Daughter of The Gods

 Paranoia

Part 8 of 30

Hmm, I want to be therapeutic about paranoia. I've had problems with it for centuries and I don’t want the so-called relief to be more of the same, driving me and everyone down into deeper and even more treacherous depths. I'm like anyone, I see a naked lady tied and surrounded by crocodiles or alligators -- aren’t they like one chromosome off? -- and I’m thinking, Pessimistic! She's a goner...

But then I realize, Damn it, you fool, you're giving up on the gods a little too soon! Where's your faith? Where's your patience? Haven’t you learned by now that the gods tend to be on the surprising side? Inscrutable, in the end aroused, certainly not incapable, not quick to yield or cede territory, especially among their own. Is there a pantywaist god among them who'd send his or her only begotten daughter into a world of sickness and sin only to be had, to be a mark, to be defeated? I think to myself, How many questions was that? Then repeat the whole spiel back in my head, counting fingers. Five questions. I quickly answer, “No, no, no, no, hell no...”

Among the gods everything (potentially) has a quick reversal, the rug pulled out from under the enemy’s feet, the establishment of justice, a claiming of glory that was never really lost, and a surprise ending that should be no surprise. They like to get the enemy right where they want him. In the sweet zone for leveling them, flattening them, going nuclear, boom! Of course there’s no real blame for the alligators, so their death is incidental. They’re only doing what’s in their nature, and if their nature says the chick's indeed fit for eatin’ on, that can’t be wrong. But they still must be defeated, because ... this is the daughter of the gods.

Which could be true of any of us. Explaining in terms anyone can understand why it is that bad things simply never come to fruition, but are thwarted just in the nick of time. And certainly any foe that felt it might have it over on the very daughter of the gods, eating her and justifying it lightly, would have to be deluded, or to put a positive spin on it, more optimistic than the situation warrants, given a considered examination of the circumstances. Enough for theodicy, albeit explained in simple terms. The gods wipe the shit off their shoes on the enemy.

How about me -- I'm no crocodile -- could I possibly have the hots for the daughter of the gods? I feel that is too personal a question and a question wrought with potential consequences via-a-vis my continued existence in the world and in the presence of the gods to answer truthfully. So let me answer it by really not answering it, while not quite not answering it: Given the right circumstances, anything is possible if the gods are not offended. If they're happy with a potential son-in-law like me, who first wants to sample the goods, that’s their business. I can only accede to their desires, although I would not be quick to give alligators the same rights. There would definitely not be a joining together of them in my thoughts as a party to any menage a trois, her, me, and them.

I guess what I should really say is, the gods are a psychological help to us, and the daughter of the gods would be a salvific figure, a metaphor, of the communications from that realm to this. As the alligators of sin threaten us -- even raising paranoia in me, and other unfortunate folks -- we desire the sweet and innocent nudity of this precious daughter, bestowing the goodness of heaven to take away our paranoia and allow us to swim free. Just to make everything crystal clear, so there’s nothing left to chance between the gods and us, I want to lose paranoia, not gain piranha.

Crushed By Longest Babylonian Idol

Part 26 of 31

The Found Another Body

Remember the stories of Babylon and idols from church? I sort of remember them, not the nitty-gritty details. Somehow the details have evaporated or there never were many. But I do remember the basics, that idols are bad and not having them is good.

It was even one of the basic commandments — out of 10 or 20 — having no idols. Then later you find out that the idols weren’t always just statues, but whatever you may have been giving your life over to. Too much bubble gum or roller skates or anything that kids happened to do. When you’re a kid, of course your sins are never too serious, although I shouldn’t say that because these days kids can go hog wild and take out half the school. Thankfully it's only a few times a week, a tolerable risk.

But the idols back then that everyone wanted to destroy would actually be worth quite a bit of money now, and not just because they were gold or had gold on them, but antiquities with historic value. I went to a museum years ago and saw some of this stuff, which if the Sunday School teacher had her way would’ve been immediately melted down and made into thimbles, or pretty pins for the ladies to wear on Sunday morning. Same gold.

