The Warm-Up Act for the Aristocrats (…or Low-Brow High-Diving)

I had to push an oyster through a coin slot

to go on my favorite ride,

The Monkey with Two Backs.

The boardwalk was teeming

with inquisitors that night,

but I had a little Time to Kill

before we went onstage.

The sign said

You have to be THIS BIG

to go on this ride,

which should have been no problem,

until I learned I had to stand up straight

to qualify.

We did

The Monkey Dance

Like there was No Tomorrow

and for all I knew that night, there was none,

and if there hadn’t been

I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

By the time I got inside the theater

My friends were already

Performing like Porn Stars.

I stood there gawking behind her

as she bent over

leaning forward

on her knees,

swallowing

the Anaconda.

Her face was turned away from me,

but her blind eye

winked knowingly,

inviting me

to come inside,

like a starfish

doing jumping-jacks.

Mister Weasel’s French cousin

Monsieur Huis’elle was

Patiently awaiting

A nod, a wink

and a flash of pink

From Madame Huis’elle

(she is no mere Mademoiselle, to be sure)

to mount Jacob’s ladder

and climb

the Tower of Babel

to perch on the platform,

wings spread

like an Anhinga,

as I launched myself into the rafters,

poised for the longest of instants

hanging in midair,

I imagined I was

diving out of a midnight-black sky

so full of stars you couldn’t count them all

in a hundred centuries,

straight down

into a single clam

naked

Laid Wide-Open,

and slathered with salty butter

on two half-shells.

Ta-Dah!

(she was delicious).

The Talking Monkeys: Charles

Charles

Charles raced back to his cubicle to avoid any additional occurrences being recorded on his schedule adherence record. On a fifteen-minute break, he was allowed a one minute “grace period” before he accrued half a point. Anything up to three hours was also half a point. Beyond three hours was one point. Sixty-One Seconds late for work was half a point, up to three hours; no doctor’s note, traffic citation, accident report or note from your mother made any difference; if it was an “Unscheduled Event”, you took your half a point, no exceptions. If you clocked off your computer more than three minutes before the end of your shift, you got half a point, but if you were smart, you waited for your supervisor to clear you after it was established that there were no more calls in cue. A supervisor could make your life a living hell if they did not actually like you, because by PharmaCorp’s rules, you were already fucked by definition, since you were only tolerated by The Management for as long as you didn’t bring too much attention to yourself, made them money, and didn’t cost them any more than anybody else.

It was not at all unusual for an employee to receive an “Atta Boy” (complimentary report from a member/customer/patient), only to have the call reviewed by a member of the Quality Management Team, and receive negative, derogatory, or disciplinary actions to be put in their file, to be used at corrective action hearings, or during yearly evaluations, when your pay raise, if any, was determined. Keep Your Head Low…Stay Below the Radar at All Times.

For every Memo or SOP, there is its antithesis, waiting, to be sited by Management, at their discretion to fit whatever agenda suits their purposes at that time. No Exceptions (…except at the sole discretion and express stipulation of Management, as determined by them, at any time, and without any further warning or written change of policy).

Charles had acquired IFMLA (Intermittent Family Medical Leave Act) certification for a short laundry-list of medical conditions that had been documented since he began to work for PharmaCorp.  If he was going to be late for work, or needed to take off too much time for his own doctors’ visits in addition to a number of other medical conditions for which his wife was being treated, as long as he had an adequate supply of PTO (paid time off), he simply needed to call out on the Attendance Line, call his supervisor, and then log onto an automated response telephone line run by an independently-owned contractor that took about fifteen minutes to record, if everything went well the first time…it usually took almost thirty minutes, even if you were prepared with the claim number, ID number, password, date of claim, time of claim, and type of claim. It was not at all uncommon to have the automated response system inform you that they had no record of that claim, and then disconnect you without warning or recourse. If it required being referred to a live person, that time would usually last about an hour. Believe it or not, although by comparison, Charles had learned how to use the system to his benefit; it still required him to document illnesses and conditions he had acquired while working for that system, and even then, your lunch and other scheduled breaks could get you fired. Twelve points in twelve months equals termination.

