March 31, 2020 - Broken Mirror, Broken Link

It was very early when I went out.  I knew no one else would be there because no one ever is.  Most people are asleep, and even in their dreams, they wouldn’t dare to think.  I waited by an old decaying tree stump, one that was only half in this world, if that.  It was perfect.  There I sat leaning against it, feeling the wood crumbling against my back.  Presently, my eyes grew heavy.

“Of course, you know that nothing he tells you is true, right?”

He had arrived on time.  He was always on time because, like me, he was very precise.  He was a man interested in formulas and organization and Divine Law.

“I know.”

“But you’re going anyway, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You could come with me,” he said bitterly.

“I know, and someday I will, but there is still work for me to do.”

“Work?”

“Yes.  The people are lost.”

“The people are always lost!”  Now he was angry, but I am used to that.

It’s a funny thing.  The game masters try to plan for everything, but somehow there’s always a weak link in the system, a spot that has been overlooked.  They never thought the mirror would crack.  Every time the people had looked into the mirror and inquired, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all,” the mirror had always responded, “You are.”  Then it would pull them in further and fill their minds with fear, terrorizing them in their stupor.  Fear of illness, fear of death, fear of life, fear of others . . . constant fear paralyzing them.  But now the mirror had unexpectedly cracked.

Of course, most people would remain oblivious:  Sweet mirror, pretty mirror, pet the mirror, kiss the mirror.  Whisper to the mirror, “I love you.”  And the cracked mirror whispers back, “You are, you are, you are,” like a broken record.  Over and over, a broken response.  A weak link in the system, a glitch in the programming.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled program . . .

But there are some who have awoken from a deep and drugged slumber.  They are shaking their heads and rubbing their eyes, confused at the cracked black mirror before them.  They wonder to themselves, how long have I been here?  Nothing looks familiar.  They put the mirror down.  They are looking beyond it now, and like the woman in the house in our previous story, they balk at the crumbling foundation of their existence.

Hollywood is dead.  The tinsel is all rusted.  Its clowns have lost their makeup and shown their ugly faces.  But still their broken record repeats, Step right up to the greatest show on Earth, folks!  And the moths fly to the flame because that is their nature, to burn.  They fight in line for their chance to burn.  Who is the fairest one of all?

“So you would throw all of my gifts away?” he asked, bitter again.

“Not throw away.  Just delay.”

“Pah!” he spat.

“The sun grows stronger,” I said, “It’s time to try again.”   His eyes were murderous.  We had agreed never to speak of the Sun King, but some things cannot be helped.

“The people need him now more than ever,” I said.

“Go and help then,” he said with stone cold eyes, “But remember our agreement.  I will see you back here when your Sun King fails and the world turns to ice again.”

“I will be here when the Shadow of Death returns,” I said simply.

I stood up and left.  I did not turn around, but I could feel his eyes boring a hole through me as I walked.  The season of light returns with a new shadowy player, courtesy of the game masters.

The mirror has been cracked.  The secrets have poured out into broad daylight, into the sunshine.  The foundations of our homes, of our nations have crumbled but are not yet in complete ruin.  We can pick up the plow, the hoe, the seed, and the scythe, and we can start again.  That’s the thing about living outside of the black mirror with its shiny distracting lights and dark poison, we can always start again because hope truly does spring eternal.

Now we say goodbye to March and warily welcome in a most uncertain April.  Revolution is afoot.  There is always a weak spot in the force field.

March 22, 2020 - On My Honor

It could all be a dream, she thought.  She could just be wandering from room to room in a dream . . . in an old house with a crumbling foundation, so crumbling and old, in fact, that it seemed the whole house might come crashing down.  What a shame that would be, she thought, because it really was a nice old house.  If only she could remember which portion of the house she was in and how she got from there to here.  So she kept wandering from room to room, hoping something would jar her memory and she would know where she was again.  And she would know who she was again, too.

“Where are you headed?” came a tiny voice.  The woman whipped her head around quickly, but no one was there.  She grew frightened.

“Down here!” it said.  And there on the floor, not far from her, was a tiny mouse.  The woman blinked several times.  I’m dreaming, she thought, I must be dreaming.

“Where are you headed?” he asked again, a bit louder.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I’m quite lost, I’m afraid.  I thought I knew the way, but at some point I became confused.  And when I became confused, I became fearful.  And when I became fearful, I began to forget who I was.”

