Bring In The Angels

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 30 of 30

Throughout these inspirational talks, we’ve looked at the full extent of Destiny’s dealings. There’s a lot of good "goin' on." But whenever we look at either the micro level or macro level we see more turmoil, a more unfortunate picture than we’re comfortable with. And, like most things, we judge all this by its impact on us as the human race, how it might do us some good (as we judge) or harm (objective truth).

You know what my way is, to lull everyone into a state of acceptance, with a strong push toward the positive and optimistic, knowing that that’s what we want to hear. Yes, we recognize that fate and destiny are somehow tied in together -- as I saw earlier just today with another funeral procession on the interstate, always a jarring sight. The whole thing makes me wonder what happened to the old gravel roads and the dignity of the funerals of old. Surely the undertaker could take the side streets just to maintain some last shred of decency. Could it be we're in that big a rush to get to the grave? Food for thought, at least for the worms that presumably have a long-enough attention-span.

I myself don’t want anyone’s destiny to be bad, always in the gutter, or as rotten as they come. But it’s not up to me to judge. As varied as the things are that happen at the individual level, it’s still my optimistic expectation that the ultimate destiny out there for all of us is fundamentally good. Let’s say it’s a matter of a huge dark planet encroaching on the earth, moving in like the new kid on the block, who is also the cosmos' worst juvenile delinquent, we could be snuffed out in a second. That would be bad.

But what if it is -- at least in a psychological sense -- much as you hear it in religion, that there’s a macro level in our nature, however it may have evolved -- it’d have to be transpersonal -- whereby when we’re about to be wiped out we are engaged in at least one last trance, similar to the moment we personally fall asleep, and it is good? None of us are destined to wake up, let’s throw that in for the natural argument of the situation, but if we don’t know any difference, if the world becomes infested with aliens, with gigantic fangs and a persistent insatiable appetite, what are they going to do when they run out of food? They would have to eat themselves (or go vegan) and any aliens as badass as I've been imagining them, they won't be patient enough to make such a radical switch.

Just before this, then, angels or visions of angels within, will have delivered us, the greatest Destiny reserved like a fire extinguisher behind a pane of glass that somehow vandals didn’t dick with. The system worked! So the rest of us are gone, delivered, happy to flit endlessly in the great beyond! Can you hear my wings? “Flit, flit, flit.” With the angels.

Now here’s the secret destiny that no one expected. Somewhere there’s a number of people, newborns overlooked in a tiny village in Africa. Apes have nurtured them, they come of age, they start the new language, etc. And they’re very holistically oriented, environmentalism is their nature, with the foresight to build space shields against an unperceived alien enemy. And they guard and nurture their destiny. Finally, a little kid is born, basically the correlate of me, also with a destiny-counseling gig, but this kid is able to make greater inroads than I could ever manage, since the whole population is now just that little cluster. And so forth, and so on, you'd have to agree a very happy ending to an otherwise tragic set of circumstances.

Final note: One of the things people like about me is I'll move heaven and earth for a happy ending.

The Angel of Death

Part 2 of 31

They Found Another Body

Wow, what a sight! So that’s the Angel of Death. Very attractive from behind, know what I mean? Something in the way she moves. And quite the deal, on a sunshiny day like today her face is still in the shadows. Nothing but beauty, I’m thinking, her modesty's so overwhelming you don’t even really see her. But you get all the hints you need, the class she has. A gentle nature, one assumes.

Her dress, it’s beautiful, flowing, reaching the ground, very modest. And the lightning bolt feather hat, what a bold accessory. Her midsection, narrow. I suppose food still passes through her. Must be a very dedicated pipe, kept clean so she's never stoved up. The Angel of Death, if she’s ever been mortal and has died probably doesn’t want to go through that again. Or if she’s purely immortal, it’s not a huge worry. Her lightning hat, it could channel pure light or pure darkness distilled from natural forces, one of the perks of the job.