Last week, an associate of his had been fired without warning for too many accruals. Just like that. Came to her desk right after lunch and Security escorted her away to (In)Human Relations for a meeting, while another supervisor cleaned out her personal belongings from her desk, placed them into a white cardboard archives box, and handed them to her as she left the office, once they told her she was fired. No previous incidents, So sorry. Just like that.

Eight years earlier, he took the job thinking it was a temporary alternative… (to being unemployed). Freedom Medical Supply was then bought by Rexco, who was then bought out by PharmaCorp, his current employer. Four years earlier, he suffered a general nervous breakdown. Anywhere else, he never would have been able to keep his job. Here, hardly anyone noticed. He had been up and down so many times he lost count. Eighty thousand dollars in commissions, plus over thirty thousand in salary and overtime in one year, but less than half that amount a year later. Sixty grand gross the next year, and half that the next. He was back on the upside for about the last year, but any good fortune that came along just made him hold his breath as he prepared for the next shitstorm…not if, but when….

He often referred to himself and his peers as Lab Rats. As he saw it, they all were participating in a carefully controlled experiment in Human Engineering, to see exactly how much productivity could be extracted from a human being before it was officially documented and proven to be inhumane. Fuck the MLD (a pharmaceutical reference to the median (lethal) dose needed to kill one-half of its recipients.)…just wait until Congress decrees it to be inhumane, and then just claim “Who Knew?”

Just like the tobacco companies, except that in this case, psychological harm and mental impairment are very difficult to track and document in terms that the courts would find to be meaningful or significant. Similarly, being able to link cardiac, cancer, or diabetic diseases, or even erectile dysfunction to stress might prove to be even more difficult, no matter how obvious it appeared to the doctors who treated those employees. The healthcare insurance that PharmaCorp provided was a PPO, and the network providers in general had a distinct proclivity for avoiding addressing the issue in the first place. Most of the providers worked in the same building, and were sub-contracted by a single Management and Payroll contractor. It doesn’t take too long to realize upon what side your bread is buttered. Risk Management (Damage Control) Divisions work
hand-in-hand with Legal departments to push that envelope as hard and as far as possible, using seemingly unlimited resources and funds to discourage any challenges, even to what would have been regarded as flagrant violations of several civil rights and liberties formerly believed to be Constitutionally guaranteed.

How much time was spent on “personal non-work” (Bio-Breaks)? Management knows…to the second. How much time was actually spent “talking”? It’s also timed to the second automatically…. What was your “wrap-up time”? Tick, Tock, Tick Tock….What is your Adherence? How many conversions? What is your ratio of Rx’s per hour? What is your work percentage? Better hurry up, the clock is ticking, the recorder is documenting…Charles began to joke about “repetitive thought injury,” calling it “Cerebral Tunnel Syndrome.” All verbal responses, even the rebuttals, were very tightly scripted. If you stuck close enough to the script, you could even type while you rattled off paragraph after paragraph of required statements, legal disclaimers and other verbal mantras that no longer required mentation to recite. The script was the doctrine and dogma of the call center, and all heretics were subject to be burned at the stake (at the sole discretion of Management).

He would awake from bizarre dreams involving programs that wouldn’t open, or screens that populated with inappropriate information, all the while chanting the script. Then he started to notice that he couldn’t recall familiar names or words or terms that once sprang from his tongue like flushed quail from a bush…or his own phone number…or the name of an old friend.

It was the brain’s version of repetitive motion injury. He speculated it was from excessive stimulation of specific sets of neurons causing a build-up in acetylcholinesterase in response to high levels of acetylcholine caused by the rapid-fire stimulus-response mediated reactions to a very limited number of stimuli, but that was just his own best guess. After all, he was just a retired paramedic, not a neurologist. It just seemed to him that it was too much like stepping on the gas and revving the engine with the brakes locked and the transmission in gear. And that never even took into account the effects of SS/NRI (selective serotonin/norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors) that so many of his colleagues, as well as he were taking for depression. Charles once described the effects of these “next generation” anti-depressants as like experiencing a home invasion of your brain at the hands of party crashers you never met before, or having homeless people set up housekeeping in your attic.

