Doug's Awesome Blog Thing

[Douglas]

The Blog That Would Destroy the World
CHAPTER ZERO

The Fog of the Caveman’s Blog

This is the last Blog and Testament to folly. The galaxy is capricious as is the Internet.

Wars are always inevitable. It’s size that matters. To find an ending, there is a beginning. Before The Holy Blog was first recorded in internet history there were miracles.

In the fog of the distant past there was a Grand Ice Age that threatened the Ut’ishsih people. Before they could perish, the Gods appeared out of the sky to provide food and shelter in the Caves. Many miracles occurred. The Gods provided endless energy supplies, and endless light sources. Great stores of food, metals, and minerals were left in huge warehouses before the Gods mysteriously disappeared.

When they were on Earth, they communicated thoughts in the Utd’mbts language. The ancient Priests were given an esoteric knowledge to preserve. But over time the knowledge was corrupted and misinterpreted.

But revolutions are begun anytime. This one begins with the writings in a blog.

Here is the record of the subversive blog of a small group of Ut’ishsih people trying to learn the nature of reality. It begins with the writings of Doug.

CHAPTER ONE

The Bloggy Diary of a Caveman

Some would prefer to say poetry will end the world, but no rhyme will stick to the face of time. Lachrymal vicissitudes, slipping on plates of passion, are insufficient to generate terminal earthquakes.

No, it is this blog that will end life on the surface of the Earth with a recipe for pizza and virginity. No, it is not the High Priestess alone who will do it. Many creatures do play their part to stage a farce, leaping in multiplicity, dark in mind.

True, every seminal blog in the universe begins as a joke. Few end with dessert.

I had heard I should do something bloggy on the Internet if I were going to fit into the up-top world. Perhaps it’s a mistake. Let me attempt a blog this way:

ENTRY ZERO

Consider this my entry zero. But if I’m really eokxavexa as Utcoozhoo thinks, it does seem pointless to try to mingle. I was going to just post minor-English poetry here, as a token of expression, but Utcoozhoo wanted more, a lot more that would establish a footprint on the beachhead of humanity for me who would wash up on the surface beyond the limits of the cave. Yet he wanted me to keep secret the wisdom and knowledge of our people the Ut’ishsih, who had gone into the caves during the Great Ice Age as the Gods had decreed. During the Warming, many went up-top and became Ojdispekib who forgot their culture and assimilated the worst arrogant traits of the Mekibota, the Homo sapiens, who after many tribulations and primitive wars, invented anchovy pizzas and built nuclear weapons to feel safe.

If I were going to go up-top, I would want to jump ahead and reveal everything, I told him -- maybe perfect my skills at Utd’mbts, teach myself and teach the surface world. But Utcoozhoo always used to say, “You can’t teach and not mingle.” He always says:

“First, one must practice English, a subset of thought, until that is as familiar as walking in the dark to pet the lion. To turn on the light too soon can arouse the appetites in the wrong order. Utd’mbts, a thunderous whisper, is the poetry of the Gods no one shall utter lightly.”

Huh? Yeah, yeah, whatever. My father was ashamed to teach me Utd’mbts, so I don’t know it that well. He was one of those aimless ones, the Ovfibogs, who wandered up and down, being neither Mekibota nor Ut’ishsih, uncomfortable everywhere and angry. I don’t think that any translations I could ever learn to do would ever bring any lightning bolts, even if I could ever understand the ancient knowledge, but Utcoozhoo seems to think that if I ever truly learned it that I could bring on the destruction of the up-top world. I’m caught between a rock and a hard poem.

This modern era is very uncomfortable for me. Zawmb’yee says she sees interesting turmoil in the future — that sounds like that ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” Please, forgive a shy caveman his tentative introduction to the modern world. So maybe I should just be poetic with her, and talk about Cirrus clouds. I could say to her, “Deep is the puff of your word, the tuft of wispy breathless love, a dear cloud for my sky I use as pillow to sleep in; it’s your fluff without rain enveloping it.” “Cirrus-ly,” I’d say, “could we be cumulus?”

Nah, who cares about fluff pieces (Hey, is this colloquial enough — haven’t I mastered idiomatic English enough to pass as not caveman? I think it’s approaching conversational without affectation. I’ve gotten to use those careless redundancies and a few Y’know’s — right?)

OK, so I’m sort’a making a diary here. What do I do now? I guess I can just begin with a Dear Diary:

There is some disturbing news on American television: some Ojdispekib are beginning to appear on talk-shows and bragging about their special powers. They may have accumulated money but they have neither boyish charm nor savage enchantment.

I would have preferred to remain in the cave and woods, but with modern media, there’s no more hiding, and I probably should establish myself outside the cave where the Grand Council has no jurisdiction — Utcoozhoo seems to think their benevolent dictatorship is about to transform itself into a malignant evil that might even threaten the up-top world, but politics doesn’t interest me. I’ve been to the city, and I can see why they call the city a “concrete jungle”. But the women are beautiful and graceful like deer… and I am like a caveman lost in the forest. There would be uncertainty on the forest’s edge, my spear would seem not steady, a stone’s throw away from the missing red deer who’ve gone with the cattle, fenced by plank woods, and tamed. I, lost caveman, still feel frozen out. On edge, I’ve lost my säng-froid beyond the Ice Age.

She is a red deer who will not stray, stays deep in the jungle; it’s hard to ambush her heart when I am edgy, my spear heavy. Supercilious, she will not touch the edge of my brow, the forest of my desire, unless I meet her for coffee at the Antelope Hotel minding my manners – small spoon on cantaloupe.

I’ve made a date with her. I guess I should keep her anonymous -- otherwise, she’ll be a laughingstock. I’m not quite comfortable yet doing a full diary. I’ll work into it. I’m not sure about the protocols for a Blog, but I suppose I could number the entries. Let this be:

ENTRY 1
— Good News Going To Dinner

Her roundness astounded me, and a glorious ballet danced her to our table, ecstasy tableau. The mâitre d’ hôtel knew about her kindness, and smiling at us, served mixed pleasures without a raised eyebrow – he was a fine shaman, uncorking champagne and venison. She took me home.

Gorgeous was the evening when she spoke to me as if I were a hunter of love, and she knew my appetite profoundly. She stroked the hair of my back, my buttocks, raised me right with sheep skin on my rod to save my genes for a future cherished child when glory would be our name, we, dancers of wealth sharing with every child who’d cry, a kiss. Never have I seen such a feast like we had this night of lore, and I wish for more.

She is a smile, and I am a sigh, my hug was accepted. Yes, I am we, we sing, and I would say to ring the tones of me forever.

ENTRY 2

Secret of the Gods

Y’know, despite their claimed sophistication, some of the Ojdispekib don’t want to scientifically examine some of our traditions. They think it is mere superstition and would embarrass them if held up to scrutiny. Utcoozhoo, especially, knows that the late-period migrants to the up-top world are ashamed of our traditions and secrets. So these are not as modern as they think they are — not open minded, not willing to examine all possibilities in an objective way… But I’m annoyed that Utcoozhoo allows their ridicule and doesn’t debate with them, and will not reveal the secret of the Gods that would astound them. They in their way are backward and stubborn in spiritual matters, but so too Utcoozhoo is stubborn and backward in not embracing the best of the modern age.

I have a computer in an apartment outside the cave. A word processor helps with the writing. I’ve tried to save my thoughts in rhyme, to be the Ut’ishsih poet laureate, but it’s so tedious coming out of the cave, though I know the maze of passages, just to post at a computer, so far, so foreign to me, an artist not a hunter, perhaps a proto-shaman who still cannot do routine traipsing like a meditation, who feels no ontology snaking around stalagmites as a native not a tourist, bored. Maybe I should run cables into the caves, pirouette a line around lime and trouvère. I’ve heard the ancients say there are silken spider ropes below the floor. Now that sounds like cables from the Gods, but the ancient technology doesn’t seem likely to be compatible – doesn’t seem wise to ask the Cable man to hook up to “this” and not ask any questions. I’ll have to come out of the cave to post.