Then there’s the wings. Or is that just a fashion statement with the dress? “I’m lighter than air, as I choose,” that kind of a vibe, something no one else says, but for her, indeed, she probably does flit from place to place. More likely vanishes here and reappears somewhere else, with the wings being symbolic. Or it could be — and I’ve heard the forces of nature like to keep it real — that they're real wings! That'd be definite integrity, like the old banks keeping it real by using only 1800s calculating machines, or even older, or like Scrooge did it, by hand and with one helper, running his daily tallies entry by entry.

You'd definitely hope nature isn’t quick to update its methods. It’s be to our advantage. But maybe something that slows it down would be welcome for the stuff we take as negative. If the Angel of Death can’t get to people fast enough, so much the better for them. If they’re doing fine, why disturb them? And even if they’re barely hanging on to a bitter life, begging for release, a few more hours of misery couldn't so bad in the full scheme of things. She knows what she’s doing. Her solid stance doesn’t look like anyone's at their wit’s end.

I’ve never actually seen the Angel of Death like this, beyond pictures. But maybe someday, depending how it works, I'll behold someone contained in her own shadows like that, a walking mystery, how exciting. It'd be amazing. I’d love to have my selfie taken with her and show it around. If people ran away screaming then, maybe I was part of her important work, giving them a tiny bit of notice before she comes flitting ‘round the corner.

Wait, what if she's here for us?

The Summit of Old Age -- Angel Wings

If I hadn't lived so long and become so old, I never would've believed it. I never knew there was a great shift in consciousness when you reach a certain age. I probably should've known. When you turn 13, you're immediately horny; that you can't deny. When you're 30, your boyish good looks are gone. When you're 40, you yearn for one last go-round, just don't name it after me. When you're 55, you pray you'll see another 30 years. But when you're 65, any minute now would be just as good. Suddenly longevity is nothing but more of the same. Even if you're cheerful like me.

Now, alas, when I see on Facebook that someone's father or grandpa "received his angel wings," I run to the mirror and check my back. Are there at least nubbies? It could be that angel wings are like pubic hair, one day they just puff into place. The thought that I'll soon get my angel wings has become an emotional thing for me, like when I got my first car. It was a beautiful, emotional thing; I even named it; I couldn't wait to show it to everyone. But getting your angel wings, that's nothing your friends and family celebrate. "Get your damned angel wings outta here and don't come back!"

Friends, I'm pleading with those of you smart enough to listen, Don't grow old. Antiques are fun, being an antique isn’t. The young try to force you to get a facelift, have your chin tucked, anything to perpetuate their persistent denial of life's course, taking away your joy and destiny. Which, if it involves visions of loving arms reaching out to me and celestial choirs and lucid dreams of the Great Beyond, the Rainbow Bridge, the Endless Horizon, and Angel Food Cake, has to be good.

You might remember that I got a message from My Friend Death himself, that I will live till 85. That happened a few years ago and I was very relieved. But now I'm thinking that might just be a thing Death says to placate you when you're between 55 and 60. You have an optimistic outlook while the Guardians of Time cycle around till you're around 65, then drop it on you that 85 might be a curse. And I'm not even in that bad of shape. I don't usually think it'd be a curse, but who knows... There are definitely shifts in consciousness over time.

OK, the Summit of Old Age. Looked at from a strictly evolutionary point of view, we old people become more and more superfluous the longer we live. Yes, I can see the point in keeping us around. If for no other reason than to keep younger people more content. Because they could experience terrible societal anxiety with all the attendant downsides, if they knew old people were hogtied and frogmarched to their death at a particular age. They’d quickly imagine their own fate, always sooner than you think, and pretty soon they’d revolt.*

Look at it like this: If older people were marched to their death, that still leaves survivors who are older than other survivors. But soon and very soon the oldest people left would be eight or nine years old, with five-year-olds gunning for them. Shortsighted, yes, because who’ll look out for the five-year-olds when the three-year-olds come for them? Along with this killer truth, you have to be a certain age before you can even sire or bear children, around 12; soon there’d be no one to kill the three-year-olds, with birth levels at zero or below zero. The last generation of three-year-olds would suddenly drop dead, miserable. Suffering a shortage of diapers and rattles.