He also began to realize the effects of the two-edged sword of stress and depression upon his general, as well as his mental health. Eventually he realized that after he could no longer feel anger over the daily offenses to his character and intelligence, the Depression would set in. For a long time, those seemed to be his choices, Unruly Anger or Compliant Depression. Eventually, humor proved to be his saving grace, although it frequently got him into trouble with Management, or rather middle-management, who became his nemesis over his “attitude”, fearing that it might “corrupt” the other employees.

Charles no longer possessed the ability to feel fear the way he had once felt it before. For one thing, Romance was back in his life in a very real way, and he and his wife were back in love and back on track as a joint entity in a way they had never experienced before, after over twenty years of marriage and three children, no less. Over the years, they had grown progressively farther and farther out of sync until only dysfunction and hostility remained until a series of intriguing coincidences brought them together again. Off and on, one or the other would try to revive the corpse of their marriage to no real avail. It was as if this was the one thing in his life that was so hopelessly fucked up for so much of his life that when he finally realized how easy it is to be happy and essentially fearless, a discernable calm passed over him that had been conspicuous in its absence. He said that Zen had taught him the difference between being emotionally dependent upon the kind of love that needed to be reciprocated from love that needed no payoff, that gave you pleasure just to give without expectations…now for the first time they were both doing the same thing at the same time for each other.

They spoiled and indulged each other in every way they could, even when they were broke, because acknowledgement, validation, appreciation, and some good old-fashioned idolatry cost nothing. As a result, it seemed like nothing threatened them anymore, as long as they had each other in the here and now. It seemed like they encircled each other in a protective spell of positivity that remained unbroken and imparted a state of mind that is infinitely calm and focused that generates, self-replicates, and attracts more Joy and subtle manifestations of power and peace into  Life itself. They became fearless as each became the other’s idol.

Charles was something of a Jack of All Trades, but he had developed a mastery of more than a few things that made him invaluable to The Home for Wayward Souls and in many ways, he could have been their poster child, and The Home for Wayward Souls was a perfect outlet for his energies. He generally shunned the spotlight, and preferred to play a more supportive but occult role. His expertise ranged from Music to Martial Arts, from Saucier to Security and Countermeasures, from Medicine to Mayhem, from Electronics to the Occult, Auto Mechanics and Gunsmithing. He could troubleshoot almost anything that was broken or inoperable well enough to at least to get you home on a wing and a prayer. He loved to improvise, and if anyone knew a way to make high explosives out of a stick of butter, it was him.

The Talking Monkeys and The Home for Wayward Souls: The ArchAngels

The ArchAngels

Most of the members of the ArchAngels were college buddies Ash had known for years. When The Home for Wayward Souls became financially self-sufficient, Ash began contacting them to make arrangements to put them all on salary on a full-time permanent basis. Their talents and skills ranged from “professional” musicians who were proficient sight-readers who fully understood the fundamentals of Harmonization and Theory who had been schooled to players who were strictly “by ear” but who possessed an uncanny knack for keeping up with everyone else who nonetheless provided a great deal of originality and innovation that often took the best skills of the schooled musicians to interpret into charts and arrangements for the entire band.

Although the original ArchAngels rarely ever performed in any configuration larger than about seven members at any one given time, their repertoire was gleaned from over two dozen regulars, some of whom would appear at the last minute and simply “sit in” with the rest of the band who had rehearsed during the week. In similar fashion, the new, improved ArchAngels who performed on a weekly basis and rehearsed on a daily schedule were often augmented by guest players who were not paid who were usually long-time friends of Ash, as well as occasional guest stars who sat in just for “shits and giggles”. The Sanctuary was fast becoming known as a haven for innovative musicians and a prime venue to showcase their talents, as well as to just enjoy playing and exchanging ideas among the Avant-Garde of their field.