I wish I would've known more about it back then so I could've spoken up for the antiquities market, history, and the value of other cultures. But my objections wouldn’t have been appreciated. They had us over a barrel because of our great ignorance, when not one of us uttered a peep that showed any intelligence. Just listen to the lesson, maybe get a sucker, then go home and watch cartoons.

I'd like to think we were all wrong. That these enormous golden cows really were the pipeline to heaven but we were too stupid to know it. If only we had our own golden cow -- and I did live in a place that had a lot of cows -- the whole world would know the cycles of life. A cow lives such and such long. People live this longer period of time. Therefore, yes, God loves people more than cows. But if you make people statues it's always going to look like someone. And you don't want worship to go to that guy's head. But if it's cattle, cattle don't care as long as they can graze in the grass.

So let's look at the specs, the longest golden cow stretched five blocks, about a quarter mile. The only thing greater than the cow itself was the wagon they needed to hold it. Try building a wagon that big, and all the wheels you need to support it. And if it makes you feel better — and I’m interested in this point as a student of weird events — say there was an earthquake, and everything was rumbling like crazy, tilting everything, the greatest confusion, when the earth literally split right down that street, toppling the golden cow, and fortunately or unfortunately crushing the Babylonians, wiping out 50,000 of them.

Yes, that’s a lot of people for one cow. But look at the cow, they made it themselves, it’s super huge, and it crushed them. Be careful for what you wish for. So it's kind of tragic, but no matter. It was a long time ago and they would've died of something else by now anyway.

Chipping Away at February

It feels great to be taking a stand on an important issue. I indeed have finally stepped out and accepted my calling in life. And I hope I have your full support, for then our common goal will be so much easier to accomplish. That is, destroying the "month" of February, and finally having a calendar we can be proud of.

Of course I know it's a huge step. And if the critics are right, it's a huge challenge. Although I'm extremely confident it won't take that much. I'm honestly thinking that as early as Feb. 3 we'll probably glimpse ultimate success. Mere days away! But there's a lot of work to be done, if we're going to not just glimpse success but grasp it. For me, putting that knife through the calendar was a real rush. It did something powerful for my resolve, having taken such a decisive step. And now, once the knife's in, there's no turning back!

As I said, the critics see "a huge challenge." Which, as I recall, is always the way with critics. It's probably "a huge challenge" for them to tie their shoes, especially since their hands are always so busy wringing themselves! Frankly, if we left life up to the critics, we would've never evolved beyond the slime. They would've been slime oozing from a bit of moss, clinging to their precious comfort zone. While the rest of us were looking to trade in our gills for a set of lungs and get on with the damned thing.

Part of the challenge with February, as I understand it, is that the world's had too much history with it to dump it now. People were born in February, they commemorate anniversaries, their loved ones died in February, the calendar appears set in its ways, etc. Well, check the history of the calendar. It's changed a lot over the years! September through December are named for the numbers 7-10, but obviously they're known by different numbers now. I can't remember why they needed to add August, but they wanted July for a place to put July 4.

My current proposal is that we add a number of February's days to January and March, then leave, say, the last 13 days of the old February as a mini-month. That'd be like crazy time. Like a desert on the earth, a time of desolation. Lent's usually about then. We'd squeeze it into 13 concentrated days of ashes and mourning. Any new births in that 13 days would have their birthdays reassigned to the happier months, as would happen with existing birthdays. Eventually the word February would be synonymous with sticks in the mud, the sorrowful, the unhappy, and of course the deranged.

I think we could shame prisoners even further by reassigning their birthdays to those 13 days. It'd be like a hot brand they could never overcome. They probably already do this on some other more intelligent planet, so we'd just be keeping up with them by switching. Having said that, I would not leave the word February in the mix. To give those days the ultimate shame, thus making us more reflective, we would need to go beyond the old with something completely new. What would it be? Right now I'm in destroy mode, so I can't think of anything. Scorpion, Lizard, Dry Heaves?