As for me today, I somehow escaped every threat of generational slaughter, and here I am, a very old man, devastated in other ways. I outlived my house, for one thing. It became so full of fungus, dry rot, wet rot, walls alive with shortsighted bacteria, water feeding the mold, which then foolishly ate its way to its own oblivion. Plus, I needed new shingles, but was shortsighted, preferring to spend my money on online TV services. The beauty of my folly is this, the movies I purchased are still mine, but they’re online at various sites and will be mine forever, although I don’t know about survivor rights. Least of my worries perhaps. Should've bought shingles and had the place fumigated.

Angel wings, get me outta here!

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*Which wouldn't do any good.

The Most Oversexed People

I'm closing out the festivities for the year with my version of everyone's favorite party game -- feel free to quote it at your New Year's orgy -- Who are the Most Oversexed People?

Oh yeah, this makes me warm just thinking about it... I'm looking around, hoping no one notices me at my table. I'm typing this in the public library. It might be hard, even embarrassing, trying to account for my flushed look or the uneasy shifting in my chair, trying not to bump into the lower part of the desk. Keep it up like this, I could make next year's list. But, no, dirty old men didn't make this year's list. There's something wrong with their trying too hard, one surmises; they're overlooked out of spite

I've been thinking a long time who would make the list, so I'm sure I've got it right. By the way, the list is in no particular order, because all of them are oversexed. With the notable exception of Auctioneers. Auctioneers are by far the most oversexed people. Enough foreplay, here's the list:

Dads who take their kids out too much -- Yes, I know what you're thinking, There's no one more adorable than Dads who take their kids out too much. I know, that's the point! Why do you think they do it? Certainly not out of a great maternal instinct suddenly kicking in. You could argue they want to be a good role model for the kid, they want to spend quality time with the kid, or a dozen different idiotic things that depend on innocent motives. Don't be fooled! Dads have two basic interests, fooling the wife and impressing the ladies. Of course the wife always has her suspicions. At some level she knows her husband's devious mind. She knows he's into these fantasies. But even she can be fooled when he voluntarily, even eagerly takes little Johnny out on a snowy night. No innocent man would ever do that. That's one husband who's purely oversexed and looking for more. He doesn't mind being a little cold if it means he'll be snuggling up real soon with a hot neighbor gal.

Clowns -- I grew up liking clowns. Before movies wrongly portrayed them as psychos and killers, the exact opposite of a few clowns I've known. But even I know that to classify clowns as oversexed is 100% accurate. Let's set aside the negative spin they've gotten as killers and psychos. The only thing I'm interested in is how oversexed they are. I think it's obvious. Look how defensive they are. Face paint and costumes are clearly an attempt to hide their true person and motives. Talk about wearing your diagnosis on your sleeve! The big flouncy costume, the face pain, the tiny hats and flowers; you have to be aware there's a real person hiding under all that. No doubt someone with the vilest instincts who'd act on those instincts given half a chance. To me it's all sexual. They back you into a corner -- which with flowers and a nice meal might be welcome -- then you find out... They have only one thing on their oversexed little mind, sex. And maybe spawning a few someday-clowns.

Police -- I keep my eye on the police. I've been watching a lot of videos involving the police, car chases, and other arrests. And I notice one unifying thread with our protectors in blue, As long as the camera's running, They do it by the book. That is, they're perpetually on the straight and narrow way. There's a protocol and they aim to keep it. There's a pecking order with the force, and the slightest variance from what is expected, demanded, is enough to demote them so far down they'd need to personally solve three or four bank robbery cases a day to ever again see the light of day. Whenever you have that kind of pressure, you counteract it via the instincts. Number One of which is sex. I don't know what it'd be like to be a police officer's spouse, and I don't want to find out. I'm pretty sure it involves a lot of mock arrests, continually "reading their rights," and a lot of searching for the evidence, usually including strip searches. The police have one thing on their mind during the day, the strict law. But at night, it's all lawlessness, forbidden fruit up the yin yang.