Although Ash had studied several semesters of Harmony and Theory in college and was not only a proficient player, but a skilled writer, the ArchAngels were like a comet that Ash had hitchhiked a ride from, and as bandleader, he often referred to himself as The Tail that Wags the Dog. He was as grateful to act as host, (just to be a part of a band that was this good) as his band members were to having a regular gig that paid reasonably well and provided healthcare and retirement benefits in a field where that had been previously unheard. Ash and Kali both considered the ArchAngels to be their family, and they were frequently guests for meals and other occasions. When there were sufficient guest quarters available that were not being used by either guest speakers or out-of-town celebrities, they were often in use by members of the band, who might not even leave the compound for days at a time.

His background singers, the Soul Chorus came from every genre, but all had to be proficient and knowledgeable in Gospel. As long as they could harmonize, improvise, and hit the right notes, they all brought something unique to the mix. One of the sopranos was schooled in opera, and had tremendous range and discipline, but could get funkier than a Baptist minister’s scrotum in July when the occasion and need arose. Most were either rock or jazz vocalists, but with that much talent, there was no room for prima donnas, and as a rule the ladies quickly learned you either had to get along or get out because if it wasn’t fun, and if it didn’t seem effortless, the whole point would have been lost.

The percussion and rhythm section bordered on organized chaos, because they frequently used two complete trap sets, congas, timbales, gongs, marimbas, chimes, vibes, tubular bells, steel drums and just about every other sort of noisemaker or toy that might appeal to a percussionist’s tastes. These “drummers” were by far the most animated, energetic, and childlike members of the band. They could get a little unruly or out of control at times, but they were also the driving force behind almost everything that they performed, and seemed to take it upon themselves to ensure that everyone was having a great time.

They also tended to be practical jokers that favored sight gags and physical comedy, which they often carried out extemporaneously during the performances, especially on Saturday nights. It also was not uncommon for the members of the rhythm section to trade roles, even in the middle of the performances, jumping around and changing instruments or seats without warning. Raphael, the bassist was the unofficial leader of the rhythm section because he was well-liked and good-natured enough to keep up with their shenanigans, but also highly respected as a musician who had an uncommon presence to him that could have been menacing were he not so affable. He made it easy to do what he told you to do, but if you veered off course too far you risked bringing out the gunnery sergeant in him…not a person you would want to piss off.

Neville was a Rastafarian who shared the stage with Grant, a die-hard Metal Rocker who claimed to be somehow related to Aynsley Dunbar, but nobody cared enough about to either refute or verify. The longer Grant was with the ArchAngels, the less he seemed to need to mention it; besides, he was becoming something of a star in his own right. Yoshi was a true master of tuned percussion from vibraphone to every manner of bell or chime, including steel drums, sometimes doing duets with Neville. Grant was the only member of the rhythm section that looked like he was chained to his seat. Neville and Yoshi would practically fly from congas to tympani and back while Grant laid down a backbeat as regular as railroad ties. Sometimes Neville would play counter rhythms on his trap set giving certain original pieces they had written a decidedly jazz polyrhythmic feel. It was also not unusual for them to press other members of the band into service if they were not actively playing their assigned instrument at the time.

The keyboardists were more like orchestra conductors, given the fact that they not only coordinated pianos, organs, synthesizers, and string ensembles, but they generally wrote the charts for the reeds and woodwinds. Karan also played viola and cello, as well as flute, and on occasion even performed on trombone, making you think of Glenn Miller (but only if you were either old enough, or happened to be a musicologist). She had what is sometimes called perfect relative pitch, because she had a very keen ear for intervals and could almost instantly identify which instrument…or voice was sharp or flat, but could still reference all the pitches, even to an out-of-tune piano if necessary. Ian was her perfect co-conspirator, and an understudy of hers who had been taking piano lessons from her since he was eight years old. There was an unspoken language that passed between them in the form of music that, so matter how polyphonic or abstract the tonality of one or the other one got, they effortlessly resolved the harmonies in a way that Ash described as a musical uroborus, although Karan preferred to call it soixante-neuf harmonization. Given her proclivity for…well, let’s just call it mischief; it was no secret that her best student had been studying a myriad of things under her tutelage, and although he was almost twenty years her junior, he was not the least shy about offering that “We make Music like it was Sex because we also make Sex like it was Music.”