Friends, I said I'm confident, and that is true. But there's still things that could go wrong. And yet -- All praise to the native god in the photo! -- I'm sticking to my prediction. February 3 sounds just right as the day that I believe we will glimpse our ultimate success. Meaning, if you want to share in the credit of this seismic shift in time, you'll need to jump on board right away. Our deliverance is less than a week away!

February Totally Bites

WORKING WITH A NATIVE GOD,
IN HIS POWER, WE RUN FEBRUARY
THROUGH WITH A BUTCHER KNIFE

AND CEREMONIALLY TURN IT OVER

TO THE FLAMES FOR JUDGMENT

I have been working in the deepest intuition through 2015, discerning things at their most basic level. It's frankly blown my mind, or, rather, expanded it, giving me once again that Super Brain feeling I've known numerous times in my life. As a kid I used to conduct a census on dust motes floating in my room -- learning much in the process -- before letting them collapse and vanish when I went down for breakfast.

That said, January has presented me with one enormous insight: That February is an aberration in time and time-keeping. The evidence against February flashed in rapid procession in my spirit. Like the dust motes of old, but a lot more apparently high tech, like 100,000 JPG thumbnails flashing by. This has to do with the honing and greater use of my mind over the years, along with incidental aspects that may have come from movies or TV. (If I have been bionically enhanced, I don't consciously remember it.)

Be that as it may, I don't feel I need to justify this too much. After all, we're only talking about stinking February. The worst month on the calendar, a short little hobbled period of time, maybe not even technically a month, a la Pluto not really being a planet. January's a month, March is a month, February's a rest stop in the middle! And not even one with major facilities, but one like truck drivers use to blow carbon out of their rigs, perhaps catching a bit of shuteye, and whatever other quickie XXX activity they may be into.

My great revulsion against February is fairly recent. But I do seem to remember being at least slightly queasy about February all my life. What other month do we feel so sorry for that we add a day every few years? There's none, just this stubby little passel of days. And if they weren't actual days of time, but existed simply on a pretend calendar, I'm sure we wouldn't be so merciful. We'd take it, rip it out, and burn it.

You know what? I feel led right now -- this is true, from on high -- to symbolically, ritually, cleanse ourselves of February. Which doesn't mean we won't have February this year, but it might be more tolerable. That's what a lot of ritual is for, to make life easier; you feel badly for your sins, so you sacrifice a lamb. You call in sick from work, then to compensate for it you actually get sick.

You're invited to join me in this sacrifice. As I type this, I'm also cutting the little month of February off my checkbook calendar. (The ceremony is illustrated above.) Now I'm holding it up. Notice how small and harmless it is, physically as well as small compared to the other months. OK, the rest of the ritual will be in two steps. 1) I'm holding it up and lighting the bottom corner with a match. Now as the flames rise higher, I'm rotating it and trying not to get burnt. Repeat after me: "I burn you to ashes. You shall never again arise." 2) I'm putting a little piece of PostIt® note in the hole and drawing an arrow from January to March.

Wow, that feels good. Except I've got this cursed little bit of ash leftover, which could simply go in the trash or be cast to the wind. But I will carry the ritual through to the end, by putting it in the garbage disposal, with these words of power: "How dare you, unspeakable so-called month, pollute my life? Now I am cleansed of you. Now I am free."

I'm giving my readers a special thanks today for standing with me. To be in agreement as we are is very valuable for the cleansing. We now have the power to carry on, at least for this day. Let us resolve, if not this year then next, to go directly from January to March!

Post-It® Brand is a trademark of 3M.

Mental Parasitism -- Mr. & Mrs. X

Let's bring you up to speed. Yesterday seems forever ago, when I was in the university coffee shop, a mental parasite looking for hosts. After the past few days, I needed a pick-me-up; I was dead tired. Turns out, I didn't know how great I had it. My phone was ringing out of my pocket. Things at the new Institute of Mental Parasitism had gone to hell.

The bad news, barely decipherable from the screams and terrible cries in the background, came down to this: Mrs. X and the ladies' Auxiliary, those loyal to the old Institute, had invaded our headquarters, and were systematically taking control, and subjecting our people to mental parasitism of the worst kind, with a grudge. Their mission was simple, Sap and destroy!

When I arrived, they were lying in wait and subdued me without a struggle. I thought, The new Institute, in power for a single day, has been my life, my baby. I must yield, and if necessary, go down with the ship.

As our forces continued fighting, they dragged me to Mrs. X's office, just yesterday mine. She tested my resolve when she boasted, how Mr. X, evil to the bitter end, taught her enough techniques to subject him to mental parasitism. Mental transference! She'd taken to it like a kid to cake, completing consuming him, drawing into her mind and body his knowledge and potency. And now here she was, a Titan, something from the Furies, an unstoppable masculine Amazon -- yet in a flouncy purple pantaloons ensemble -- having all control. Hell is on the march and has executed a complete purge! The new Institute has fallen, has fallen!

As we sat there, I was resigned, knowing my respite would be brief. Inside, my thoughts were going two directions: 1) Regret: Why couldn't I have left well enough alone? and, 2) Fear: My beautiful mind will soon be sucked dry and find its new home in one of these Auxiliary gals. Up till now they've been conducting bake sales. I feared my genius would be wasted if that's what they wanted ... I'm a terrible cook.

In a moment's reverie, I remembered my life before all this happened -- days ago -- when I was an anonymous mental parasite, practicing the craft in private shadows, far from the glaring searchlight of heartless Auxiliary barbarians, whose symbol is the broom, once pertaining to domesticity, now manifested in their rage as something else, their instinct for cussedness. Pity me! To leave obscurity only to find myself in the eye of the hurricane! Hardly an improvement. I could've taken up knitting, or stamp collecting, any fool pastime...

I don't know if anyone will ever read this. But on the off chance it makes it online, I'll say it anyway. If you are part of an organization, any organization, and you're tempted to establish a parallel Auxiliary group for the ladies, think again! If you've already allowed one, for the sake of your life and sanity, take moves now to disband it, however slowly you must go as to not raise suspicion. Bribe them with kitchen utensils and new gadgets if you must, anything!

At this point, looking up at the purple terror before me, I didn't need mental parasitism. I was simply angry, so in one bold herculean lunge I took Mrs. X into the corner. I didn't want to but I hoisted a planter, three foot in diameter, and heavily weighted with a tall tropical tree -- maybe banana -- and brought it down on her skull. It didn't kill her -- not with Mr. X's power within, and whatever power she had acquired on her own from years of tea and bridge. Then I got the hell out of there.

I turned back and saw a host of women hanging from the windows, demented, but apparently happy in their chthonic miasma; who wouldn't be? A helicopter descended, I made a jump of faith and grabbed the skids, and gave the thumbs up. We dashed into the sky.

You want the truth about women? They were the goddesses of this whole damned planet -- ruling a peaceable matriarchy for over 50,000 years. Read that again, 50,000 years! They dwelt in peace -- this was before Xena -- for the most part keeping the men in subjection. The planet was in harmony. Men sat docilely over washtubs peeling potatoes. Then a few wise inventors brought in metal weapons, the goddesses gave way to heroic warrior gods and things haven't been the same since. It was about this point that "God created the earth." And we've never had it so good. I never want to go back to those days and Grrrl Power. I say all that to say this: Women aren't your friend ... They're out to get you! Disband the Auxiliary immediately!

Mt. Olympus and the Pits of El Cid

"If anything was ever said wrong in this lifetime, that was surely it. And now, with my boldness, with my mistake, I have been hurled from the heights of Mount Olympus, all the way to the gloomy depths of El Cid." -- From my morning meditation, thinking of a recent (massive) failure in speech.

Here's a teaching I've kept in reserve, hoping that one day my readers would show them worthy of receiving it. My hopes have long been disappointed, as I suspected would happen, but I have a terrific sense that the time has come anyway. It currently applies to me.

I want to teach a little bit about the difference between Mount Olympus (good) and El Cid (bad), as these opposite concepts/locales relate to the things we say, our speech. Olympus being good, of course that's what we strive for. El Cid being evil, that's what we so often settle for, a big mistake.

But, you say, historically El Cid is supposed to be a beautiful place, a place of goodness. Not the way I see it, Cid being related to sin or, more immediately, Tom Sawyer's brother Syd, a true snake in Eden.

Was it something I cid? Said or did? Certainly. I've cid plenty, and you can't take back what you cid. The tongue is a world of fire, of evil. Rooting itself as it does in the rottenest part of your soul. What makes a soul -- the highest expression of the person -- crash and burn faster and meaner than that? As long as I'm secure in one place, not stirring, uttering not a peep, I'm OK. But where there's movement there's trouble. And with movement comes expression, verbal blather, verbal garbage, the whole dump truck of written or spoken vileness.

The only antidote -- or solution -- is to remain in one place, be physically still, and keep your fool mouth shut. Am I right? That's what they say in meditation: You want to sit still and focus on one thing, that hopefully becomes no thing, so that you're again in the non-dual realm of Mount Olympus, i.e., the highest place, heaven.

For many of us this is hard to maintain. It's certainly been tough for me. Whereas I might sit there silently -- I'm thinking of myself in a group now -- at the last minute I open my mouth and all is lost. The Olympus investment I made is suddenly sunk by the junk bonds of El Cid. It's happened so many times it's not funny.

And I know where it's rooted, those stinking college courses where part of your grade is dependent on participation. You sit there silently all semester, then realize you're going to flunk if you don't speak up by the last session. By now -- and this is straight out of our group dynamics experience -- the groove of the group is deeply chiseled, the pecking order of talkers being long established. The fact that you're suddenly blurting something out, and clearly to meet the participation requirement even if it's by the skin of your teeth, makes you a shame in their eyes. They are in Olympus, but you are hopelessly mired in El Cid. Same old story.

I hasten to clarify, however, that Mount Olympus, despite what I just said, is a thoroughly positive thing, the very opposite of El Cid. On Olympus the gods are assembled in one place, the correlate of being alone with your thoughts. In the wastleland known as El Cid, knowing that you've broken the silence, and the filth hole on your face has spewed forth its muck and mire, that which is most despicable in the depths, you're in the depths.

You can tell -- I hope you grasp this -- that to be an extrovert is to constantly fail, to sink as it were in the quicksand of El Cid. No one wants to be around you. Everyone wishes you'd shut up. But to be an introvert -- like cleanliness -- is next to godliness. Clearly the reason is that with silence you're on Olympus (or closer), although, as is well known, you can still spoil it and once again fall to El Cid.

With my mind, then, I honor Mount Olympus, but with my mouth El Cid. How may I be delivered from such a fate? Thanks to the gods of Mount Olympus, my natural homeland is not El Cid! My daily prayer -- join me in this prayer now -- is for Olympus to keep me far from El Cid, in my spirit and daily life. May it be true for all of us! Although I know it won't be.

Rice -- Food of the Japanese Gods

When you write a blog like this, your credibility is constantly on the line. So research is key to cover your bases. With that in mind, then, in light of my topic, I googled the question, "Do they grow rice in Japan?" The answer came back a resounding YES, so I'm on safe ground.

I've been eating a lot of rice, so it's a topic of interest. And just today in the local paper, they wrote about cheap, healthy meals, and rice came up Number One in two out of three instances. I started eating it a couple weeks ago, mostly because I used to like it when I was a kid and was feeling nostalgic. It is quite delicious, so good you quickly forget the lack of variety and basic monotony in each spoonful.

The rice I'm eating is the cheapest brown rice I can find. I also like brown eggs, since they seem more holistic, although I eat the cheapest eggs I can find, which always turn out to be white. But brown rice is just as cheap. Unlike eggs, with rice there's a big variety. You can get Uncle Ben, Minute Rice, wild rice, funky mixed rice (at coops), and plain bagged. Those are just the western varieties. There's also the eastern varieties, which tend to come in convenient 300-pound tough-meshed bales.

Speaking of Uncle Ben, I'm reminded of the old phone prank, from back before they could easily trace your number: "Do you have Uncle Ben Rice in a box? Yes. Is it his wife?" You didn't see that coming, did you?

Notice how I said the eastern varieties of rice come in 300-pound bales? The biggest thing we think of when it comes to rice is how much of it orientals eat. I've actually visited orientals at their homes -- personal friendships. I've been to a couple graduations and one memorial service, where we lit candles for a recently deceased relative, who would expect ancestor worship from then on. On all occasions we had rice, including something they called Sticky Rice.

Do you know about Sticky Rice? No doubt it's good (I've eaten it), and good for you, except it's taken from the pot by each individual reaching in and pulling out what they can manage. They struggle to separate a piece from the main wad. If you're first in line, that's a fantastic system. If you're back in the nines and tens, and all the others have already reached their dirty fingers in and done their worst against the wad, it's less desirable.

My advice to orientals about Sticky Rice: Have the cook scoop it out on to a shallow pan, cut it in pieces, then stack the pieces neatly on a platter. Using plastic gloves. Then your gods might look on you with more favor. I know I certainly would. I might even pray for you and turn the tide of whatever misfortune's headed your way.

That's what I wanted to get to, and almost forgot, their gods, who gave them rice. "You are Japan! You shall be known for rice! I have spoken, I shall perform it, my perfect will!" one of their gods, or several in unison, vowed. But why their gods didn't reveal the best way to handle Sticky Rice after all these centuries, and are just now speaking the truth through me is a mystery. Apparently I was born for something, and now it's accomplished.

I know they might say something like this: "We too have lengthy histories, and have developed many immunities, perhaps different ones from yours. Our gods blessed us with these immunities, which admittedly required generations of the weakest among us to die. But, naturally, they would've died of something by now anyway, so it may as well have been dirty Sticky Rice. Our point being, Die happy."

OK, if that's the tact their gods took, who am I to question the inscrutable? Their gods were smart enough, let's assume, to bless them with billions of tons of rice, they're probably smart enough to work out a system of eating it. Certainly the folks aren't complaining about eating it. I also think it's very good, as I said before, but I wouldn't want it as my main dish everyday.

You Were Divinely Led To My Blog Today

That's right. Today's the day. I have this weird weight in my soul, whereas you'd think it'd be incredible lightness. It's a strange burden, an overwhelming conviction I can't shake, that on this day of all days you were divinely led to my blog. What a thing! Great, isn't it? It just happened, I didn't do anything to make it happen! It's wonderful, I suppose, like the Magi.

It didn't just hit me today. I started getting a sense of it a couple days ago. I had a rumbling in my belly. Like anyone would assume, I just figured it was a problem with one of the six faces of the Rudra-linga, being out of sorts. But everything checked out fine upon examination. This was no ordinary cosmic fart, but an order to receive guests. A massive inflow.

Then yesterday I reacted badly, in prolonged doubt, imploring the heavens to find a more suitable vessel. Surely somewhere on the vast internet, already fabled in world history, there would have to be someone more worthy than me, someone who would be able to handle an influx of this kind without completely freaking out. Just the idea of it is enough to send me over the edge. Call me reluctant. But it's an honor, an honor, an honor...

I'm trying to look at it that way. What? It's one damned day, right? So far. It's not going any farther than that, surely. Because I'm not going to have the time for it. I'm here and I'm busy with my own life. The toaster hasn't been shaken out for three months. I have a mousetrap to empty. There's a small limb in the yard from the last tornado. Such devastation. It's endless.

Anyway, like it or not, today's the day. They're all here. Divinely led. It's a big deal, something not to take lightly. Heaven has opened. The Magi are breathless, they've done this before. The ordinary manger is exalted, through no fault of its own. I won't be able to walk for the press. Before the day's out, some visitor will reach out to touch me, maybe needing a leg extension to cure a limp, hoping virtue will flow from me to them. They'll be cured, maybe, and I'll be wasted. It'll be nothing to do with me personally. I keep telling myself that. I'm just writing a blog, and I usually something to offer. What a responsibility!

Unfortunately, on this day of days -- this is embarrassing -- I'm standing here empty, I've basically got nothing for you, nothing really. The whole thing is like a massive kick in the pants, it knocked the wind out of me, and I'm going blank. The more I strain my brain, the less gets through. Nothing? Something? Anything? I've been going through my notebooks, nothing. I'm watching TV, it just makes it worse. I despise sitcoms. La, la, la.

Any other day I would've been fine. That's how it is usually. I'm striding forth, with my rhetorical shitkickers on, slaying fantastic one-eyed giants, lots of piss and vinegar. But those days I'm not expecting anyone, certainly not on this scale. I don't know who comes here. No one, really. I think they've got links to me on Chinese gambling sites. They don't even read English. Why they'd come here, I don't know. Unless the Chinese gods are leading them everyday ... could that happen? Without them telling me?

I guess I should see that as a comfort. I actually prefer not knowing. Because when I know something like this, I don't really know it. I merely suspect it, then it messes up my day. I'd rather just look back and be amazed that it happened, past tense. Then I could say, At least I had a nice idea that day, the day they all showed up. Whereas, this is torture -- enhanced interrogation, I mean -- to have such a platform, divinely ordained and all, and to come up empty...

If each one of you could send me a dollar, that would really be nice.

All Hail Lord Metross

I really hate to say anything about Metross, but I'm a little stuck. I seriously needed a parking space today -- downtown was very busy -- and in my prayer I blurted out rashly that I would "proclaim Him" in exchange for a space. Of course, one immediately opened up, and now I realize ... I have to hold up my end of the bargain... or next time I'm in deep doo doo.

But maybe the less said the better. Because the more people who come to believe, the tougher it might be for me to get a space. Although, now that I process this conundrum, it stands to reason that IF Metross is so powerful (my IF not implying lack of faith but only prompting me to praise Him more) then even if everyone in town hears of Him, still parking spaces would automatically open up for me. So I feel better.

OK, like I said, I was downtown today and went to one of the lots that is notorious for having very few available spaces -- being Sunday and everyone going out to eat. I thought, Yeah, I love putting my faith to the test. I got there and it was exactly what I expected. As if the cars had simply always been there, never moving. I smiled as I entered, knowing there wouldn't be a single space. I got to the end of the first lane and noticed a lady messing around with merchandise in her backseat. I thought it could go one of two ways, she'd either shut the door and walk away or pull out. But there wasn't any indication either way.

Before I rounded the curve to the lane going back, I praised Metross profusely, "O God of the parking spaces, Thou hast shown me grace so many times, words fail me. Except to say, I praise Thee with an unending praise. But, O Lord, I see no human way for me to get a parking space immediately. Now, Metross, show Thy power. I promise I will proclaim You if you open a place for me in the next minute." So I'm coming around with two options, to reenter the first lane or exit the lot. I glanced down the end of the lot and, as if by a miracle, the lady was pulling out. Part of the miracle was this, that no one from the street had entered the first lane and gotten ahead of me! Of course I made a beeline for it and had it, all thanks to blessed Metross.

The name Metross, I heard from other devotees, stems from parking meter, which itself, stems from historical references to Metross in more superstitious societies, societies so superstitious they had to use chariots, the car not yet being invented. Whatever else we might say about the etymology of His name -- which I prefer to think is eternal -- one thing is for sure, it definitely fits. He's all that and more!

I myself have been praising His name and seeking His face for a long time, in fact every time I've needed a parking space in the last couple years. Before that, I guess you might say I felt self-sufficient, that I could go around the block till a place just "naturally" opened up. Which, as you have to know, never happened. I went around so many times I'm still dizzy! But then, like the Prodigal Son and his Prodigal Car, I returned to the faith of my family, and haven't looked back since. I've gotten parking spaces when they've literally not existed just minutes before.

One of the funnest things is to have a non-believer with me, spouting some crap about, "You'll never get a parking space, not now and not in a million years." I'm thinking, I won't even have this car in a million years, so it has to be now. A quick prayer, a little praise, and you know what happens? Like about five places open up. I praise Him, then rub it in to my friend, "Einey meeny miney mo, one space down and four to go!"  LOL!

Praise Metross!

The Gods Of Interchanges And Junctions

To me, there's plenty of incentives for being a safe driver. The biggest is survival, living to drive another day. Others down the list are, avoiding the intrinsic inconvenience of wrecking, paying big fines, and having to revise your day's schedule at the last minute.

But there's another great incentive: You don't want to piss off the gods of interchanges and junctions. Why, you ask, would there be gods of interchanges and junctions? Well, set aside your evil doubts and I will explain. Where do we all meet, and where then would there be the greatest concentration of human energy in the world? It'd have to be interchanges and junctions. You literally can't approach a junction without there being three other cars at the other three corners.

Now, since all gods are human projections that somehow became living spirits, where else would you expect to find them in the modern world? It started -- I'm estimating -- probably in the 1920s when everyone started driving more than before. These powerful projections felt a terrible recurring blockage, having to stop at every interchange and junction. Then some of them got out of the car, and pretty soon they took up residence there. Then, as would be their natural wont, they assumed lordship.

It blew my mind when I first realized this. Because, remember, a month ago I had the brief post on "The Traffic Light Lord"? The city and county has been installing a bunch of cameras at stoplights. Then, mysteriously, city and county employees were sensing a great force, causing many of them to literally explode, or worse, turn to stone. In either event, they're dead. No one knows (or knew why), but this has to be it, what I then discerned, the terrible wrath of the gods of interchanges and junctions!

As the discernment process unfolded, I've been bringing together certain facts, that it's our behavior on the road that's being rewarded or punished by them. With good driving being rewarded, and the driving of the other 90% being punished. How worthy are you? is the main point. This is what we're dealing with!  

So, it turns out, the better you drive, the better your trip will be. They're doing all this very actively, even reading our thoughts, watching our progress, and matching it up with others on the road. Sometimes our road karma is tied in with other people's. The worst jams, clogs, bottlenecks, and wrecks are reserved for the worst sinners. So when a guy gets drunk and goes off the steep embankment and his car bursts into flames and he dies a horrendous death, don't feel so bad; he deserved it. But don't feel good about it either, or you could be next. They're always watching. Even when you're at home and not even near a road, they're saving it up to get you later, or to let you pass unscathed.

Traffic police are their pawns. You know how you've been passed by a thousand drivers going 90 mph? And you yourself are only going 61 in a 60 mph zone but get stopped? It's because the gods of interchanges and junctions are doing you a favor, in their own way. They want you to slow down so you don't accumulate bad road karma. As to the others, they have a bitter end in sight, usually a massive pileup, a fiery crash, a bridge-out situation where vandals stole the warning sign, etc. I heard of one guy, his body was blown to bits. There wasn't anything left. His funeral was closed-casket because there wasn't anything in it.

After I figured all this out, about the gods, for a while I was afraid to drive. Then I ran out of toilet paper, and once the leaves of my trees were gone, I had no choice, I had to go to the store. While there, I also got food, which I also needed. And I didn't have a bit of trouble. Every stoplight was green, and there was no competition at the stop lights. I kept in my own lane, kept it below the speed limit, and thought happy thoughts, and I was able to pass through without incident. That night in a dream I saw their smiling faces, meaning they think I'm a good driver!

But what do I see just yesterday? Two semis collided south of town. One was carrying old battery acid for recycling and the other live skunks for delivery to zoos around the country. What a mess! The skunks were mad anyway, but once the acid reached them, they became irate. They let out a stink, and of course a skunk in acid is an environmental nightmare, the farthest thing imaginable from what is pleasant. The whole thing was due to the gods of interchanges and junctions! I guess one of the drivers had a terrible driving record, and the other was going just a titch over the speed limit. What else could they (the gods) do but make them collide? It's kind of funny when you think of it...

Drive safely! But know this, even if you're a completely safe driver, you're not really safe. Because they need a perfect sacrifice now and then.