People Who Point At Others -- This one is more nebulous, people who point at others. But in a way I see the same rationale I had with the police. It's the old psychological lore, that those who are "moral to a fault" themselves have plenty of faults. Like in the song Harper Valley PTA. My own pointing out of other people's faults is coincidental and only done for educational purposes.

Nude Cherubs -- See that little New Year's fellow in the buff? He's got clothes, he just chooses not to wear them. In this case he's a little too close to the clowns. By intention!

Auctioneers -- Then there's auctioneers! Know what I mean? If I made a list of the most oversexed people for the last 50 years, no doubt auctioneers would hold the Number One spot every year. I could write a dissertation on the subject, but I'll try to keep it brief. Ask yourself what auctioneers are good at. First, no one appraises value and desirability like an auctioneer. They have an eye for the good stuff. They know the psychological ins and outs of selling what they've got. They might have a broken desk for sale, but they've been through its drawers and they know there's still lots of good use. Second, they're fast talkers. Just try to resist an auctioneer's charms, they'll plead, wheedle, and beg, a whole eight pages of begging squeezed into seven seconds. They just open their mouth and in the next breath you're in bed, and the auctioneer has rung up the sale. Daddies, keep your daughters out of auction barns.

Angels and Demons Play Red Rover

They're all arrayed for the greatest battle ever in cosmic history, the battle over my precious soul and the world. Oh yeah, nothing small. Sometimes I think I'm nothing. Then I realize, Dad mabbit, I'm as good as they get. Except for the bad teeth.

On one side, wearing gold trimmed wings and hoisting flaming swords, are the illustrious angelic forces. The opposing side has the demons, also illustrious in their own way, bringing the fragrance of cinder to the proceedings. I'm in the chariot with the one true deity Krishna, watching to see if Red Rover will break the line.

Because this is something like the Ultimate Contest -- so important that the Magic Butler's ascent to Heaven is frozen in place till it's decided -- each side is especially rapt. Red Rover has the life of the spirit racing through his spine, from his Eilo bottom to his Meniggesstroeth top.

Lately, of course, I have been friends with the demons. Demons 1. Demons 2. Hence, the battle, as the angels are very much against that sort of thing. Yet how often the angels have helped me! Hedgerow 1. Hedgerow 2. But who knows whether a similar alliance with demons wouldn't have kept me more well-rounded? Whatever, they both appear jealous, so it's one or the other, with my proxy in the fight, Red Rover, running the line. I believe the score is something like 50-50 out a best-of-100, with the deciding run ... NEXT!

The big difference in the last run is that Krishna has told me that many in the struggle will perish. So if I'm rooting for either side, it should be the angels, since those are the spirit of my body parts they represent. But the demons are old friends and acquaintances. So I'm torn.

Are angels better than demons? That's the question. For all their so-called goodness and assistance, it sure seems like angels are quick with resentment and a superior attitude. Whereas demons, always kicked down, seem to be thankful for every dry morsel you throw them. On the other hand, Abraham Lincoln thought the angels of our nature were worth lifting up. But he's the same guy who killed vampires at night. Which hardly sounds like a fair fight, right when they're sleeping. So Lincoln sucks.

People who like angels are supposedly the strong. Strong? Think again. Every little old lady I've ever known, who couldn't get her walker out of the quicksand-thicket of short carpet had angels on her curtains and TV. What kind of strength is that? And people who like demons are supposedly the weak. Weak? Don't they break chains in the tombs? If they're so weak, what are we doing chaining them there in the first place? I'd like to be that weak! I'd join the carnival and make money in the freak show.

Angels, for all the good we think they do, have big heads. And insinuate themselves in lots of situations for personal gain and favors. Ever read Guideposts magazine? Those same ladies with their stuck walkers are always having angelic visitations. That has to be an ego trip for angels, as much as having these gals on a leash and giving them a nasty tug every little whip-stitch. "I give you doily, you give me article."