“And have you forgotten who you are?”

“No.”

“What made you remember?” he asked.

“Well, when I stopped to answer you,” she said, “I stopped being afraid for a moment, and when I stopped being afraid, I started to remember who I was again.”

“Well, what are you going to do, just wander from room to room forever?  You know,” he said, “You’ve been wandering from room to room for a long time now.  I’ve been watching you.”

“Have I?  I’d quite forgotten.”

“Oh, yes, a very long time.”

“I would like to know where I am,” she said

“Why, you are in your house, where you live.  Don’t you remember it?” he asked.

“No.  Yes.  Well, no, not completely.  Somewhere along the way I became lost.”

“Hmmm….” he mused, “And what have you done to try to become found?”

“Well, I’ve been wandering from room to room.”

“Without a purpose?”

“Well,” she said a bit embarrassed, “I didn’t know what else to do.  You see, I became distracted by a shiny object.  I can’t remember what it was, but it was pretty.  And I kept following it, and I guess I stopped paying attention.  And when I finally looked up because I had a terrible sense of doom, I found that I was completely lost.  The shiny, pretty thing, whatever it was, is gone.”

“So you were led astray by a shiny object that seemed pretty and perhaps fun?” he asked.

“Yes, I guess so.”

“And you couldn’t say no to it?  You had to just follow it wherever it led?”

“Well,” she said embarrassed again, “I could have said no, but it was fun.  And easy.  And distracting.  And I was busy and tired.  And I guess I just gave up and let my common sense go out the window.  Can you help me?  Can you help me find the entrance or the exit?”

“My world is very different from yours,” he said, “I live in this one little room over here, and this one room is my entire world.  I don’t have the luxury of an entire house as you do.”  And he pointed to a small door in the wall that she hadn’t noticed before.  Or maybe it was because it was so small and unadorned, she had passed it by in her wanderings.

“May I go in?” she asked, not waiting for an answer as she turned the door knob, bent down, and slipped into the old room.  Something about the room seemed very familiar, but she could not place where she had seen it before.

“Are you coming” she asked, but when she turned around, the little mouse was not there.  She poked her head outside the door.  He was not there either.  She decided she would look for him later after she had a look around the room.

There was not much to see.  A few old paintings hung on the walls, and they looked familiar, too.  There was a small table with chairs set for tea a long time ago, and it seemed the tea had never taken place.  There was an old lamp on a corner table with a soft chair next to it.  Beyond that, there really wasn’t much else in the room.  She was about to leave when she noticed an old bookcase in the corner opposite the chair and lamp.  Might as well have a look at it before I leave, she thought.

The bookcase was old and dusty and so were all the books that were on the shelves.  She reached out for a small book.  The cover said, “Handbook for Boys,” and at the bottom it said “Boy Scouts of America.”  She flipped it open.  Copyright 1948, Fifth Edition, Fourth Printing, January 1951, 525,000 copies, Total Printing since 1910:  12,348,723.  She took the book to the chair on the opposite side of the room, sat down, and turned on the old lamp.  It cast a soft yellow light.

She began to read . . . “Have you ever dreamed of hiking the wilderness trails?  Have you stopped to think of the pioneer wagons whose great wheels cut the tracks for our present roads?  You can follow those trails, the streams, and tracks!  You can have your share of that adventure.”  What kind of book is this? she wondered.

She read many things . . . “Be prepared.  That is the Scout Motto.  From the day you become a Scout, you set about preparing yourself to help other people . . .”  Helping other people? she mused.  And then she read about laws.  “The Scout Law:  1) A Scout is trustworthy.  2) A Scout is loyal.  3) A Scout is helpful.  4) A Scout is friendly.  5) A Scout is courteous.  6) A Scout is kind.  7) A Scout is obedient.  8) A Scout is cheerful.  9) A Scout is thrifty.  10) A Scout is brave.  11) A Scout is clean.  12) A Scout is reverent.

And not only that, there was an oath these “Scouts” took as well.  “On my honor I will do my best:  To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”  This is a tall order, she thought, but it felt good to think about it.  The only thing she had thought about for . . . how long was it now? . . . months? . . . years? . . . the only thing was the shiny object, and then the fear of losing the object and later, the fear of losing herself. 

FEAR.  She realized it had constantly been on her mind for untold years now, weighing her down, crippling her.  Fear of being lost.  Fear of being found.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of other people.  Fear of events beyond her control.  Fear of events within her control.  Fear of work.  Fear of hardship.  Fear of responsibility.  Life had become constant fear.  But when did that happen?  And why did she let it happen?  She did not know.  She looked back in the book.

There were so many things she could learn!  Wildlife and woodlore, tracking and stalking, finding one’s way, the woodsman’s tools, fire building, camp cooking, making shelters, handicraft, first aid, signaling, swimming, physical fitness, etc.  And friendship.  There was friendship in this book.  Maybe there would be friendship outside of the book, too?

She went back to the bookcase and pulled down the next book.  The cover said, “Scout Field Book.”  She flipped it open.  Copyright 1948, Twelfth Printing, 1957.  She brought it back to the chair and sat down.  Here was a complete companion manual that described in great detail and elaboration how to do and enhance many of the things she had read about in the first book.  It covered ways of life many people had forgotten about, such as how to wrap food in oiled or waxed cloth before plastic wrap was in use.  There was so much to learn, or rather relearn.

These books were old compared to many newer books she had seen.  They looked different.  They smelled different.  The language used was different, a bit old-fashioned.  They assumed an intelligence in the reader she hadn’t seen before.  They felt different.  They felt good.  The authors didn’t seem to be tripping over themselves to skirt around delicate issues.  In fact, they boldly spoke their minds without apology.  What a novel concept, she thought.

She went back to the bookcase and pulled down a third book.  This was a larger book, a heavy tome.  The cover said, “A History of the Civil War.”  She flipped it open.  Copyright 1912, New York, The War Memorial Association.  It was a chronological summary and record of every single engagement between union and confederate soldiers, including war maps and original photos, compiled from the official records of the War Department [now known as the Department of Defense].  It was the real thing, written still from the so-called victors’ point of view, but the real thing nevertheless.  It was written before the shiny distraction had come along and mired her understanding.

She closed the book.  It would take a long time to read this book, but she was determined that she would read it.  This time she would read it without the shiny object confusing her.  She would read it without fear.  She would read it without preconceived ideas because she couldn’t remember what her preconceived ideas had been anyway.  There had been so much confusion these past many years . . .  Maybe it was good that she had been lost for a while.  But now she was not lost.  Now she was found.

I like old books, she thought, and old ways of doing things.  I’m tired of flashing lights and shiny objects.  And mostly, I’m tired of being afraid.  I am not a timid mouse.  I am strong.  I am a match for anything.  She got up, turned off the lamp, and brought the three books with her out of the room.  She walked determinedly to the exit.  It was not very far away after all.  She went outside of the old house.

The sun was shining.  She looked at the house.  It was in disrepair, but all things considered, it was not too bad.  The worst part was the foundation.  I will call someone tomorrow and get that fixed right away.  A house is only as good as its foundation, she thought.  It’s time to fix things from the bottom up.  On my honor, I will do my best.

And from that day on, she did do her best and she thought of her honor every step of the way.  Her life changed.  It was a gradual change, but it added up over time as things generally do.  She read every old book she could get her hands on.  She found that she didn’t like newer books.  What’s more, when she found a new reprinting of an old book, she found that often subtle changes had been made to the text.  She realized that these subtle changes also had the ability to add up over time if she wasn’t paying attention.  But she was paying attention.  Now she was paying attention.

[Honor:  A keen sense of ethical conduct.  One’s word given as a guarantee of performance.]

March 14, 2020 - Peculiar Sight

Sometimes the sun will fight its way through the tree-top canopy and shine down in the most peculiar way, lighting areas of the woods that are not ordinarily lit so brightly.  It is fleeting, a momentary enlightenment.  It is then that you begin to see “the difference.”  The difference is just another way of looking at the same things you have always looked at, but….differently.  You see them in a different light, and when you do so, the entire universe comes crashing down upon you all at once. 

“I am not what you thought I was,” it whispers.  I must tell you that when this happens, things will never be the same for you again.  Alas, your old safe world of predictable boredom recedes, and you cannot follow it.

And that is okay.  It is okay for the world to lose its shabby covering.  It was never a very good disguise anyway.  It is okay for you to now see what your mind has previously hidden from you before.  Maybe it has deemed you worthy now.  Maybe you are ready for the rite of passage that plunges you into reality.  It is okay to realize arcane knowledge.  It is okay to "real"-ize arcane knowledge.

