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.

Nasty Destiny "What Ifs"

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 17 of 30

As I teach in one of my advanced lessons -- and I think I can hint at it without giving away the greatest secrets -- Life is so often like a giant wounded bear in the cave of the world, seemingly about to breathe its last, but then somehow it struggles and continues with labored breathing while barely hanging on. Destiny has similar problems.

Just the continuous problem of everyone’s individual destinies, trying to keep those in sync on a macro level, then with the necessary interplay with everything from microorganisms all the way up to space aliens, with their own problems (mostly tentacle cancer) even while threatening our complete obliteration, keeps Destiny jumping. You’d really think Life could be a little more secure, sort of the way it feels when we wake up refreshed after passing a pleasant night with good sleep. But what does morning bring, all too often? Well, they’re not selling newspapers with the latest triumphs of the Garden Club, that much is clear...

So we’re torn, our psyches ripped right up the middle, with the consequences of something. Fate? Destiny? Yes, but it's the sad truth that Aliens Have To Eat Too. If we get as good as we give -- and I was munching earlier on a candy bar that gave its life as a breakfast substitute for me, along with coffee beans once minding their own business on the vine -- we have to be prepared to accept that oblivion could be our next stop. That’s the macro level. Then the individual terror sets in. You’re hepped up, the next guy’s beside himself, screams lead to social jostling, then push comes to shove, and pretty soon we’re up against it, the limits we once considered so firm.

As a destiny counselor, you might think I live for this kind of chaos. And, yes, I’ll give you that much, it’s definitely good for business, but remember, I too have to live. And the more the problem is something merely suggested on the individual level for those willing to pay to hear how to tinker their destiny back into line, the better. But when it’s everyone going ballistic at the same time, that’s a two-pronged challenge, crazed masses of people in an apocalyptic nightmare running roughshod over the careful teachings of destiny counseling, and my eventual challenge of ever bringing sedation to enough people to restore an orderly clientele, who for all I know may have been herded over a cliff to their demise. On the one hand, yes, I can accept that was their destiny. But then what? Like aliens, I also have to eat.

If it ever happens that Destiny reserves are indeed up against firm limits, we'll have no choice but to look to the World Emperor -- Long May He Live -- and face our destiny. The way he cuts to the chase with bad news and leads us, calming the bitter turmoil of the masses and all dreadful consequences, so we shall face that destiny if it happens. Indeed, long may I live, too, and may those nightmares be delayed for the rest of my life. Amen?

Spaceship Library Lifts Its Way Upward

A GUY ON EARTH COMPLAINS ABOUT THE
LIBRARY'S POLICIES, SINCE NOW THERE'S
NO PLACE TO RETURN BOOKS

In my whole life I've never been in the library before it opens. So I don't know what goes on, which might be for the best. I like imagination. I've been in churches and seen the holy stuff behind the scenes and it ruins the mystery. Whether libraries have any mystery, I don't know; of course they have a mystery section, maybe sort of the same.

So far, library openings only exist in my occasional thoughts. I try not to get there early, since I hate being one of those guys standing outside. There's all the nasty etiquette of people holding the door for you, or you holding the door for others. I prefer the system of every man for himself, but there's always do-gooders willing to wait for you to make your way from the parking garage. Let the place open, let those people advance to their table, then go in...

If a library opening is like the opening of a play, that'd be cool. But since it's everyday, probably not. They're counseling everyone, "You did great in rehearsal, don't worry about it." "Break a leg." "Show 'em who's boss." "Don't take any crap from the critics." "The only critic that matters is the audience." Then they see me, "Excuse me, sir, why are you backstage? Why are you taking notes? Security!"

Today I got to the library just before it opened, which meant I had to witness the unfortunate door etiquette, terrible as always. It was somewhat relieved by a guy in a pickup being wedged funny in the parking ramp entrance, leading to some reverie over the pickle he was in. "How would you even get in a pickle like that? How would you even do it? Go up over the curb without knowing it, then you're stuck?"

Looking at the place standing big and rectangular in the rain, and the various attendants standing at the ready, I thought of a big spaceship. The clouds are coming down heavily. It's Falling Skies, except we're going to escape, not fight. They're taking us to another planet, maybe in a different galaxy, with our only enemies the figments of our imagination. The place will rise silently from the ground, just a hum.

