Meaning....? What DID it mean? I’m 65, in excellent health... Do you suppose — I hate to think about it — that I’m going to die? What else comes next? I don’t know what comes next for me. The other times I saw the birds it was generally for good. But there’s no telling what it could be, except it’ll be something. It could be I’ll be leaving soon, although I’m supposed to live till 85...

But whether 65 or 85, there’s no real difference. I was perfectly content not being present for the first 15 billion years of the Universe, I’ll probably be fine whatever the afterlife is or isn’t. I’ll just enjoy my days here, however many there are. Which might be the message of the bird for me this time. Nothing major happening till I see the off ramp. And there it’ll be, The Purple-Breasted, Yellow-Eyed Split-Tail Swallow, jumping up from the weeds! So enjoy yourself, read, write, listen to music, walk, talk, go half-crazy now and then. Be happy and die with contentment.

The Graffiti of Quick Draw McFiti

What would you think if I turned out to be local graffiti sensation (or to some spoilsports and haters of the arts, scourge) Quick Draw McFiti? What a surprise that’d be!

Interesting question, huh? You’re probably wondering why I asked. No reason, heh heh, just throwing it out there as a rhetorical question to muse on, let’s say. But, really, what would you think? I can well imagine how the run of the mill folks would take it. For the non-artistic among us, I’m sure so many of them would curse my name and feel that I should be brought to justice at long last. Then we'd have the other end of the spectrum, art lovers and fellow artists, who would be either very happy that the mystery was at long last solved or happy the authorities were getting me off the street, out of jealousy, or even because they're sticks in the mud.

It’s the last crowd that makes me sickest, frankly. To be the object of envy, or to put it more charitably, misunderstood in whatever artistic pursuit you choose, then vilified, is no good. It totally brings me down to contemplate that response, but of course everyone knows there’s lots of crumbs in life. Then there's the artsy-fartsies who think art isn't for the various walls around town, but for the museum. To them, I have a few things to say. The cleanliness of a wall is not worth stifling the artistic sensibilities of a person like Quick Draw McFiti -- Let's hear it for him! I’m not sure I can even forgive them, and people who know me always see in me a very forgiving person. I forgave that kid that sprayed "CRANK" on my outhouse.

But let’s set the naysayers aside; it’s dragging down my spirit. It’s the artistic-minded, the lovers of art, those who celebrate the spirit of the artist, that I celebrate. Whoever McFiti is, they may not care about that little detail as much, because they’re not looking to nab him or give him his comeuppance. Their thing, like I said, is to celebrate. You see a blank wall and you’re like, “Yeah, a blank wall.” But you see an artistic tour de force — and Quick Draw’s works are so often described with that term, if I do say so myself — you quickly shake off the doldrums and come alive.

I’m alive today and happy! Happy to see this arms-open-wide piece in the light of day. It looks better than I remember or even expected. For such a quick drawing. You just shake the can and cock it toward the wall and whisper a little prayer for guidance; there’s no UNDO button. It actually might be that detail alone that gives such quick abandon to McFiti’s stuff. Which I thoroughly resonate with. My thinking's precisely the same. Whatever you have in your heart and mind, put it down quickly, then let it be. The truest art simply flows.

Anyway, as to the details of this particular piece: It’s exactly something that’s in my own heart, continually. The prophet appears, like Isaiah or Jeremiah or Elijah*. They’re known for extended prophecies that welled up and overflowed from their heart. But the key to their power was their giving-over to the Spirit. Few edits, little self-consciousness; this was something bigger than themselves, and quicker. Like Quick Draw McFiti! Who has a similar message: The prophet throws his hands up and proclaims, “THOU SHALT.” A great positive message!

I’ve had that very thought in my own heart for a while, and how good it is to see it finally on full display. You don’t know how proud I am, and yet I’m only the conduit for a greater power; if we don’t personify it, we could merely call it The Power of Life! Elan, Energy, Elixir!

Draw on, mysterious Quick Draw McFiti, you’re doing our sad old world a great deal of good.

*Time would fail me to tell of Anna Phanuel.

The Golden Child

I don't write much about myself, my own life. I guess I've been very modest, since, believe it or not, there would be a lot to write about. But many of the original witnesses are now deceased. And some of these topics appeared to be strictly off limits when they were alive. What were they precisely afraid of, that's something I could never wheedle out of them. My mother would throw up her dress and flee the room.

Still, in the hoary mist that makes up the past -- thick enough to cut with a knife -- there are things about me, and destiny, and about great things that I could accomplish. I dare say would accomplish, but I'm pretty sure everyone's forgotten the prophecies. Which don't just spring out of thin air, but are always something that someone's considered, then hidden in their hearts, then pulled out time and time again to rehearse, then concealed, and on and on like that, all very cyclical, see? Let's say my dad was in on it. He was sharp with an incisive mind; I wonder what he knew!

I got very little guidance on these things. But what wasn't spelled out was hinted about, that I would accomplish certain things, and before that, I would know it when I saw it. Friends, I know nothing. Just a kind of tingly feeling I get when I fall asleep -- or just before falling asleep -- when I'm regaled by, yes, beings, personages, memories dredged up, and revelations even now that are new! This one spirit from the hoary mist, he was hoary himself, hoary-headed, old-fashioned speak for essentially white. White as snow, the purest white you've seen this side of a snow drift.

What would I accomplish? I've accomplished very little thus far. Unless the revelation/prophecy somehow involves this blog. It's weird, I'm telling a story and I don't know how it goes! I'm feeling my way. But doesn't it stand to reason that anything that is prophetic, if it's meant to take place, that it would take place whether I knew what I was doing or not? Like going to the bathroom. Everyone knows how it goes. You do your business, then pull 'em up. Like the kid on the diapers commercial: "I'm a big kid now!"

I could make up prophecies, but that would be artificial, false. I could keep my ears open, and everything I hear try to distill it through a mental process of thinking. I've done that before. Like the time I learned to tie my own shoes. I'm thinking now of ... women! My mother always had female friends. They would get together and do things together. They would talk. Maybe at the lake, on a boat, away from the crowd, among themselves. What were they talking about? She had friends who would live close to her, then move somewhere else. Why did they move?

Seems like a dead end. So many of the folks who attended my birth and early years are dead. It seems, though, that there was something hushed that was occasionally heard, about the obstetrician they had at the hospital, or one of them. How he was always into the hidden lore (or something), how he was thrown out of various churches for his offbeat ideas. I remember hearing some of this, that he was a essentially a mystic obstetrician, and the words "golden child." That's it, I think. Mom and her friend, this one lady -- I remember her name -- had something between them about a guy like that.

I'm going to be working on this from time to time. Freely associating memory scraps with what "must have been." What are the sorts of things people keep to themselves, talking in whispers, acting like they've swallowed the canary? People's mysterious destinies. Like I was meant to have and live, no doubt... I foresee the formulation and using of many techniques. I've long had the conviction, When in doubt, improvise. Act like you know what you're doing. For those reasons alone, and in fulfillment of them, I must be The Golden Child! Yes, I'm certain of it!

Enhancing Your Dreams

My life of lucid dreams began when I started wearing glasses to bed to catch more detail. From there, it progressed. Still today, REM activity actually continues through most of the morning. If you see a guy fluttering his eyes at you, that's me!

The glasses were enough for a while, but I wanted more. I started sleeping with a chair, thinking that if I could sit during dreams I'd be able to take in more. Indeed, things were less hectic. I was suddenly less a participant than a spectator. That was fine, but dreams are meant to be participatory and not so tame. So I went "full gator," sleeping with a stuffed alligator, which made things very wild very fast. I was chased and cornered more times than I can remember. I almost ended up with my own show on Animal Planet, in my dreams, but thankfully woke up in time.

Other times, I wanted things to be more pastoral, with dark blue skies and bright stars, and fairies and satyrs roaming the countryside. I got some books at a book sale, Van Gogh, Yeats, and Greek mythology. I tore out the specific pages to create the scene and had one of the best nights of my life. All except for the satyrs. They're very randy rascals, so if anyone tries this, make sure you make provision for them to have a good partner.

A lot of my favorite enhanced dreams involved going back to my childhood and camping with my family like we used to do. Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, brothers, cousins, everyone. Naturally, this involved going to bed with a photo album, a lantern, and a chunk of tent canvas. And throw in some fishing equipment. The biggest problem wasn't the fact that I woke up with my pillows at the end of a stringer, but that I associate camping with downpours. Touch the canvas and it leaks right through. I not going to tell much about it, except to say I changed the sheets and put down plastic.

Anyway, in my dreams I've done a little of everything over the years, including running away and working for the circus, like Toby Tyler. Even though Toby's adventures were mostly misadventures, I had more success. But it's true what they say about clowns; I'd rather be chased by satyrs any night of the week!

The weirdest, most elaborate dream I ever had was the entire Apocalypse -- 360 degrees, 3D depth, the entire judgment, God, devils, and white throne. Thankfully, it had a happy ending: I awoke five years later to a blessed morning, having seen a lot of angelic nudity and lots of other cool stuff, the works!

To prepare for this, it took workmen a whole week to construct what looked like a swing set over my bed, with pulleys, chains, and various berths for figures carved by craftsmen. These were prophets, angels, devils, etc. All this apparatus was connected by a team of technicians to several bicycles, the whole works carefully choreographed by a panel of respected ministers, according to their reasonable theological consensus. Lastly, the bikes were powered by members of a trusted Boy Scout troop. I once bought popcorn from them, so I knew they were good.

Despite the noise, I dozed off. Around midnight, I heard the cranks and pulleys churning and the breathing of the Scouts at their bikes. I drifted off again, and ascended through super consciousness into the heavenly spheres, passing through the seam that separates mundane existence from the higher realms. It was fantastic! Not a satyr or clown in sight!

But as the Apocalypse involves tumult, destruction, judgment, and the eventual reconciliation and restoration of the cosmos -- and a lot of close calls with devils -- I had more on my mind than I knew what to do with. It's harder to get back than you'd think. This is where I probably went too far, and, like I said, I ended up sleeping for five years. I was out of it! I don't know if anyone paid the Scouts and the craftsmen. Everything of my normal life was gone. All I knew during that time was the inner world I inhabited.

My family, who otherwise would've been out camping, took care of me, bedridden as I was. And if I hadn't covered the bed in plastic, I can only  imagine the bedsores I might've had. Thank goodness for my wise planning.

The Pester Prophecy

There it is now, the once mighty gas station. Proof that life is bittersweet. That things change and pass away, leaving behind empty buildings with no respectable burial and memorial.

What optimism and pride they had going in with this station! Ozymandias come to life! Even though it looked small to everyone else, they were all up in your face about it: We're number 1! We can't be beat! Ha ha, even now I'm shaking my head. But I've never rejoiced in the station finally going down. I'm more an impartial observer of human nature and human pretensions, not a judge. It's just that I've just been particularly gifted (cursed?) with the longer range view, that always sees the balloon popped.

Of course people don't always like to see me coming, which I also understand. Honestly, it's true, prophets know the whole story. We're able to see not just the narrow truth of the moment, but the feelings others have about the process in process, that we're cranks. Sometimes you'd just like to keep your mouth shut...

In the last few days we had a weird May snowstorm. So I went for a drive around town to see it, and couldn't help noticing the forlorn former Pester station on its corner, which I've seen many times. But this time, with the weather and the snowy untouched driveway, it was a lot different than it used to be, years ago, when customers were in and out constantly. I remember the glory days, then the struggles to keep it going -- open and shut -- and finally what essentially became an abandoned site.

Looking back, I'm remembering a friend of mine, a guy from high school, who worked there. Back then,  you'd get a job and automatically think, This is it! I'm here till retirement! Nothing can interfere with my hopes and dreams! I'm young enough to trot out and pump gas! When I'm 30, I'll still be fast. When I'm 40, a little slower. At 50, my son will help me. At 60, I'm the patriarch, manning the register. At 65, I retire. But the gas station will be here forever!

Looking back, I started remembering the day the spirit of prophecy hit me, hit me hard, hit me good, hit me so good I shook like a leaf. You know? It's a burden. Dark clouds stream past your inner eye. You see something like murky waves coming against a dark indistinct shore and receding. You see something like bats fluttering madly in a cold cave, dropping disgusting guano everywhere. And you're scared, which then becomes perplexity, then there's a strange warmth, then confidence. Buttons start popping off your shirt; you're spiritually hulking out. Your chest is very hairy.

Well, that day -- in the early '70s -- I happened to be at the Pester station. My friend smiled broadly and spread his hands, as if to say, "What a magnificent place, huh? This is a vast, inviolable domain, the best that ever was. Like a fortress, the 8th Wonder of the World." I wanted to lie, I seriously wanted to run away, to sob and beg that this curse would be removed from me. But I couldn't budge. So I lifted my mantle and enclosed my friend there in the darkness. And then, between him crawling out to wait on customers and returning, just the two of us, with words to this effect, I prophesied:

This vast gas station that you see today, advertised ceaselessly on the radio -- "Pester, ding ding, It's a gas!" -- and indeed very popular, one day will sit deserted, completely abandoned. Those upright racks of oil, so neatly arrayed, will be gone, as will be all this merchandise: Cases of Pepsi, air fresheners, cigarettes, maps, the peanut machine and all the rest. The cash register, gone. All the signs identifying the station, the price of gas, and other in-store specials will be removed. And you, even though you're confident today, one day you shall leave in despair. There's more, much more, but the vision is fleeing.

Of course, he told me I was cracked. And maybe I was, but look again at the photo. Do you see any gas pumps, cases of Pepsi, signs, merchandise, a peanut machine, anything that would even remotely suggest I was wrong?

Before I left -- I remember this so well -- I approached him again and told him it was no pleasure for me to reveal these mysteries, but I was compelled. Maybe it was so he'd be able to envision his future differently and dream anew, or maybe there was just some other reason, unknown to all, just the spirits messing with us. As for the rest, in addition to reiterating that the prophecy would come true, I said, "You don't believe me about the station's desolation. Give me your phone number and someday I'll message you a picture of it."

Well, that really did it! He goes, "Now I know you're crazy! You can't send me a picture on the phone, Dick Tracy!" I had to smile; he wasn't ready for this one.

My Outer Space Armored Car Heist Prediction

I've been very jealous of the international attention Harold Camping got for his rapture prediction, months and months of attention leading up to it, then of course tons more when the big day arrived. All indications so far point to his prediction -- in spite of his 100% rock solid guarantee that it would happen -- as being false. It could be that he needs to start predicting safer things, like who the Republican presidential nominee will be in 2012. If he says Mickey Mouse, he won't be too far off.

Anyway, I thought maybe I should jump into the game of predicting things. Then let the chips fall where they may. If there's the potential for panic, so much the better. Nothing gets people's attention like a mortal threat, then couple that with a financial meltdown. It's the perfect recipe for disaster, just what I need. I'm rubbing my hands, thinking of all the money I'll be making off Google Ads, which I will reinstate on my blog when the day gets closer.* But for a while I want to appear like I'm not trying to profit off everyone's misery.

But the rapture? It might be a little soon for that. Who's going to believe in the rapture anymore, after this guy's failure(s) and everyone else's? Although, now that I think of it, I actually did predict the rapture, building on Camping's data, but since the date is pretty far off -- 2032 -- by then I could very well be dead. And unable to cash in.

And I don't want to predict anything too routine, like Santa Claus coming on Christmas. The Weather Service has that one well in hand, even tracking him on radar, with NORAD's help and the Air Force escorting him. You know, I really could predict that the North Koreans will capture Santa when he enters their airspace. Or easier yet, when he goes down the chimney at some kid's house. Then they're torturing him, like they did with the Pueblo crew back in '68 -- did I say torture? Of course I meant enhanced interrogation, which is a much more polite label for it. We wouldn't want anyone to get in trouble, except we're not talking Americans here but the North Koreans, so I guess torture is still a good word.

Anyway, here's my prediction. Which I thought of just today when I saw the Brinks armored car go by, seen in the photo. It said Brinks has been in business for 150 years. Isn't it about time that someone messed with them? Who better to do it than aliens from outer space? We've been extending our reach into space, just like they said in the movies from the '50s, and naturally that can't be good for advanced civilizations, since we're such barbarians. So it stands to reason they would want to come here and destroy us, starting with our financial system, represented by the Brinks truck. Brinks doesn't show up at banks, people don't have money, we'll be looting in no time. Then eating each other, with cannibalism on a large scale.

So here's my prediction, and I'm not hedging my bets. Just like Brother Camping, this is going to be 100% guaranteed. I'm staking my substantial credibility on this being true, even though I'm quite aware that I'm simply making it up, pulling the date and place out of thin air, simply at random. That's the way inspiration works. If you put too much thought into it, that's when the mind's delusions take over. But if you just intuit it and say it, it's always true. Like your first guess on test questions, the mind knows.

I predict -- and I guarantee it -- that at 11:38 a.m., on Wednesday, August 17, 2011, in every time zone around the world at 11:38 their time, that space ships will appear over the earth, each having a powerful tractor beam (like pictured), and will lift armored cars from the ground and do something with them. What they'll do with them doesn't make any difference; they'll be gone! There'll be so many runs on banks that the bankers' drink of choice will be Kaopectate. It won't be long till they're wiped out. Then total and complete collapse!

Spread the word, gin up the panic, let's get this thing going. What's that I hear? I think I hear the ships hovering above me right now! Yes, yes, it's them!

*Update - An obvious problem I didn't think of is this, what good will my profits from Google Ads be if there's no banking/financial system left?

You Left Your Father's House

Did you leave your father's house? Shame on you. But birds gotta fly, and if you left perhaps it was for the best.

It's a matter of outcomes, which we can't always foresee, and circumstances. Was he left alone with no one for company, no one for errands, no one for tasks he couldn't do around the house? For that it seems like condemnation is the appropriate judgment. But was he surrounded by neighbors, other family, friends, a doctor or nurse? And did he have a substantial nest egg so he would want for nothing, fitting in a periodic vacation, maybe a trip around the world? In those cases, the judgment would have to be a little more lenient. More power to you.

Judging those who've left their father's house is a job for an old greybeard prophet, one who would walk the perimeter of the town, staring at the sun and hearing the still small voice from above. It's not hard for me to picture him going about his work, with the people of the town gathered on the wall, waiting for his infallible verdict. "Did I betray my father?" ... "Am I a shame to my family, to mankind?" ... Or, "Was my father left wanting for nothing, thereby thankfully letting me off the hook?" ... Or, let's say your father died and you provided for him, "Did I pay the bill for the nurse or doctor?" ... But what if he died in shameful circumstances, crawling the streets, calling out for you. In that case your question should be, "Shall I submit to my judgment and bow before the old prophet?"

The old prophet walks with an old gnarly stick, sometimes losing the top end of it in the face of the sun. It's quite a sight, it curls my hair. He's able to gauge things by instinct, seeing right to the heart of guilt or your plausible defense. "Father, O father, unlock the door and let me back in! Let me make things right!" Your howls go unheeded, and there's nothing more stark than that, a guilty man howling into the void, his pulse throbbing in time to the heat. "Boom chicka boom," like that...

You think back to the days before it was too late. You think of the old home place, a modest little house, never enough for you. You fought your father tooth and nail everyday, trying to make your own way. The walls were assaulted by the filthy language that streamed from your mouth, when you spoke to his face and broke his heart (1), and (2) when you were alone in your room, still seething, your mouth vomiting forth a stream of invective as big as Bunyan's ox and twice as blue. Shameful.

You think the ways your father did things, how he might pause and stutter, then accomplish his task. It was never good enough for you. Not you, who knew it all at 13, but now, looking back, you break down and realize, pausing and stuttering was just another way of thinking, cogitating, gathering up and arranging the steps of the task in a particular sequence, the kind of planning that makes something easier. But you didn't think of that at the time. All you knew was your father was a foolish old man, someone who didn't know his way in the world, a man of folly. What would you give to take it all back, now that it's too late? What would you give?

You think of the hopes he had for you. And they were huge. I'll turn my head while you think on your own. Pitiful.

Maybe you had a problem of Dad versus Mom, the old pair of opposites known as the rational side versus the emotional side. Mom was easier to deal with, but is easy always best? You tipped the balance to the emotional side, when the proper course would've been to keep it in equilibrium. If anything, you should've tipped the balance to the rational side, because Dad was right, Dad was so right.

I can imagine how it must have been, him sitting in his chair waiting for his wayward child to return, as the child sowed his or her wild oats, wasting the last bit of vigor and substance. It's a sad picture. Then finally you buckled down, got a job, got your own place, then had kids.

But somewhere, here or in glory, there's an old man in an easy chair, deep in thought, wondering, "Will the old prophet carry my message to my children. At long last, will they hear?"

The Local Man on a Tirade

I'm steppin' high today, somewhere between suffering servant, stern prophet, and normal guy. I'm thinking apocalyptically, yet with the safety and security of my normal surroundings.

Even though it seems like the totality of existence is out there, perhaps in the final war, it's nice to be safe and warm at home. I'm about to have a chocolate cupcake.

I'm picturing how dramatic it is, and I'm picturing the blessedness as well, the things of safety, like a valley that the chosen are guided through. But in the mountains all around we can hear it, the seven thunders, the words uttered that no man can understand, followed by a half hour of silence in heaven. It can be quite fearsome, but it's nice to know I have a good deadbolt on the back door.

One can picture oneself as the local prophet of truth, let's say. And this local prophet has given his stern warnings, has acted out a stern tirade against sinners and doubters. Then he retreats first to his valley, then advances up the mountain to watch the incoming storm. He pulls up his mantle to a point just under his eyes, and squints his eyes to keep out the blowing sand.

I picture all that. And it's quite inspiring. But it's also comforting to know that I don't have that long a walk to get home; there aren't any mountains around here. Plus, I'd rather stay home with my things.