ENTRY 3

The city woman wants me to embrace the modern age. She’s telling me to be more civilized like the Ojdispekib upper-class snobs who we, before the language change, called the hunter class. I call you all the time, she says, you’re never home, you don’t answer e-mails, don’t pick up the phone. Yeah, I know — mostly, I’m not in my apartment. I’m in the cave. I can’t lay cable in the cave to connect to the Internet -- can I?

ENTRY 4

DRILLING THROUGH ROCK

She beseeches me to e-mail, to be phone touching, encore calling. She says she’d lend me a cellphone, an earful, but I haven’t told her the cave is too deep for signal.

Oh but, let the Gods lay me a cable I say. Might I lay aside the ancient prohibitions with a toast to modernity if the Lady needs a cable in the cave?

But it is said, “Secrets are sacred. Don’t approach the Sun Fire, or the growling spears of the sacred spider until the Gods return to sear the rock with silk.”

Hey maybe I’ll just flip a switch or something, drill through rock, and voilà: e-mail, cell phone reception, redemption. End of tension (right?).

ENTRY 5

The Apprentice

Utcoozhoo has been cranky lately. You’d think he’d be happy, because he finally got an apprentice to pass on the oral history – they do a lot of chanting and humming. I said to Utcoozhoo, wouldn’t it be easier to just write it all down. He said, the language of the Gods can’t be written – only seen. The only thing that interests me is that odd saying, “The wearer of the hat can stab through rock with an endless spear.” Oh hell, I think I’m just going to explore the chambers beyond the dome of the endless light. I can’t see what these superstitious curmudgeons are afraid of. They’re waiting for the Gods to return. I can’t wait for that – it could be a thousand years from now or never. If there is some kind of drilling machine, I could use it to finally hook up my computer in the cave.

ENTRY 6

I finally got Zawmb’yee, Utcoozhoo’s apprentice, to open up a little. She says she finds the exercises exciting but tedious. Utcoozhoo doesn’t think she’s ready for any ancient secrets. She’s been practicing the “seeing of knowledge”.

“Huh?” I said. “Exactly what are you doing?”

“We walk past the glass wall, around the sword of the silver-red stalagmite. I turn my back while Utcoozhoo opens the ngtqua entrance…”

“He has a key or code of some kind? It looks like solid rock…”

[End of Chapter One, Part 1... continued]

[Douglas]

(Chapter One, part 2)

“I don’t know. I don’t look. Sometimes it takes too long. He tells me to be quiet so he can concentrate. It’s so boring — I sit down with my back to him, put on my headphones and listen to music. That annoys him sometimes — says how can you get into a mystical mood listening to rock music. I laugh — he says no pun with “rock”. But anyway, when he’s finished yelling at me, I sit down with my back to him again and he does whatever…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, and then what?”

“We go down the golden steps into the darkness to the floating bed…then there’s meditation…”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t tell you anymore. You know, ‘secrets are sacred’ and all that. Bring me a gift and maybe I’ll tell you.”

She’s a tease.

ENTRY 7

Hmm, Zawmb’yee wants a gift. I don’t know; I don’t have any money right now. I spent all my money on Chloë, the lady at the Antelope Hotel(I know I said I’d keep her name anonymous because she’d be the goat of a joke if it were known she goes out with the Caveman, but I don’t think just a first name will do any harm.). I could write a poem for Zawmb’yee. I don’t know if she’d accept that as a gift; I think it depends on whether when she says, “gift” she means gift or bribe. There’s good news and bad news, I think. If she wants a bribe, then I can easily find out stuff, but then she’s really not trustworthy to receive the wisdom of the ages. On the other hand, if she really wants, umm, me as gift then… oh, Gods, she is beautiful… I must compose a poem for her, but she is too spiritual for my crude verse. I mean, Chloë, I think, is easily impressed by my poems of green pastures, but I don’t think Zawmb’yee will fall for me that easily.

ENTRY 8

Chloë Was Mad

I could hear my phone ringing all the way down the hall as I came in this morning. By the time I got in the door it must have been ringing more than 10 times. Chloë was mad. She says you’re never home. Well, actually, I would say (but never tell her) that the cave is more like my home than is my apartment.

Yeah, I know I promised to install a cable in the cave so I’d have an Internet link there, but I think it’s probably much too complicated and expensive.

I had a dream about Zawmb’yee. She was teaching me meditation, but it was weird like a loss of identity — some sort of blending process. She opened the ngtqua by herself and we floated in. I’ve been thinking about that gift for her. I did write a poem about “gifts.” Maybe it’ll do. It’s based on the story “The Gift of the Magi”, but it has my own twist. He buys her a swing for her tree so she can grieve over memories. He has to sell his carving tools to get money to buy it. She cuts down her tree to give him the perfect block of wood for his carvings.

Maybe it might be “spiritual” enough for Zawmb’yee. I don’t think Chloë would like it. They are so different, but I don’t know who’s more exciting…

ENTRY 9

Zawmb’yee Is a Tease

Zawmb’yee is more of a tease than I thought. I wrote the poem out for her with a brush on a canvas. She sat by the underground-river Zhushcratylm, gently rested the tips of her fingers on the canvas with her eyes closed. I leaned forward and stared into her like a wild-eyed pupil. “Yes,” she said, “it demonstrates the devotional stage, but there is no sharing of thoughts.”
I stroked the back of my hand across my lips, wiping my tingles. She took my hands, made a gentle humming sound like a ferocious purr, said: thank you and next week I’ll show you a vision in the fifth passage. Then she said, your phone is ringing — don’t you think you should leave the cave. A quick kiss and I found myself leaving hot…

ENTRY 10

I find myself thinking about Zawmb’yee everywhere I go. I wonder how she is able to navigate in the mainstream world above ground. I know she lives in the sacred quarters in the cave but is also expected to mingle in the city and across the world. It’s hard for me to imagine such a spiritual person riding on a common bus to meet me for lunch or come to my lonely apartment, see me type a poem into my computer, pull me away for more embraceable things. I think about what I might say to her about it: “I imagine you drifting in thoughts on the bus by the window with a mystery package. Can you hear me honk; can you see me as the bird that flaps a clap, applauding your reverie. On your way, squealing with the wheeling of the bus, I am the squeaky brakes squawking to see you; I am the roar of the engine. Wake up. Don’t miss your stop; don’t drop your precious package. Arrive soon, because I can’t wait to open you up to ride with me.”

I imagine her everywhere doing her “learn the culture” exercises for Utcoozhoo — smiling on strangers at every museum, chatting at every Opera, commiserating at every bar, a discreet angel with casual compassion. But I am infused with the perfume of her joy:

You in Me

I woke up to my
longing for you; coffee
bit my dream
I stirred your cream

If I dress to seek you
will I know where
passion gallivants

You haunt me with
your many haunts. I
feel a phantom kiss
and miss the bliss from
flesh and ardor, belief bones
troubles massaged in a love whisper,
soothing music
melodic compassion

I am out to find you
driven like the mating birds;
walking, I hear the coos
but let them fly unknowing
for I have a gift for us:
wait ’til you
see me smile
everywhere I know you

But then Chloë is to call and my body is at attention…

ENTRY 11

I was thinking the other day, sitting under the Dome of the Endless Light by the K’ut’mbletaw’i River, that Utcoozhoo promises many spectacular things to Zawmb’yee, but it’s always in the future. When she wonders if anything he says is true, he always tells her the story of Tpiqlat’ng who was everywhere, nearby, and beneath all things at the same time. Nobody believed Tpiqlat’ng either. The day Tpiqlat’ng returned with great treasures for everyone, rather than be grateful, they demanded to know where he got it. He was nearly beaten to death when he told what they thought was a grandiose lie:

“I rode the river to the place of the Gods where I was given the honor to ride with them on a flying mole in a fire tube under a great ocean to the Rocky Mountains.”