This stuff is constant for these ladies. And every one of them has a framed color 8 x 10 of a precious dog, now dead. I ask, if angels are so good, why didn't they spare their dog? Selfishness. The dog always noticed them there and barked their heads off. But with the pooch out of the way -- prematurely -- the way was clear for them to move in. One last thing: Ever seen even one of these 8 x 10s where the soft-focused dog wasn't strangely cross-eyed? I'll tell you why: Angels ran 'em ragged.

I haven't got time for the many virtues of demons. Except, next time you see a guy under a bridge out like a light, with a stolen bottle, now empty, think of the peace of spirit of that dear soul. He knows he'll wake up -- probably, hopefully not -- and there'll be a nice, kind demon there somewhere, sleeping in the hottest part of the campfire, who'll help him forget today as well. I never heard of a demon killing a beggar's dog. Just the opposite, in fact; in the absence of a campfire, a very warm spot for sleeping is inside, right next to a dog's heart, with its soothing beat.

OK, back to Red Rover. The angels blow in a prolonged chorus their several conch shells. Eilo blows Saddlesore and Wart answers with Toadpee. Cheetah sounds Harlot, Amen on Overbite. Asterechme delivers a sustained blast on Clarity, Tricky comes in on Dicky. And, finally, Chaos deafens everyone in the valley with his terrible sounding of Kontrol, only to be trumped by Meniggesstroeth delivering the greatest blow ever on his conch, the redoubtable Einstein.

I'm suddenly full of fear, fearful of losing either side. I have personal reasons. I need all these lugs in my life. And, if a bunch of them are gone, it'll throw the balance of nature all out of whack. You know what the Eternal World Soul Motor sounds like, of course: Chugga, chugga, chugga, wheeze, chugga, chugga... If it's out of whack, it might be Chugga, chugga, clink, wheeze, spitz, chugga, fizz. No good. Something exactly like that, sounding minor when you read it, could be the destruction of everything.

Krishna, though, called me to silence. Saying, "You are mourning for what is not worthy of grief. Never was there a time when I did not exist, nor you, nor all these others. Nor in the future shall any of us cease to be. No one is able to destroy that imperishable soul. Therefore, get up with determination ... and let Red Rover run!"

With that, I'd learned my lesson. I basically live by two undying principles: 1) Don't pull a gun unless you're prepared to use it; and, 2) See No. 1. So I waved my flag and Red Rover was off! It was one of those slow-motion sequences, where we see Red Rover with a slow-motion head of steam. The demons are in slow-motion, too, jumping in sequence like pistons.

On the angels' side, in slow-motion, they have that look of, "I pity the po' fool who even thinks about it!" Red Rover looked like he could read Meniggesstroeth's stern mind and had his first taste of fear. I saw Krishna reared back, his mouth open in slow motion; I could see his teeth weren't that great either. Could he be in Amen's corner?

O! Damn! That's it! Guys with bad teeth stick together! I opened my mouth proudly and threw my power in with Krishna's -- Even if it meant self-destruction, we went for it! Red Rover felt our will and veered off his path, turning for the weakest link, the nexus right there between my bad teeth and sensitive testicles, breaking through the angels and winning a stunning victory for the demons!

That's about it. Not much left. The Magic Butler escaped to Heaven, so that's good. The earth opened and consumed me and Krishna. The angels and Red Rover all died. The demons jumped on the rented horses and got away. The world ended. And Red Rover's cross-eyed picture's still on display at the Pleasant Girdle Home for the Female Infirm, located on a chunk of earth flung into outer space.
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Meniggesstroeth, Asterechme, Amen, and Eilo, are the angels of the brain, right eye, teeth, and testicles, respectively, according to "The Secret Book of John," found in The Nag Hammadhi Scriptures, edited by Marvin Meyer. Krishna's quotations are selected from Bhagavad-Gita As It Is, translated by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada.