Ms. Wiggins, Empress

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 5 of 30

“I don’t know.” Ms. Wiggins pondered a new revelation of Destiny, “This could be more than I bargained for.” This dear one thought it through with many doubts. Which is common enough for those uncommon enough to feel the mantle of history bearing down on them.

One thing seemed sure to help, that it was a done deal. The cards of Destiny had been shuffled, the deck cut, the face cards and lesser numbers mixed as thoroughly as any deck -- and judged "as random as we can make it" by various experts in such things -- and the verdict of history pointed squarely at this one individual.

It’s really something, a surprise, when you've been tagged by Destiny. As life goes, it's certainly better than nothing. Although it so often turns out that the person had a better experience when they were nothing. It is hard for them to be so disappointed.

Maybe you're one who's felt the strange weight of Destiny at least once in your life. It feels pleasant enough, but with hidden dimensions of concern. To be thought of by Destiny and in the running like that, then to have the whole apparatus turn around and choose you is not an experience for the cowardly. Although the cowardly are so often the best recipient, because it’s such a surprise and there's something marvelous about existence in it: The ugly duckling becomes the swan! Or an old dumpsite the best site for the palace!

Our destiny, though, often turns out to be temporary, later growing up with trees and weeds and everything rots away, and someday someone shows up with a camera to document its at least temporary demise. But in Ms. Wiggins’ case, she still reigns as Empress of the World! She didn't slide from it in vanity! Yes, she had her doubts, but they went away, and she said, “If this is the way it’s gotta be…” She took it as an obligation, which grew into the realization day by day that her destiny was sweet, like buckets of candy you never grow tired of. Probably chocolate or peanut butter cups.

But for any one of us, you never know; the Empire might grow tired of you. In which case it’s best to stay humble, hoard your candy, and not take any riches for granted. Keep clipping coupons and pinching pennies. Because you might be right back in the same old spot, your good old life before the new life claimed you, and you'll need to get along with the same skills you had before. Easy come, easy go.

That's what happened in my life. I never got a big head, not too big, I kept the same size head it needed to be to fit through in the old shirts I saved. In Ms. Wiggins' case, she kept most of her old clothes, too, shorts, dresses, or whatever, from the previous realm, the backyard garden. And of course they're still stashed away as she still reigns in power as Empress, a very wise woman.

For many of us, Destiny's way seems like a lot of practical jokes and trickery. And wisely we never give in to it entirely.

Paranoia -- What Maniac Arranged All This?

This whole week is totally cheesing me off. Thanks to my old enemy, Paranoia, I can't seem to do anything with a clear conscience, or to put it another way, without forever looking over my shoulder, wondering who's looking back.

This is obviously true in the terrible psychic forays I've made into deep pits, forsaken landscapes, and hellish darkness. But it's also true for normal everyday stuff, like going to the grocery store. I'm sure I saw the powerful denizens of those horrid places at the store, too, keeping me in their sights and thwarting me. As an example, ever notice how the store never runs out of Lender's bagels? Somehow, yesterday, suspiciously, the bagels were out. Then there's bacon, all of a sudden about $6 a pound. My face dropped and I could hear maniacal laughter.

Then, driving there and back, the town took on a different cast. These devils -- the maniacs in charge of tormenting me -- were messing with my head, doing trivial stuff like changing the stop lights to red as soon as I got there. What could I do? I'd be a dead man if I ran the light out of spite. Some old granny, one of these guys in disguise, would "miraculously" appear in the middle of the road and get run over. Then what am I to do? Go to the police department and explain what happened, and be taken away as crazy? No, I had the presence of mind simply to stop. Yes, I shook my fist: "I'll wait you out, you bastards!"

I definitely got the message, though. Which is this: Someone's arranging everything, not leaving a single thing to chance. A puppet-master. (Ha! That's something I know about! I used to work the puppets at church. We did modern rock 'n' roll hits with religious lyrics substituted. Here's what I know about it: You have to practice like a dog to put on a good puppet show. I watch puppets on TV to this day and picture the work they're doing to make it happen. Making the machinations of this puppet-master all the more amazing.) As far as I know, the way I see it, no one's practiced my movements around town. So it's amazing how they know everything I'm going to do.

But why? I know the world has forces, but I always thought they concentrated more on the upper crust and powerful. Like moving the minds of great leaders, swinging the action on the battlefield, and guiding industrialists in how to run their companies. In addition, though, they like to toy with little guys like me, probably for kicks. What kind of kicks would that be? If you have that much power, couldn't you get a lot better kicks doing more high-powered stuff? Like burning down prisons and watching the rest of us run for our lives?