He begged for one last chance to prove it to them. He said, “Whoever is as brave as they are angry, come meet the Gods.” The few volunteers he took to the K’ut’mbletaw’i (means, “They say it speaks to wash away false beliefs”). They rode it out to the surface and beyond, transferring to a new vehicle. All but the meanest one came back with great wonders. The Gods left the arrogant one behind — they say by his choice.

And then after all that babble, Utcoozhoo won’t even tell her what treasures and who was left behind for what purpose. Now doesn’t that just become another spectacular story promised for the future?

She says she wants to talk to me about one of her homework assignments. Gee, I don’t know that I can be of any help….

ENTRY 12

I Saw the Pfambuuwisen

The mystical things always sound so calming, and yet so dangerous. I fear she may be seeing too much before she’s ready to understand it.

Zawmb’yee always seems to come out of nowhere when I’m writing by the K’ut’mbletaw’i. Poor Zawmb’yee — another disappointment, or delay.

She broke into my musing with “I saw the pfambuuwisen, the blue dream-stars shining on glistening water like crystal and all that, but now Utcoozhoo gives me a puzzle: ‘How are we like blue sheep?’ He says you know.”

“I know? How do I know…Um oh yeah, of course?” I lowered my voice to a whisper of authority, and I hugged myself like I wished she would. “I’ll give you ‘my best tongue in the wind’ as they say.”

I’m working on it. OK, I see I’m not really doing this diary thing very well, because some days I don’t write very much. I’m just not that talkative, and I never did this before. Some people kept diaries since they were kids. I never did that sort of thing. I didn’t even like reading much, though strangely I wanted to write a novel (I guess everyone does). Quite a contradiction: to want to do something I have no skill or talent to do. Zawmb’yee seems more like the type who could do it quite easily… ah, phooey, I’m getting tired now and I haven’t really said anything. I’m supposed to write down all my thoughts, I suppose, but they fly by too quickly (most of the significant ones, even the ones not ineffable–{hmm, double negative — is there “effable”}. What was I going to say — I forgot…

ENTRY 13

I can see why Zawmb’yee is in turmoil. Everything is a contradiction. Utcoozhoo wants her to learn the dominant culture to blend in. If she does that, isn’t she assimilating into the mainstream, and adopting their ways. I would think she’ll just become another sap (as Utcoozhoo calls them). But yet he wants to teach her the traditional ways.

He’s trying to get her to see the pfambuuisen, yet Zawmb’yee just seems to have the blues nowadays. Another contradiction: blue in a vision — a spiritual light, but brimstone burning blue — a devilish thing. (The devil is in the details.)

Exposure to the modern world could destroy the ancient culture. Hmm, I was reading about the last Buddhist Kingdom of Bhutan. They just introduced satellite TV because they believe the young people must know about the outside world. But some elders worry that their culture will be corrupted and lost.

Bhutan’s an interesting place with diverse climates and habitats. Aha, I think I have it — blue things in Bhutan. They have the same dilemma as we do: to assimilate, accommodate, or stay isolated.

Zawmb’yee needs 12 ways to answer the question, “Why are we blue.” Well, I think I have one:

Blue Sheep In Bhutan

Have I sinned
to love snow leopards

I have heard
rock-and-roll
and blues too

Scampering up cliffs
blue sheep make me cry
freezing to hide

Snow leopards
must eat –
I will not look

Kayaking down the Mochhu
I see only splash
only sky

Blue is clean
red I deny

Prayer flags on the mountain
let me be of slate color
hiding my friends

Can I sing the blues
in the sorrow of the lamb
with only wool to give
in cold comfort, or

must I be the tiger
to growl at my hunger
to dominate

The dominate culture is like a tiger. We are blue sheep hiding? No, that doesn’t sound right. Aaah, well, that’s the best I can do for now… I mean, it’s her homework. Why do I have to do it? Yeah, I’ll just say I’m giving you a clue, and pretend like it’s some deep profound strategy to get her to think, even though it’s just hogwash, ’cause I don’t know. I’m not wise — I’m just confused… maybe she won’t notice the difference…

[continued]

[Douglas]

ENTRY 14

Lately I’ve just been staring at the rippling waters of the K’ut’mbletaw’i. It is said that the Gods left behind many pfayohoqwaahujpi (lightning boxes for guardian spirits to dwell in) that power the Endless Light and purify the river. The river is always pure even after many reckless picnickers have frolicked with abandon.

I look into the beautiful blue ripples hoping for a splash of inspiration to lift my writer’s block.

Zawmb’yee says I should look over my old poems to see if there is one in my trash heap that could be revised and purified. But I don’t have the power of even the smallest pfayohoqwaahujpi. I found an old poem, but it’s too weird to use I think, and I don’t think it is worth reading again:

Enchantment

In warmth
you’ve already read this
but I made you forget it
many spells ago
down the path
you’re on now falling

down the mountainside
to lush green sleepy
pleasant grass under
picnics’ bliss wine
soothing solitude like
a bath, bubbles a
swarming essence
perfumed with
perfect memories cherished
idealized
realized
in sleepy fantasy
that counts to five

enchantments
you’ve read
in many spells
down steeped tea
paths pleasing.

Five
is quintessential
to awaken you again;
are you dressed for the day
or is it night–
but you’ve already read this
in warmth cherished,
and now
forget it,
forget what you’ve done
in warmth unknowing, for
you need not know why
everyone looks at you
again, and sleep
will overtake you eventually
to do what you must forget.
You’ve done it. Thanks.

ENTRY 15

Utcoozhoo Jumps Out of the Water

Yesterday, I don’t know when (I forgot my watch again, and in the endless light of the cave, there’s no way to know the day or time), I was startled by a surprise visitor.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Utcoozhoo swim. Somehow I couldn’t picture the scene of a wise old Guru, who might sit by a jagged rock face like his own face, impenetrable, not likely to float, swimming, but it is true that this wise one could chuckle like the water splashes.

Thus, sitting at the Nipeiskwari (Place of Meandering Thought), by the granite intrusion where the K’ut’mbletaw’i twists, I was surprised to look up from my notes to see Utcoozhoo leap out of the water like a dolphin with gray hair.

“You look surprised,” he said. “Anyone who can hold his breath for a couple of minutes can reach the Akwangtqua, enter the Tzvaleubhoi, cave of the third sun, rest by the Tree of Many Fruits and … but, of course, if you don’t know where the entrance is, you won’t have enough breath to return.”

Actually, I was more scared than surprised to see anything leap out of the water, and nearly dropped my notes in the water. I thought to ask, “Well, then can you show me the entrance?”

“I’ll think about it … but I wanted to thank you for helping Zawmb’yee — she’s a bit young for the Utd’mbts. I had thought to teach you, Doug, but you were too cynical at the time of the Maghuogke. Sorry.”

“That’s alright. I was in a crisis and would have thought the idea ridiculous back then…”

“Yes, I know. You hold your breath too much without going anywhere … always seeming to drown in sorrow.”

I was embarrassed to have too much dust in my eyes to answer…I changed the subject. “So, are you revealing the oral history of our people to Zawmb’yee? I don’t know what’s so secret. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal. I mean, if I want to know American History or Ancient Roman or Greek History, I just go to the library and get myself some text books.”

Asking about secrets made Utcoozhoo grimace. It triggered a long lecture, and a warning of sorts:

“True thoughts are not at all like words. They are more like dreams. They have many metaphors, many meanings. There are many levels of Utd’mbts to learn. One must be ready. First one must babble like the baby, then a first word, then a sentence, then a complex sentence, and finally the fine points of a dream poetry.

The key here is you say ‘many books’. Each is a distortion of a different kind, a glorified hearsay — the gossip of the conquerors, the elites, the propagandists, ravings of madmen with charisma and minor magic. It is the written word of major and minor egomaniacs, words from scribes of the dominate class driven mad by their self-importance; words from scribes of minorities driven mad by their oppression, waiting for their revenge and reversal of role when they will rule and write with a new kind of madness. All of these are the scribbles that blot the world with cycles of boom and bust of ever larger magnitude, notation for melodies symphonic and chaotic, with a tone of hope in overture, an interlude of cacophony, and percussion like tornadoes. History of clash. Not enlightening…”

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Utcoozhoo was making it clear to me that the oral history was much more than oral. “When will you tell her?”

