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{“We are all serving a life sentence in the prison of the mind.”
- Mark Twain.}
{Samuel Clemens, ghost, here.
Some of you out there wonder why I speak of Roland as if he were dead.
He is.
Died in the Shadowlands. All that remains of him is his slightly burnt journal.
I gave him my word I would take care of Gypsy and man his blog until his rent came due.
I’ve been posting entries from his smoke-stained journal, detailing what led to his dying in Marlene’s arms … and then, her being murdered by ….
Dang tears. Excuse me a minute.
Anyway, when we last left him …
Roland, the ghost of Marlene Dietrich, and I have finally shed Death. When she wasn’t frightening me near to senselessness, she was confusing the tarnation out of me.
Death has opened the dreaded Door of Nasah, (which I have since learned is ancient Hebrew for TESTING),
opening the way back to Meilori’s, that supernatural jazz club and possible sanctuary for us. Roland enters first. And I will let Roland carry on from there.} :
I heard both Marlene and Mark yelp in surprise as the darkness swallowed us. I went cold inside. I couldn't feel them inside my mind anymore.
I was alone.
And the blackness became alive.
What I saw taught me a terrible lesson :
We are all of us deceived.
Science tells us that the world is in constant motion.
It is but illusion. Reality is but static moments in time, placed one after another. All still as your last breath, they are frozen in the fabric of eternity, waiting for you to enter them.
As the darkness smothered me, my Lakota blood showed me one glimpse into life after another :
Along the trees of Piccadilly Circus, little girls in sprigged muslin giggled as they rolled their wooden hoops, the long navy ribbons of their straw hats fluttering in the spring breeze.
Along the Thames, half-lidded young women twirled their parasols and looked coyly at their young men rowing them across the calm waters.
In New York’s Central Park, a young poet sat beneath an acacia tree believing that life would be beautiful forever.
In one dark boardroom after another, fat power brokers sipped their brandy, smoked their expensive cigars, and dreamed of the world grasped firmly in their hands.
And alone, the ghost of Ernest Hemingway was sprawled motionless by my bed, his dropped cigar still smoldering.
And that last image was all that meant a damn to me.
He had been my friend. And no one killed my friends without paying the price. And if that meant me breaking my promise to myself never to kill again, so be it.
And with that grim resolution, the world came to life around me. I was in Meilori's again. In the very part of it where Toya had ambushed me. I looked about.
Neither Sam, Toya, or Bast was there. But there was someone I recognized. He was talking to a group of fascinated, admiring beings, some human, some anything but.
I went all cold inside.
There was a reason I recognized that person.
He was me.
********************
- Mark Twain.}
{Samuel Clemens, ghost, here.
Some of you out there wonder why I speak of Roland as if he were dead.
He is.
Died in the Shadowlands. All that remains of him is his slightly burnt journal.
I gave him my word I would take care of Gypsy and man his blog until his rent came due.
I’ve been posting entries from his smoke-stained journal, detailing what led to his dying in Marlene’s arms … and then, her being murdered by ….
Dang tears. Excuse me a minute.
Anyway, when we last left him …
Roland, the ghost of Marlene Dietrich, and I have finally shed Death. When she wasn’t frightening me near to senselessness, she was confusing the tarnation out of me.
Death has opened the dreaded Door of Nasah, (which I have since learned is ancient Hebrew for TESTING),
opening the way back to Meilori’s, that supernatural jazz club and possible sanctuary for us. Roland enters first. And I will let Roland carry on from there.} :
I heard both Marlene and Mark yelp in surprise as the darkness swallowed us. I went cold inside. I couldn't feel them inside my mind anymore.
I was alone.
And the blackness became alive.
What I saw taught me a terrible lesson :
We are all of us deceived.
Science tells us that the world is in constant motion.
It is but illusion. Reality is but static moments in time, placed one after another. All still as your last breath, they are frozen in the fabric of eternity, waiting for you to enter them.
As the darkness smothered me, my Lakota blood showed me one glimpse into life after another :
Along the trees of Piccadilly Circus, little girls in sprigged muslin giggled as they rolled their wooden hoops, the long navy ribbons of their straw hats fluttering in the spring breeze.
Along the Thames, half-lidded young women twirled their parasols and looked coyly at their young men rowing them across the calm waters.
In New York’s Central Park, a young poet sat beneath an acacia tree believing that life would be beautiful forever.
In one dark boardroom after another, fat power brokers sipped their brandy, smoked their expensive cigars, and dreamed of the world grasped firmly in their hands.
And alone, the ghost of Ernest Hemingway was sprawled motionless by my bed, his dropped cigar still smoldering.
And that last image was all that meant a damn to me.
He had been my friend. And no one killed my friends without paying the price. And if that meant me breaking my promise to myself never to kill again, so be it.
And with that grim resolution, the world came to life around me. I was in Meilori's again. In the very part of it where Toya had ambushed me. I looked about.
Neither Sam, Toya, or Bast was there. But there was someone I recognized. He was talking to a group of fascinated, admiring beings, some human, some anything but.
I went all cold inside.
There was a reason I recognized that person.
He was me.
********************
Well now. That certainly complicates things a bit! You'll have to be pretty darn clever to outsmart yourself...and how will anyone know which is the real you? A job for Gypsy, perhaps? Curiouser and curiouser....
ReplyDeleteLoved the story you posted on my blog. I was wondering, do you still have that book?
Take care!
Word Crafter : When my home burned some years back, it burned with it. But strangest thing, as long as I had it, it kept that new book smell. Perhaps it was The Father's way of honoring that kind bookkeeper.
ReplyDeleteI like to think it is waiting for me in that land that knows no shadows. I'm glad you liked my memory. Roland
Oh wow, the plot's thickening! I thought you were alive, now you're dead. I need to find out what happens next!!!
ReplyDelete"...the ghost of Ernest Hemingway was sprawled motionless by my bed, his dropped cigar still smoldering." Where we stared this story.
ReplyDelete"All that remains of him is his slightly burnt journal."
And then seeing himself/yourself at the bar and your horrible experience with fire.
Hmmmmm....