The library director stands on the bridge with his main crew, the members of which will never die, come what may. The guy at the "Ask" desk may die -- I've had a run-in with him in the past -- he's minor. Many others may perish in future episodes. But for today, right now, everything's great. The director gets their attention -- just before the opening and launch -- to tell them their mission is important. "You will be attending to our passengers as they wing their way in flights of imagination. Every little kid with a picture book is in your care. All the way down to the old man with the coarse gloves without fingers, the gloves not the man..."

His crew chuckles. They've been through his talks many times, but they're always inspired by his dedication. Knowing that each of them also is in his tender care; he's willing to sacrifice himself for them; fortunately it never comes to that; in space it might.

All's aboard who's coming aboard. We look out on a world now being consumed by every apocalypse known to gods or men. I see much gnashing of teeth, many arms outstretched toward the library. But we're already off the ground. There's no going back, even if we wanted. We must escape. I run to the southern windows. I see my car on top of the ramp, the last time I'll ever see her. I wonder, "What will happen to her? Which of these zombies will get her? How many will be killed again and again fighting for her? Surely she'll be a burnt out hulk this time tomorrow."

Next stop, some other galaxy! Need to find a table and settle in.

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 Mustang's Killing Us

Not to pick on the Ford Mustang, exactly... It's the representative car, that's all. That's killing us.

I've never had a Mustang, although certainly I wanted one, like every other brainwashed American male. In fact, I wanted one till just recently, until all this was presented to me about environmental destruction, the whole business. Still, even with all that, having one would be nice -- it's a very seductive car. It certainly was when we were young and foolish and unable to resist the slightest thing. Now I think more about the cost. The destruction of things.

Could we ever have foreseen at the time of the Industrial Revolution that it all meant Certain Death? I'm convinced that even I in my above average wisdom wouldn't have thought of it. I actually had cars for many years before it ever occurred to me. And even then I needed the talking heads of the mass media -- along with others who are respected, to repeat it every now and again before I realized it.

Had I been there in the Revolution, I'm sure I would have been one of the early adopters -- I'm honest enough to admit it. I would've said, "Three cheers for the Industrial Revolution," even though moths were changing colors and the whole bit. That should've been the 'canary in the mine,' warning us off, but naturally it didn't. We all know the ways of man, lose your head and rush headlong to your own destruction. Other animals basically don't do this, except we think of moths rushing to the flame.

Still, it took a while from the beginning of the Industrial Revolution till the time that we got cars. But what a predictable step it was! Motors, gears, lubrication, internal combustion, and ... exhaust. I hate exhaust. And I'm just as guilty of emitting it, driving as I do, virtually everyday. You can't see it coming out, usually, but there it is, everywhere, killing the world, every one of us. For the sake of a little bit of travel, we've accepted global suicide as a price worth paying.

That we should have left well enough alone and been content riding horses and camels and pulling wagons is now beyond dispute. Alas. Seriously, alas.

With all that in mind, you want to know something popular with the public that absolutely sickens me? Classic cars. What a mistake these are, but people are too blind to see it. They're old, they're still around, they're treasured, restored, and sold for big bucks. How smart! Our pride is placed in what should be seen as a testimony to our impending death! Death to classic cars! Most of them weren't good when they were new.

We know them from parades, driving by slowly, a beauty queen sitting in each convertible. They're old fashioned looking, and you could make the argument that some of them do look cool, like the '57 Chevy. My family had these at the time. I won't deny it. We've all had a part in the environmental destruction. I'd almost like to have a '57 Chevy today, just to make a statement by destroying it. It'd make a great protest that would make news: "Local Man Publicly Destroys Classic Car." I'd sledgehammer that piece of crap till it was nothing but scrap, seriously. Somebody buy me one and see if I don't.

I suppose I've said enough about it. But I have to tell you, I could go on. I also despise car museums. I went to one once and saw some of the very oldest rickety cars, the first ones, back when they had no good idea what a car should look like. They were open carriage and had a stick to steer with. The headlights were candles. For windshield wipers, they had--- Wait, they didn't have windshields. Then we advanced to the more mass produced models, ones we're more familiar with, ones you had to crank to start. You know where you stored the crank? In the crankcase. Crazy how we still use the term.

Today, cars have gone so far that some of them are made particularly with luxury in mind, for the rich. People throw away good money to have one of these idiot cars with all the bells and whistles. Conspicuous consumption. If you're that much a loser and feeling so insecure, get a damned penis pump already. At least you'll be working it in private and the rest of us won't be constantly psychoanalyzing you. Ticks me off.