“It’s not a telling as much as a transference. But I have to be careful how I say this to you. Skeptics can be blinded by their anger when it comes to mysticism. There is such a flood of pretenders that usually it is justified to call most crackpots, charlatans, or superstitious fools, but not all. I must tell you to be very careful with ‘Enchantments’… I’ve heard that Ngheufel has been stumbling into some dangerous states-of-mind without knowing what he’s doing. He’s a very stubborn fellow who I fear is on the edge of mischief. ”

With that, Utcoozhoo did some odd breathing exercises and dived into the water, swimming underwater to the Cave of the Third Sun.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

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*reply
~~ Jeanne

I’ve never heard of the Ut’ishsih, secret cave or of Utd’mbts, but anyway I like “You In Me.”

I don’t think the format matters that much. There are different styles that are used for blogs. Some people do diaries and some just give information. Swimming to an underwater cave sounds dangerous. Good luck.

[Douglas]

CHAPTER TWO

Trapping Oral History

ENTRY 16

It was really weird early today when I got a phone call from Zawmb’yee. I mean, I see her in the cave all the time and I didn’t think she even uses a phone. She would seem to pop out of nowhere whenever I wrote at the Nipeiskwari. I guess I’ve always thought of her as a cave person even though Utcoozhoo makes her mingle in the up-top world quite often — it’s just that I’ve never seen her there. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised because she can pass quite well as an ordinary, run-of-the-mill, common gorgeous model. It’s odd though because in the cave world she used to be teased all the time: they used to call her the hairless albino. But that was so ridiculous. She has blond hair, but she’s not albino. Her eyes are blue like the color of the pfambuuisen.

She called to say she wanted to meet me. Zawmb’yee is going to show me a meditation exercise she’s been learning and maybe she’ll reveal some “oral history.” She said to meet her past the glass wall, around the sword of the silver-red stalagmite to the left of the pothole marker, and up the narrow ledge to the ngtqua.

An odd thing though. Before hanging up she said, “I want you to gargle with salt water, and then gargle without water to just make the sound. Then make the ‘ka’ sound first in the back of the throat and then like you’re scraping the roof of your mouth, purse your lips, and add the gargle sound until you sound like a motor forcing air out hard until your whole face, sinuses, and head vibrate. It’ll feel like a face massage.”

She hung up before I could ask a question.

ENTRY 17

Ever since I almost dropped my notes in the river, I’ve been carrying all my writing paraphernalia with my camera in a waterproof case. Hmm, protecting the notes for this diary — that sort of assumes they might have some importance. I’m not sure I’m even finding this cathartic. It’s only slightly amusing to me when I can imagine a future audience. (I suppose if I were to be writing in the cave and died, someone would take these notes and transcribe them for me, enter them in the computer and continue…I guess they’d be like a ghost writer.) But I can’t see a diary of a boring person as a stage play. I could see Zawmb’yee on the stage or maybe Chloë. I’m probably more like an adequate ‘extra’ who’ll never be an actor.

I’ve had sigh mornings
leaving sighs to mourn
the heave on traipse
on feet’s defeat
a hunched up shoulder,
looking for a walk-on day, say

I could have missed a cue
if you’d not staged a
run in radiance

In the running of my soul
you make me bullish
playing on my horns

Stages of my performance
in the footlights
of your delight
gives me this role
in run-ons
carried away with you
stage right into the wings of love

Well, I’ve practiced Zawmb’yee’s head vibrating sound or mantra or whatever it’s supposed to be. It is a weird sound. I wonder what it will sound like as a duet. Well, I should pack up my stuff and go meet Zawmb’yee at the Ngtqua. (Oh, I just realized there’s another flaw in these entries: I haven’t marked which ones I’ve made here in the apartment and which ones I’ve made in the cave. Actually, this is the first entry I’ve written in my apartment. So it’s a quick turnover to put these handwritten notes into the computer. I hate typing directly — I’m more fluent scribbling than typing. Ah geez — another point-of-view problem.)

ENTRY 18

Meeting Zawmb’yee at the Ngtqua

There was no comfort in a familiar scene. Many times I had traipsed past every limestone drip in time, every ancient erosion, but as I traversed this common maze to reach my appointed meeting with Zawmb’yee, making my way past familiar speleothems, some loomed like broken talismans. An ominous insight seemed to trickle into my consciousness that some of these formations were not natural. It is said that the Qukwerpfm, the glass wall, once was double silvered to hold the lightning of the Gods. The sword of the silver-red stalagmite spoke to the Gods in heaven, the legend said, and I walked past to the left, up the narrow ledge.

On edge, I hummed a few umm’s as I put foot to each stone, trying to remember the sound I was supposed to make for Zawmb’yee’s incantation.

She waved as I approached the Ngtqua….

ENTRY 19

She was standing with a Gnolum that she had evidently removed from a wall. I didn’t even know you could do that. I had always just taken the gnolums for granted — common glowing crystal lights that have always been. They were just like streetlights of the cave. Most people don’t ever question how streetlights work — they’re just there.

Zawmb’yee said, “Doug, I’m so excited. But I forgot to tell you, you have to add a deep voicing, like a bass hum, to the ‘ka’ and the gargle, like this…” The whole cave vibrated, a small stalactite fell out of the ceiling, and a stone fell off the ledge. “Except a little deeper … you try…”

I made my whole face vibrate and my eyes shook like little REM’s from a dream. No stones fell.

She said, “Good, perfect. Now we just have to harmonize. OK, now, we stand by the entrance to the Ngtqua. We do the ‘ka’ together, but when I point up, I want you to raise the tone of your voice, and when I point down, I want you to lower the tone with more bass. When we get the beats right, you’ll hear a ‘wah-oh-wah-oh’ sound, but think that you’re focusing your energy at the entrance…”

Somehow, her giddiness just didn’t seem to match the occasion. I said, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Zawmb’yee said, “Um, well, let’s just do this.”

When we did the sound together the wah-oh was intense. The large square stone pivoted on one edge, opened like a door, but smoothly without creaks. The inner surface of the door was smooth and polished, not at all like a rock, but more like the vault door of a bank.

She said with confidence, “Now, we go in.” We walked into the Ngtqua. The door slammed behind us with the sound of locking bolts. The inner surface glowed red hot for a moment and a frost of rock formed, making the door indistinguishable from the surrounding rock of the chamber. There was a trickle of water on the floor.

Zawmb’yee covered her gnolum with her back pack until it was totally dark. She took my hands in the dark, said, “We are of the universe, the distant stars, we diffuse into a unity of chaos, a smear of light, the glow of love; we are the moment. See the pfambuuwisen, and choose the one that glows the most. Let it expand. Dive into the blue light, and let it expand into a dream. What do you see?”

“I see a woman in a helmet with a spear.”

Zawmb’yee laughed. “Oh sorry, I lost my focus. That’s an opera that I went to. Actually, I should tell you that I saw Chloë at the opera…”

“You know Chloë?”

“Well, yes.”

The trickle of water was increasing and I found myself standing in ankle deep water. “Don’t you think we should go…?”

[Cosmos]

Outstanding, Doug! You're a very talented writer!

[[deleted user]]

Well thats obvious!

You should write a poetic song!

Or a song about your blog!

[Douglas]

Thanks Cosmos. Now I just have to convince a publisher or a known reviewer... or famous person or something...

[Douglas]

Thanks Bree. I thought about writing a song. I don't think I can do it.

[Douglas]

Gee, you two are fast readers. I wish I could read that fast. I'm very slow.

[[deleted user]]

YOU CAN DO ANYTHING IF YOUR AWSOME!

*nudging sholder*

*whispers*

BTW YOUR AWSOME!

[Douglas]

ENTRY 20

Drowning in the Sealed Chamber

The water is rising more rapidly by the second. We’re doing the ka wah-oh up and down the scale.

It’s not working — the door is not opening. Zawmb’yee is screaming. I’m telling her that screaming is not the right chant. She’s looking around. She’s running to the back of the chamber where the golden steps are. She’s taking a deep breath, diving underwater, swimming down the stairs.

Returning, gasping, Zawmb’yee says she doesn’t see an exit. She’s screaming at me to stop taking notes. The water is up to my neck. Seems like a rainy day today. I’m putting this in the waterproof case but I’m not going to be able to fix the spelling, and this doesn’t seem complete enough, but I think incoherence is acceptable under these…

We’re floating towards the ceiling. Zawmb’yee has put a sheet of paper on top of her floating backpack, and she’s making notes.

I feel a buzzing panic … thought I’d have a traditional birthday cake this year — maybe this time really have a wish come true when I would blow out the forest of candles. It never seemed to work before. I think I had my first cake with candles when I was three…

ENTRY 21

The water is still rising. I smile at Zawmb’yee. She is praying. I wonder about the golden steps we were to step down, each one more relaxing, more soothing. We were to reach a plateau, make a bubble of protection, be bathed in white light. I see a glowing blue globe. I remember when I was three. “Uncle Coozie, Uncle Coozie, I’m fwee today.”

“You’re three?”

“I’m fwee-years-old and I can sing: ‘Haffy Birffy to me/Haffy Birffy to me/Haffy Birffy dear Dougy, haffy birffy to me.’ Uncle Coozie, Mommy chased the angel away — she says ’cause it’s jimagery. Daddy said to hurry up and blow out the damn candles and I forgot to make a wish. Can I still make a wish after everybody’s gone? I made a wish on a teddy bear…”. Zawmb’yee is asking me what we do now. I am saying, “Utcoozhoo says to feel along the beam in the ceiling for a lever.” I am reaching up. There is a beam. The water is only an inch from the ceiling. There is a piece of metal sticking out. I’m pulling it. The water is draining.

ENTRY 22

The water drained slowly. Treading water wasn’t much fun. My backpack was too heavy — I had brought a picnic blanket, a bottle of that two dollar wine that won a prize from the blindfolded snobs, and blue cheese. I tried to arch my head back to float, but having to do the elementary backstroke to stay afloat, made me crash into a wall. I switched to breaststroke, swimming around Zawmb’yee who was holding onto her floating backpack.

Slowly, as the water drained, we floated down to the floor. Little rivers gurgled down the stairs. The water was gone.

Zawmb’yee was shivering. I took the blanket out — good that it was old, because I could easily tear it in half. I said, “You can use this as a towel to dry off.”

We were soaked and there were breezes leaking in from somewhere. I was getting cold too. I took my wet shirt off.

Zawmb’yee stroked my chest hair, pressed the water out, combed it with her fingers, and handed me the blanket. She tilted her head down, unbuttoned her shirt, said, “Dry me off.”

I took off her wet shirt. The towel carried me into her cleavage, and I wiped her stomach, stroked her face. Her arms were still cold. I massaged away the goose bumps and the water, pulled down her bra straps. She lifted her arms, unbuckled my belt. I felt much warmer. It was to be a fine picnic after-all, as I looked into the blue of her eyes and dried the crest of her globes. In the joy of my breathing, my pants fell off. Floods can be fun when not alone.

“You look cold,” she said, and dried my legs with the tickle of the towel. She saw me bulging. Her fingers pushed under the elastic band, pulled down the briefs, teased the towel around. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold,” she said.

ENTRY 23

“The heat is on,” I said. “You’ve…” — kissed her lips — “taught me … a lot … today” — caressed — “Can you feel my … thank you?”

“Uh huh…”

Softly a fine slide, a rocking in her spirit, her cuteness, her day this day, her pulse, my heart, a throb, a bob, her joy is my joy. Releasing …

We cuddled and I looked at the wine — we hadn’t needed it. But a little dessert didn’t seem like a bad idea. I opened a plastic bag, took out two cups, poured the wine, put cheese on a cracker.

“I love the salty blue,” she said.

“Yes, the Danish blue cheese is best.”

“Mmm.”

“Umm. could I ask, where did you learn to open the ngtqua? I thought Utcoozhoo made you turn your back when he did it.”

“Funny thing: When I went to the opera, it was a horrible performance. I thought if it had been Italy, they would have thrown tomatoes, and …”

“I meant to ask you — you said you saw Chloë at the opera?”

“Yeah. She was with Ngheufel. They couldn’t get over the incredible faux pas: one passage was supposed to be a simple running up the classical scale by a soprano, but Ngheufel said there was a flat 3 and a flat 7; 2 and 6 were missing. He said that’s obvious — they lapsed into a pentatonic blues scale. The singers themselves were stunned as if they didn’t know why they did that. During intermission, somehow, I got into a discussion with Ngheufel about tones and codes.”

“Ngheufel was with Chloë?”

“Yeah. He was with Chloë. Chloë sends her regards. She knows you don’t like the opera,” said Zawmb’yee.

I was feeling odd, maybe a little jealous. Chloë did ask me to go to the opera — maybe I should have gone; she said it’s more casual nowadays, but I don’t think I would have fit in. “Ngheufel told you …”

“We got into talking about harmony and we did the sound … that was embarrassing …”

“What do you mean?”

“We put a crack in a wall and security escorted us out. They were going to call the police, but Ngheufel did a weird thing …”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t know how to explain it exactly … he did a weird humming thing and said ‘don’t you think it’s too nice a day to do that’ or some such, and the staff all started humming and went off into the park. We went back inside. Chloë was upset — she wanted to know why I ran off with Ngheufel. I just told her we were discussing harmony. She was real angry, but the second act of the opera went well.”

ENTRY 24

“This is incredible,” I said, “Utcoozhoo was worried about Ngheufel making mischief, and this trouble seems deliberate…”

Zawmb’yee turned pale. She said, “He’s always been a prankster — he once tried to tell Utcoozhoo he knew the peace symbol in common vogue, but instead of showing two fingers, he told him that raising the middle finger was a sign of respect. Utcoozhoo gave him the middle finger but in proper context … We could be in trouble, but never mind. Have some more wine.”

We both didn’t want to even contemplate what conspiracy might really be going on. I drifted into something more neutral, “I don’t like opera very much. When it comes to music, I like the blues and improvisation. Utcoozhoo said to do something with that. He wanted me to write something casual in idiomatic English. He’s always saying to master simple poetry before attempting the poetry of the Gods.”

“Yeah. He always makes strange demands. Well, I don’t know, but I thought the poem you wrote on the canvas was pretty good. Are you still keeping your poem diary? ”

“Uh yeah … ”

“Um, and so, you brought wine and cheese for a surprise seduction, and then maybe, I’m thinking you brought your poem book. No?”

“ … Uh, how do you know these things … Well, I’ve got a pretty long one that rambles all over the place. I’m sort of wondering if it’ll pass in the up-top culture. It’s maybe too quirky and …”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re dying to read it. Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to practice meshing with the mainstream culture. I can take it. You’ve got something better to do? … Have some wine and let’s hear it.”

Our clothes were still too wet to put back on, and needing a diversion from arousal, I thought reading might be a good idea (I vowed never to go to a nudist colony because I’m easily distracted, and I could imagine having a problem constantly being seen…). I fumbled through the plastic bags, opened the book and turned to ‘Sax Piano Bird’

She said, “Well, what are you doing? Let’s hear it.”

“No, I’ve changed my mind, and I think I should stop writing poetry altogether.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve a bad feeling that they’re about to outlaw it in the up-top world except for Shakespeare,” I said.

“Why would they do that?”

“Because it’s subversive,” I said.

“But Shakespeare’s subversive.”

“Yeah, but it’s Old English and young people are forgetting how to read it,” I said.