I'm thinking, I'm a very humble man. I've never hurt anyone. Sometimes I even pick up bugs with a paper towel and take them outside. I've done more than my share of good deeds in the past. I just mentioned puppets. We used to take them to nursing homes and entertain the residents. I can still picture the looks of great joy on their faces. We had this one routine where one puppet kept taking the other puppet's lines. He's an eager beaver. But the puppet whose lines he's stealing is looking more and more disgusted. And angry. You show disgust with a puppet by crunching the mouth as much as you can and tilting the head. The residents loved it!

I'm humble, so why bother me? On the other hand, why not me? I've also had some very high-minded thoughts. I haven't always felt humble. I'll confess, sometimes I think, There's no one like me! I'm the smartest, the shrewdest, the baddest (best) dude in town, maybe the world! I'm very proud to be an American, to be who I am, to have my terrific abilities, my looks, my demeanor, my personality, right on down the line. Pride. I'm very proud. And now, apparently, the powers-that-be think I'm in for a time of humbling. The old "humbling" cliche...

The more I think of it, though, the more I think it's undeserved. Realistically, there's lots of people smarter, shrewder, badder (better), and prouder than me. There's plenty of people with better abilities, looks, demeanors, and personalities, and, hence, with a lot more pride. And I don't see them suffering. I think I may be living in a Chinese finger trap; the more I struggle, the worse it gets.

Hey! Where did that thought come from? That's genius! I'm a genius! Or some genius put that thought in my head. Someone who's somehow found a way of thinking and way of living that flies under the radar of the guy pulling the strings. Which -- Wow! what a moment of clarity! -- would be someone who's tapped into what's truly important in life, someone who's faced suffering and dealt with it victoriously. Someone very very humble. I always seem to forget until it's almost too late, then I remember the truth, by some awesome grace.

The ones I'm thinking of now are two: For humility of spirit and outlook, there's the lowly creature who bears the Redeemer, Desi the Donkey. OK? I love him. Then there's one with all that and more, a dear one with a running sore on her forehead given to her from on high by her own request, one who for a time was despised by the world and belittled even by those who should've been her closest friends, one ridden hard and put away wet, spiritually speaking. She's one of my favorite saints in the whole wide world, St. Rita of Cascia. Good news!

There may be some stinking maniac in charge over all -- over this world -- seeking out people like me to trample into the dirt. But he's going down! Because there's also a good side, represented by many other good beings and saints, those like Desi and Rita. I shall be victorious! I shall prevail! There's no one badder (better) than me!

Be A Little Bit Humble

My sorrowful cry is this, "Death be not proud ... be a little bit humble."

I'm as humble as wallpaper, plain wallpaper. I'm trying to be extra humble, lest I find myself in the throes of a whole panic meltdown. It is a wild and crazy ride, the psychic inflation that goes along with procuring and installing the actual Old Faithful geyser in your back yard. I forgot this was going to happen. But even though it's not actually turned out and squirting yet, naturally I became proud, celebratory, and now I've been reduced ... in ways I really hate to describe ... because part of the whole thing about getting back up is to keep the torment somewhat hidden. Not neglected but fairly under wraps.

Cousin Roto has long since gone home. I don't know if he ever pays any psychic price. He might be one of the brutes of our species, without the extra sensitive knobs and whistles that I came with. I remember that as kids, at Christmas, he was very unsentimental. Not as appreciative of family traditions and formalities. He's probably doing just fine. He installed Old Faithful, big whoop to him, no doubt. He actually went home because he's ticked off at me. My barking of commands wasn't pleasant, "Gas jets on!" Then "Off! Off! Off!" I couldn't make up my mind. I figured it'd blow.

The humility instinct finally kicked in after some stern reflection. My bout with olfactory hallucinations seems to be getting worse. I don't know if there's a connection. I had to change pants a while ago because of the smell. Which smell is probably not even really there. Because I think I'm smelling it again. Parts is parts ... and the whole system is tied in one piece with another. Whether the smells are there or not, I still smell them. So it's getting me down, that and this enforced humility.

When, or I should say, if I ever get the thing working, I'll need to watch it with one eye blinking or something, so I don't feel too proud. What do you think? 50 per cent awareness equals 50 per cent pride?