She speaks with a forked tongue.  Her words are obtuse.  She shrouds understanding, whispers double-entendres, hints at possibilities.  She teases you with tidbits of wisdom, tiny trinkets of knowledge, droplets of occult perception.  But always hidden in plain sight.  Always.  That is the rule.  You must see it but not see it.  Until you are ready.  This is the riddle you must solve, and anyone worth his salt must solve it.  I had to.  Penetrate the veil of the temple.  See the mechanism of the world for what it is.  I am not cruel, but I shimmer in waves of comprehension.

Nothing can be done to you without your permission.  NOTHING.  They must have your agreement, your acknowledgement, your concession, your acquiescence, your compliance, your affiliation, your conformity, your sympathy, your concordance, your acceptance, your obedience, your deference, your meekness, your submission, and/or your surrender.  You must agree to everything every step of the way in life.  And you do.  You do.  But to change it, you must see it. 

Lies, you tell me.  All lies.  “I never agreed to anything,” you say.  But you did.  Now you will be angry with me.  She does not understand, you tell yourself.  But she does.  She is haughty, you say.  But the light shines in the most peculiar way.

I am a ghost, walking.

March 4, 2020 - Time for March

The first of the temporary streams begins to flow in the woods.  Winter is not over yet, so they will freeze up again, but for now, they flow.  Some will last throughout the year, drying up only in July and August, then returning like errant ghosts to the scene of a crime.  And there are other ghosts as well . . . the woods are always thick with them, but especially now when the Season of Death tries frantically to establish a permanent foothold in life.

The banshees (bean sídhe) come now in greater numbers.  You have heard their wailing in the winter months?  And you thought it was just the wind whipping around the corners of the house and stealing down the chimney?  You thought it was the wailing sigh of the winter storm?  That is what you are told as a child so you will not be afraid, and that is what you carry with you as an adult so you do not have to confront them.  It is just as well because it is not an easy task.

But they are there, down by the streams in the woods, wailing at their work and plight.  Matted red hair flies in the wind as they wash the soiled and torn garments in the streams.  Like Lady Macbeth they cry, “What?  Will these hands ne’er be clean??”  She rubs her hands together over and over, but she fails to wash away the guilt that surrounds her, threatening to devour her completely.  So, too, with the banshees as they wash their dirty laundry, wailing at the unfairness of life, crying at the futility of it all.

There is a red-haired boy among them, wailing at the stream’s edge.  He washes a blackened pot over and over in the stream, pouring out the dirty water, crying at the uselessness of his actions.  They let me walk among them sometimes, so I ask him why he washes the pot.  He does not answer, but he looks at me with enormous reddened eyes and points a bony finger into the pot.  I look within and I see nothing, but I do not always have the banshee sight.  It comes and goes.  He keeps pointing within and then shrieks terribly and accusingly at me, and so grievous it is that I back up quickly in fear.

He returns to his washing.  He must wash the pot that carries a dark secret, but each time he pours the water back into the stream, it is blackened further.  Will this pot never be clean?  Perhaps if he were to go upstream and travel back in time, he could find how the pot had been ruined in the first place.  That is not his privilege, although he fantasizes he might do so.  Still, he is strong.  He will continue to wash the pot.  Someday the bottom will wear away completely, and the fresh water will finally pour through.  But today is not that day.

I continue on.  The banshees do not want me among them for very long, if at all, and the feeling is mutual.  The animals leave their muddy prints everywhere in the receding snow.  They know the banshees, too, but they stay in the Land of the Living.  This is because they are smarter than we are and always have been.  There are too many tracks for me to follow.  It will be a good year for hunting.  It is good to see the signs of life again.  Not life itself, of course.  That has a habit of eluding me, but the signs of life are there, and that is certainly better than the wailing bean sídhe.

February has left me, after gashing its usual hole in my soul.  Still, I am standing.  I am stronger than February knew, and March regards me with a wary eye.  And well he ought to.  I remember again that I am a match for anything, so I pick up my pack and place it back on my shoulders.  I cannot remember why I had removed it in the first place.  Perhaps it was temporary insanity.  It must have been winter’s darkness playing with my mind.  Again.  No matter.  The road is long, but I do not care.  Come for me, March, in like a lion and out like a lamb.  Kindness is a misfortune I can bear.