“Well, at least tell me what your subversion is about,” she said.

“Well,” I said, “shall I glorify a paraphrase for love…”

“Yes do.”

“Well, the now secret title is ‘Sax Piano Bird’… Um, I’ll change it a little.”

“Yes, yes, yes, get on with it -- do your best translation on the go.”

“Zawmb’yee dear, if you will play, I will kiss your tune lips, because anything goes when I’m slinking down your keyboard, tickling doleful note doodles, plinking your chords, caressing pianissimo, bopping forte, top a’ ya board, yes indeed, I’m chording love accolades that stay for improvisations when cool mistys get hot, and if you will play, I shall be cool.

I will kiss your tune lips if you will transpose your glory keys to high toned harmony that sees me exposed with whistling kisses blown all sax-ified, but that’ll be after the race. Y’know it was a mystery that birds of a feather could have gotten the winner’s name from the horse’s mouthwash, but I had heard them say that you used to play with your pet cockatoo at the piano bar down by the racetrack at the end of the race, and so I decided to see for myself. When I got to the piano, the bird said, ‘Leave a tip.’

I said, ‘Baby Needs Shoes to win, place, or show me a new tune.’

But as they had said, it was your habit to nag the feathers off it to make it snatch bills out of patrons’ hands.”

“And um, uh…”

“Yes, continue the prose translation. I think you’ve kept most of the poetic spirit in it. So go be subversive. I won’t tell anyone,” Zawmb’yee said.

“Um yes, OK,” I said. “After you had played with your pet cockatoo, I tipped it into a snifter, hoping you’d play with me, because I bet on the nag. But then I had said to you, let’s go to the showers.

I had said that to install the clean in a froth of warmth, above a soapy love, you should join me in the shower stall by the steamy wall where flights of fancy are never scrubbed.

I had said to you that if you will, then I, with fragrant soap, will wash in tribute the toe that tested my waters, will in tribute cleanse the foot feats that two-stepped when I was a mere calf and you were knee high to a love like a soap opera. I had said to sing in the shower from your diaphragm where no melting soap is barred while I swoosh below your breasts with swirling helicopter hands taking off with haste as whirlybirds land on nipple pads.

I had said, if you would say, taxi to the terminal then the refueling hose could dock and the passengers could be served hot blessings, but I said remember: the fifth race is soon, time to place bets by the river on the sailboats, although we could check out the entries swimming in the racing waters where in trepidation you can put a toe in the water of my soul as I kiss it as I would a child’s boo-boo, offering you a future, a splash of my essence; I breathe your perfume, a cherry-flavored love.

You undress in my river and I kiss your thigh in baptism before lips. Like a mallard I swim aside, a breast in hand and hand in bush.

All goes swimmingly, as I reminisce first kisses raising my mast, sailing our ship, and now anything goes, even past the sunset in moonlit tunes splashed across the stars.’ ”...

[Douglas]

The comment box doesn't hold that much so I couldn't finish ENTRY 24...

[Joyce]

Tell me that full of strength and ardor for me, you escaped from the cave so you could come see me. And then you dumped Zawmb'yee forever because she gets you into too much trouble. Right?

[Douglas]

Joyce wrote: "Tell me that full of strength and ardor for me, you escaped from the cave so you could come see me. And then you dumped Zawmb'yee forever because she gets you into too much trouble. Right?"

Joyce,
Well, not quite. I couldn't leave because Zawmb'yee gave me a sultry look, touched her hips, cocked her head to the side, and hugged herself. She said, “the poem turned into prose does sort of ramble, but I like it … I see that your thank you is rising again …”

“Uh, umm, well umm …” I said because I was thinking of you Joyce and didn't know what to say, but then what was I to do because then

She ran naked down the stairs giggling.

[Douglas]

Well, so anyway, I guess I should print the end of ENTRY 24 and move on.

[Joyce]

Well, move out and be at the last post party on a horse, or riding a bull. But be careful.... And anyway, I can giggle too and sing opera...

[Douglas]

[finishing 24 and continuing]

She gave me a sultry look, touched her hips, cocked her head to the side, and hugged herself. She said, “It does sort of ramble, but I like it … I see that your thank you is rising again …”

“Uh, umm, well umm …”

She ran naked down the stairs giggling.

ENTRY 25

I was still gathering up our stuff when Zawmb’yee came running back up the stairs.

“It’s a miracle,” she said.

“What’s a miracle?”

“The pfayohoqwaahujpi sealed all the doors downstairs during the flood, and …”

“Yes?”

“And the bidet is working!”

“Doors? There are rooms?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? Oh, well … A lot of akwaki are just plain cisterns, but some are qwuakwaki even all the way down here. The Gods were remarkable; weren’t they?”

“Um, isn’t that a little vulgar for ‘Gods’: that they needed flush toilets …”

“Well, maybe, they just built it for us … I mean, they did save all the ice for us when the ice age ended and …”

“I didn’t know about that … is this part of the history Utcoozhoo is teaching you?”

“Yeah. Um, OK, let’s get organized here. I’ll finish cleaning up here … OK, all the doors are open and the lights are on. I think we’re safe for now, but I don’t think we’re going out the front door …”

“Is there a …”

“Go take a shower. I’ll be there in a minute — I have to get my stuff together.”

With all the commotion, I hadn’t even looked at the back of the ngtqua. Maybe if we had gone to the back in the first place, we would have escaped.

Towards the back began a marble floor, a sudden intrusion in the irregular limestone floor that led to the stairs …

ENTRY 26

I stepped onto the marble floor, and peered down the stairs. The first seven steps were glowing with the colors of the rainbow. An intense red glistened almost like a traffic light, but it was a go signal, a beckoning, not a stopping. My left foot plunged onto the red step. An orange shimmered on the second one. My right was pulled onto the orange slab, and a bright yellow beam forced me to squint. Intense yellow light made me wonder if the third would be hot like the sun. Looking down at the step, I was blinded and couldn’t see the rest of the stairs. I squatted down on the orange slab and reached out with my hand to see if there was any heat coming up from the yellow. Then I reached down, touching the third step with my finger. It was cool.

I stood up. There was a pull like an invisible tide. I was drawn onto a wide green landing with both feet, my legs feeling heavy, wanting to lie down, but I looked carefully, picked up the pace, got into a rhythm: left on blue, right on indigo, left on violet. The slabs became more regular, but now with colors in reverse order.

Running down the stairs, resisting the invisible tide wasn’t possible. Violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red, and again. Thirty-five steps. Arriving where?

ENTRY 27

Captured by the Gods

I went in the first open door. The Gods, I think, have good taste in the design of a bathroom. There was a dry marble basin thirty feet long, ten feet across. At the far end was a waterfall pouring into a drain. Along the near tile wall was a towel rack, and shelves with bars of soap.

Zawmb’yee came running in, dropped all her stuff on the floor and took my hand. “Shall we be clean now?” she said. “You know, Utcoozhoo says, ‘when lust is exhausted by overindulgence, the subtleties of love can be appreciated,’ ”

“That doesn’t sound like something Utcoozhoo would say…”

“OK. Yeah. He didn’t say that, but I say that. How about that expression, ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’ What was that … Benjamin Franklin or something — I don’t know. So let’s be clean. Take a bar of soap.”

Zawmb’yee ran under the waterfall, and came out saying, “Swoosh me with the soap.”

I am always inclined to be indulgent under such circumstances, and enjoyed the cleansing of the savage breast, while she endeavored to exhaust my lust as in her own prophesy, and I was not one to deny her. As they say, ‘one good poem deserves another’. She is like the rainbow under a waterfall.

ENTRY 28

When Zawmb’yee came out of the waterfall, I had noticed what looked like a metal dress and a suit of armor. Now I asked, “What are those?”

“Those are used to let us be washed by the gods. It’s sort of like a washing spacesuit.”

“How do you mean?”