But what can you do? Rage only gets you so far. It feels good at the moment, like now. My face is flushed, my pores a little more open with the sweat. But what's it worth? The same old world keeps spinning, and cars continue driving by. I can look up right now and see vehicles outside. Big metal cockroaches, and about as healthy.

It's vain -- it really is -- my rage. We're literally killing ourselves, but to speak truth to power is so often a thankless task. We're going to go on our merry way, that's for sure, until, finally, the whole thing breaks down. Then we'll call AAA -- I'm looking way ahead -- and no one's going to answer. Global asphyxiation. Global warming. Gases. Etc.

If we could only turn back time! If we could go back and be content to live more simply, to feed the horse, then stay home, that'd be better. Of course many of us wouldn't even be here, because some of us owe the mobility that came with the automobile to the fact that our parents even met. Or the backseat, where they first did it. Still, if we could make this major world fix, I know it'd be worth it.

Knee Deep In Dead Crows

It can't be very long now. I can just feel it. I haven't got much else to go on. Except I've had some very bad dreams lately, with all kinds of grotesque imagery, stuff that ends up being more or less a swirl, with nothing very distinct or understandable. The other night, I clearly saw some Mexican street kids hustling my suitcase up a steep hill, headed for a car, and I'd only misplaced it for about 20 seconds. I tried to run up the hill, but my feet were like lead, and I knew that even if I caught them, it'd be too late.

It's all getting to me, the signs of the times. Congress in turmoil, the world economy roiling, famine, drought, starvation, Netflix more and more unreliable, earthquakes. I'm in great perplexity, knowing, or discerning, that we're very soon to wake up to headlines like "The End In Sight" and "The Grim Reaper Stalks By Day." That's what they'll be saying. It's soon, very soon, and we'll tune in to the 5 o'clock news -- it'll actually be a couple minutes before Jeopardy goes off, when they promo the local news -- and we'll hear, "The world officially at an end, temperatures in the lower 200s."

Then it will happen, with all that remains existing as the ultimate dystopia: Wounds and sores that won't heal, pustules popping out everywhere, magnified bacteria running the streets with machetes, people in misery, gnashing their teeth and seeking death, but it flees them, liquid waste flowing out of pipes, teenagers running from stores with TVs under their arms, and everyone everywhere knee deep in dead crows. Where did all the crows come from? Somewhere, obviously, a bunch of older crows were having sex like crazy to get ready.

Everything that can go wrong will. Murphy will rise from the dead and point his spindly finger at the world, like a prophet. Everything we hate to see we'll see in grim abundance. Skeletons will be dancing on the mountains, big bony skeletons, zero flesh, nothing inside, no explainable reason how they could possibly be dancing. The noonday sky will go dark, the midnight sky also. The moon will be huge, hitting our eye like a big pizza pie. Nursing homes will have the residents in the hall. Hospitals will run on emergency generators. Sports events will be cancelled, bringing an end to $9 beer.

But my dreams can also picture the substratum of society, the grimy underworld places, loving it. Because the police aren't on their tail. All those services -- police, fire, ambulances -- have come to an end. It's a free for all. Criminals are cleaning out banks, stockpiling tons of loot in their hideouts, oblivious to the folly of money in a world that no longer exists. For the hours or possibly days they have left, they're living it up to the fullest. It's mob rule, anything goes, complete craziness. They're even smoking in restaurants again, the truest sign of the end.

Where is government in this nightmare-scenario-become-real? The president and representatives of Congress are in a hidden, well-appointed cavern, trying to decide what can be done. But they're at loggerheads, the president of course preemptively compromising, while the Congress makes more and more insane demands, such as cutting off anything that might help anyone, at last denying funds for bottled water and tourniquets. The Republicans are happy everything is going to hell, they're just worried they won't live long enough to win the next election.

What do you suppose is happening with our computers during this time? For a short while, there's actually some positive signs. With so many programmers being dead, we're not bothered by constant updates and the need to reboot every 20 minutes -- opening iTunes is even momentarily enjoyable. But the downside is some kind of hellish virus, literally a virus, black corruption, suddenly spilling from our keyboards and all over our laps, ruining our desks, gumming up our mouse, paralyzing our legs, and killing us. The last Facebook updates include things like, "I'm missing someone who is in Heaven. He died five minutes ago. I'd give anything to talk to him again. Repost if you also miss someone."

The end is here, folks. And there's nothing you can do about it. It's going to be a plague-a-minute. Remember, crows are knee deep everywhere! And it's completely downhill from there. There's nowhere left to walk the dog.

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.