“Here let me show you.” Zawmb’yee picked up the dress. It had hoses coming out the back of the waistband, and from there up to the wrists. She said, “Help me put this on. Now these cups with the clear hoses go over the breasts — see. Fasten it in the back for me … and these are washing panties … . Now you. Here … get into these metal briefs and …”

“What are all the hoses for?”

“That’s for the washing fluids … Here let me do this for you. Now this hose goes on like a condom, see … and we lock on the metal shorts — There, that snaps shut. ”

“Wait a minute … I don’t think I like wearing solid steel underwear. This is like a chastity belt or something and I can’t touch anything. How do I get this off …”

“Well, you don’t. It unlocks automatically when the wash is over. Don’t worry. Now we put on the rest of the suit. These armlets go on here.”

She looked very strange standing there in her dress with hoses extending from her wrists to her back. Another hose came out of her back and was anchored in the floor. She said it seals like a spacesuit. She told me to fasten her neck collar and wrist cuffs firmly so there’d be no leaks. She tightened her waist belt.

She said, “OK. As soon as I tighten up your suit, the wash of the Gods will start.”

As soon as the suit was sealed, our back hoses were pulled into the floor and we fell to the ground. Water sprayed in from the wrist hoses and they were drawn short into the back of the belt. I felt a lotion ooze into my briefs and then a massage and a vibration began. I felt an armlet tighten and then a needle prick. I looked at Zawmb’yee who was struggling, trying to get up. Her hands were pulled tightly behind her back.

I said to her, “I don’t think this is a ‘wash of the Gods’. This thing is collecting semen and blood.”

“What?” said Zawmb’yee. “Get up, get up — get this off me.”

The harder I tried to get up the shorter the hoses were pulled until my wrists were clamped together in the back of the belt. Then, we heard footsteps behind us, but we were pinned to the floor and couldn’t turn around to look.

Zawmb’yee shouted, “Help! We need some help here …”

I began to yell, “Yeah, we could use suh …” Suddenly, Zusoiti, the high priestess jammed a ball into my mouth.

Zawmb’yee screamed, “What are you doing?”

Zusoiti said, “I’m gagging him because he’s going to be here for a day or two, depending on how long it takes for the Gods to get enough samples, and we don’t need all the yelling.”

Zawmb’yee screamed, “Unlock me, unlock me …”

The high priestess shouted back, “Shut-up, or I’ll gag you too. This is sacrilege. Where’s your supervisor? You don’t belong here …”

“Get me out of this,” Zawmb’yee whispered.

“Well, it’s too late now in any case. Only the Gods can release you.”

“When will they do that?”

“It depends on your hormone levels. They have to analyze that and your DNA. Probably in a few hours.”

“What about him. What did you mean a day or two?”

“Well, that’s more complicated.”

Zawmb’yee started screaming again, “The armlets are stabbing me … unlock me, unlock me …”

“I told you I can’t.” Zusoiti gagged her. “Now, calm down, you’ll get through this. You weren’t supposed to just wander in here on your own. Don’t tell me — Ngheufel got you to do this.”

ENTRY 29

Zusoiti had always seemed comic and bizarre. She claimed to have naturally purple hair meant to complement her green eyes, but she was too tall to be a cat, too attractive to be a witch. It’s a wonder that anyone took her seriously, or ever gave her any authority. Now she was just very dangerous. Zusoiti seemed to have second thoughts about Zawmb’yee. She patted Zawmb’yee on the head, turned toward me, “You like blondes?” She laughed.

Zusoiti shook her purple hair like a wet dog. She walked over to me, sat on my legs, looked around for something. I was lying too flat to see what she was doing. She tied my ankles to the floor. “I like to help the gods. This helps complete the process.”

I made a noise. Struggled again.

Zusoiti barked, “Easy does it,” and giggled like a hyena. “Prepare yourself. I suggest that you relax as much as you can. Remember, the Gods brought us out of the Kingdom of Ice to the Inner Gardens.”

I shook my head. Trying to get my hands loose, I moaned.

“It’s best that you rest because in a few hours, the Gods will be expecting a sizable semen sample. If that doesn’t happen, the Gods will hold you for another day and try again.”

The gag was too hard to chew on. I tried to blow it out.

Zusoiti kept talking. “If you prepare yourself for a respectful donation, the Gods will be pleased.”

ENTRY 30

I thought, perhaps, that if I pulled rhythmically, very hard, that everything would start to loosen.

Zusoiti said, “It’s foolish for you to indulge your fears when that will inhibit your performance. Listen to me. I will soothe you if you will embrace the glory of the Gods, for I am the guardian of the purple light, messenger of the Keeper of the faith. The names are to be spoken only by me.”

I was beginning to fall into a panic. Zusoiti was sounding more and more irrational. I never realized until now what a religious fanatic she was. I had thought the traditionalists were just harmless rustic rabble, irrational bumpkins, like discredited Shakespearean witches of only metaphorical value.

I never thought such persons would gain any political power or status in the community. I always thought growing up that ‘high priestess’ was a quaint ceremonial title — I never took it seriously. I could only moan.

“I will remove your gag. I hope you will be reasonable.” She removed it.

“You psychopath,” I said. “What you call the Gods are not what you think. You’re delusional. You must …”

She pushed the gag back in. “Paradise can be yours,” she said, “if the Gods choose you.” She seemed to want to go well beyond what the Gods had already done. “It would be best that you rest and regenerate,” she reiterated. “They can keep you alive with intravenous nourishment only for a limited amount of time.”

ENTRY 31

Leaning over me, Zusoiti brushed my face with her purple hair. A purple medallion was swinging from her neck. She said, “I must attend to Zawmb’yee. If you cooperate, things might be better for her. She did violate the rules, y’know, and the Grand Council has given me the authority to take custody of her after the Gods release her. I might be persuaded to be lenient.”

I made a noise. I tried to kick.

“Yes, well, I suppose there is value in struggle. Go ahead and exhaust yourself. I’ll be back.”

Swinging her medallion, Zusoiti sauntered over to Zawmb’yee, carrying a large purple bag with odd emblems on it. The medallion glowed, then beamed like a search light. Zawmb’yee tried to kick her, but was out of range. Zusoiti circled around her, came up behind her, and shined the beam in her face. “Hmm, I think the Gods are finished with you,” she said. She removed the gag.

Zawmb’yee said, “What do you mean? Ouch. I got jabbed again. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing that. The Gods have completed their work. You will soon lose consciousness for half an hour as is proscribed in the visions of the Gods. The Grand Council has authorized me to take custody of you thereafter to determine your punishment.”

“Are you nuts? … I will …”

“So you are sleepy now, and I will do my duty. Have a nice nap.” Zusoiti laughed.

[Douglas]

[finishing 31 and continuing]

Zawmb’yee stopped moving. All the hoses unlocked and fell off. Zusoiti stripped the dress off her, removed the armlets, and turned her over. Zusoiti gleefully unzipped her equipment bag to pull out purple things. She handcuffed Zawmb’yee’s hands behind her back, and put a purple leash around her neck.

“There!” she shouted across at me. “What shall I do with her?”

ENTRY 32

Zusoiti Stalking Prey

Zusoiti looked back at me like she was stalking prey. She returned to hover over me. “Shall we try this again? I’m removing your gag, but if you’re disrespectful I’ll put it back.” She took it out. “Understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Wouldn’t you agree that the struggle has gotten you nowhere, and that you’re quite exhausted?”

“Yes.”

“Remember the stairs you came down to get here”

“Very colorful…”

“Indeed! While you’re waiting for the Gods, we can do an exercise about mountain stairs. Close your eyes. Imagine you’re standing on a grassy plateau. There are beautiful violets. You are stepping through the violets to a ledge where the stairs begin with a wide blue step … How are you feeling now?”

“I’m tired …”

“Yes you are. Aren’t the mountain stairs beautiful in the warm sun?”

“I think I remember mountain stairs like this in a dream.”

“Yes, dream stairs can be wonderful — can’t they?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, imagine you step through violets down a blue sorrow step. Crying, you descend onto a green envy path, downward onto an inevitable orange step that falls into a red one. A step down into violets … and you see my favorite color. Do you see it?”

“Yes.”

“And the violets make you sleepy …”

“Uh huh.”

“Where are you going now?”

“I’m going down to the blue step, but I’m so tired …”

“You must continue. They are spiraling mountain stairs now with grassy ledges. You are spiraling down from the blue to a grassy green landing, tumbling into orange, falling into red passion, taking another step down into violets where you hear me welcome you into gentle blue sleep on the grassy meadow you have reached by the orange rock, and the violets of my authority …”

I faded off to sleep. Zusoiti didn’t seem like such a bad person after all.

ENTRY 33

I woke up at the top of the stairs where Zawmb’yee and I first entered the ngtqua and got caught in the flood. Zawmb’yee was standing to the side of the front door that was now open, but Zusoiti was holding her by her leash. Zawmb’yee yelled, “Run.”

I started to get up and found that my hands were cuffed behind my back. I walked towards the door.

Zusoiti pulled on a chain and I was yanked back by a leash that was around my neck. Zusoiti flashed her medallion at me and said, “Do you have something to say to me?”

I said, “Zusoiti is the only true prophet and I will do as she wishes.”

Zawmb’yee gasped. She tried to pull towards the door.

Zusoiti said, “Good. I am the only true prophet. I will reward you. Zawmb’yee will be your slave for six months.” Zusoiti unlocked my hands and removed my leash. She put Zawmb’yee’s chain in my hand and said, “Take her and go.”

I pulled Zawmb’yee out the door. I said, “Come quickly and don’t talk.”

I yanked her by her leash, pulled her along the narrow ledge, made her jump down. She was resisting, but I pushed her to the right of the Sword of the Silver-red Stalagmite, past the Qukwerpfm.

She screamed, “What happened to you. What are you doing. Let go of me.”

I put my finger to my lips, pointed at the walls and then to my ear. I yanked her severely along.

I said, “I’m taking you to my quarters, slave. This is your just punishment. Be admonished that Zusoiti is the only true prophet.”

I hurried her along and made her run. I told her there would be further punishments if she didn’t cooperate.

We reached the exit of the caves. I threw her down on the ground and unlocked her handcuffs and leash.

I said, “I had to pretend to believe in Zusoiti as prophet so we could get out of there. Zusoiti is a lunatic, and she had microphones in the cave.”

ENTRY 34

Utcoozhoo Arrives

Zawmb’yee was angry. She thought I should have told her not to play with the equipment left by the Gods, and I should have known that it was dangerous. I said, “You’re the one who’s studying our culture. You’re supposed to know what all the artifacts are. Didn’t Utcoozhoo warn you about these devices?”

“Yeah well. Utcoozhoo is too slow to show me anything, and Ngheufel told me…”

“Damn. Ngheufel could’ve gotten us killed and …”

There was rustling and noise coming out of the forest. Utcoozhoo was waving and shouting, “Come quickly. Get over here now.”

The layers of camouflage made it impossible to move quickly. Pushing through the thicket of artificial metal leaves and brambles was an art form of choreography, difficult under stress, almost impossible for exhausted casualties of the Gods. We had been through this maze many times before, and we tried as best we could to fall into our trained routine for secret exit.

Utcoozhoo said, “Come on. There’s a satellite mapping this area — we don’t want them to identify an entrance to the caves. Ugh. You kids are gonna blow our cover. Let’s go!”

Zawmb’yee and I stumbled into a clearing. I said, “Uncle Utcoozhoo, I thought we were dead. We almost drowned and then Zusoiti. … ”

“Yes, I know,” Utcoozhoo said. “Zusoiti is a nut, but most of the Ut’ishsih who have moved out of the caves are not using their voting rights. It is going to be difficult to impeach her, or vote her out of office. I haven’t seen either you, Doug, or Zawmb’yee on the voter list. This is a bad situation: if we can’t get her off the Grand Council … well … um … it might take extralegal means to do it. This is serious. If she gets control of the apparatus of the Gods, it could affect us and the up-top world … — they might even overreact and think there’s an alien invasion. It could get ugly.”

Zawmb’yee was indignant. “Who the hell does she think she is. She was going to make me a slave and …”

“She might have done much worse,” said Utcoozhoo. “I think you should hide in Doug’s apartment until I can negotiate a commutation of your sentence. She’s one of the hermits who’s never been to the up-top world. I think you’ll be safe if you stay out of the caves for a while.”

I said, “I can’t believe all this. Are there ‘Gods’ or not?”

“There are the Gods of material things and there are the spirits who infuse all dimensions …”

“Huh? What?”

“There has been a great deal of overlap and confusion between different points-of-view. At one point in our history the Priests and Scientists tried to team up. The scientists tried to reverse engineer the devices the Gods left and combine it with their crude machines. The Priest Class had a tendency to mimic or copy the form of the Gods behavior and tried to duplicate it with prayers and magic rituals. Neither did very well. So most of the artifacts are not really of the Gods but are the result of crude experiments in mimicry and power and the armor of the silly.”

“Silly and lunatic,” said Zawmb’yee.

“Yes,” said Utcoozhoo, “in their different ways they both quoted the Gods to justify the evil they did. At a certain point, neither were really speaking to the Gods who had long ago departed. But each had their weapons of choice to maintain power.”

I said, “So then are there or were there spiritual Gods of unlimited power of the same nature as the one favorite God that the Mekibota cling to without much success?”

“Yeah,” said Zawmb’yee, “the up-top Mekibota are fighting wars all the time, and no one is getting any kind of spiritual help to protect the innocent.”

“Uh huh,” I said, “That’s right. The best of people are not protected from evil no matter who they pray to by whatever name. So how does one conjure up the right name and the right favorite, and how do they know who they’re speaking to? Sometimes on both sides of a War, each side claims to be praying to the authentic choice of a God, but apparently they are choosing different ones, because they have radically different beliefs and behaviors and yet each choice of a God they say approves of their cause.”

“I’ll say this about that,” said Utcoozhoo, “Zusoiti does nothing in service to the Gods, but only in service to herself and her powers. She claims an intimacy with them, but she is delusional. Her artifacts are crude toys made by us and not by the Gods, except perhaps a few devices she, a long time ago, was able to steal from Naztko, an elder, guardian of the Forbidden Zone.”

“Huh? What? Well I think I see something about history but that, pardon me, was a ramble. Are there omnipotent Gods or not.”

“There is a purpose to the ramble. It just means I’m avoiding your question for now. You’ve had enough adventure. Your questions can wait … But , by the way, I did hear your crisis communication during the flood. You do have the potential to develop that skill. You did find the lever to open the flood gates — right?”

“Uh yeah.”

“Well, in that flash message, you said a lot. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner — I was away. That moment of fusion allowed me to see that you’re very impatient. I can see you’re a bit reckless and impulsive like Zawmb’yee…”

“Impulsive?” said Zawmb’yee, “who’s impulsive. I think I’ll run off with Doug to the Bahamas right now…Hmm, Doug’s impulsive? Seems calm to me…”

“Ha, that’s funny, Zawmb’yee,” said Utcoozhoo. “Doug, you were thinking of trying to operate the Drilling Machine of the Gods. That would have been exceedingly dangerous. Look here — I’ll get you a cable hookup in your quarters when this brouhaha quiets down, if you promise not to tamper with any of the machines of the Gods. Drilling through rock is a simple operation when you know how.”

Zawmb’yee was crying, “Utcoozhoo, how can you be talking about computer hookups when I was violated. I can’t even be sure what was done to me …” Sobbing, Zawmb’yee reached for Utcoozhoo. When he put out his arms to hug her, she ran to him, and knocked him over. He turned her on her side and stroked her hair.

“It’ll be all right,” he said. And he cried. “My poor Zawmb’yee, I’m so sorry. I should have warned you. Please forgive me.”

[Cosmos]

EXCELLENT!