Red played tenor and baritone sax, occasionally both at once, like Roland Kirk. A self-described electric be bopper who got his nickname because of his long strawberry blonde hair; no one had any idea how old Red really was, because to listen to him talk, you would think he was at least seventy, just by his fixation with fifties jazz and its jargon (everyone was a cat to him, for instance), but he had all his hair although his face had that bronzed appearance that no one except George Hamilton or a homeless person gets, including the leathery wrinkles. Mutton chop sideburns almost met the walrus/Foo Manchu mustache offset by a soul patch under his bottom lip. The only time anyone had ever seen him without his sunglasses and his hat was when Ash and Kali went to visit him in the hospital right out of surgery…still recovering from the anesthesia, they gave the hat and glasses back to him by way of the ER, knowing it would be his first request. He even swam in the pool in his hat and sunglasses, and it was rumored that he bathed and showered in them, although Sonja, his mulatto Puerto Rican girlfriend who put him in the Emergency Room after she stabbed him was unavailable for comment as to whether he slept or screwed with them on. It would only be a short matter of time before there would be a new expert on the subject, however, if any of them had been curious, since Red rarely ever was found wanting for female companionship for any significant length of time.

Ishmael played alto and soprano saxes, clarinet, and flutes, and had degrees in both Mathematics and Physics, as well as Music. Ish was a germophobe, although he was quick to point out to anyone who called him one that the more correct term was Mysophobia, (fear of uncleanliness). He carried a battery powered ultraviolet light with him everywhere, scanning for evidence of the presence of bodily fluids. It was embarrassing to be somewhere in public and witness him scan all the adjacent surfaces within his reach, but it was also disturbingly unsettling to watch him repeatedly confirm his worst suspicions and thereby make them ours as well. The truth is, most of us really don’t want to know all the things we touch that are somehow contaminated by urine, mucous, semen, vaginal alluvium, saliva, dander, miscellaneous insect debris, hair, sweat, blood, and feces, otherwise you’d be as afraid to get out of bed, as to stay in it. He was also a Sephardic Hasid. He felt out of place no matter where he went, until he joined the ArchAngels. The characters he encountered were perhaps a bit more bizarre than out in the rest of the world, but here he was respected in his own right as much as everyone else, so it was easy to do the same for them.

Since Ash was the bandleader and front man, he got plenty of opportunities to play flashy guitar solos when he wanted to, but Zack was really the HMFIC when it came to all matters pertaining to the playing, caring and feeding of the electric guitar. Originally from Nashville, and a master of everything from Country to Rockabilly, to Jazz to Metal, Shred, Grunge, and everything Jimi Hendrix or Eddy Van Halen ever played, he learned electronics and avionics during a brief stint with the Air Force during his late teens and early twenties, siting “creative differences” as the reason for his departure as soon as his tour was up. He drank a bit too much and practically chain smoked marijuana. He was trained in Shuri-Ryu Karate, an avid firearms aficionado, and a Zen Buddhist/Taoist who referred to himself as a Pacifist, although in truth, he was less Pacific and more Fist. He could somehow snap from being one of the most good-natured and patient individuals you could ever hope to meet to going right to the brink of physical violence without batting an eyelash or even raising his voice if threatened. It was spooky to observe. It was like he flipped a switch in his head that went from Poet to Warrior, but he rarely displayed any anger in the process, just resolution, acceptance and a certain degree of regret. He regarded violence as a “sad reality”, but refused to be a victim. He was a Zen Dharma Bum, part Redneck, part Shaman and Visionary, full-time Hedonist. He met Ash in a Dojo in North Miami Beach and they had been friends ever since.

Add two Roadies, Otis and Mickey, plus Lothar, the soundman and electronics wizard. The ArchAngels. Travel agents to a higher reality where Escape Velocity is Ground Zero.

Pandora’s Box

Pandora’s Box

We were children when first we opened Pandora’s Box,

Precocious, Curious, Unselfconscious,

and Unsuspecting.

We had already learned

How to fashion

make-believe armor

from Sarcasm and Cynicism

to cover hearts

Too tender

for their own

Good.

I remember the morning you stood outside my window

asking if I could come out and play.

The sunshine lit your smiling face like

Heaven,

and I had a new friend who made me laugh

and long for adventures yet undiscovered.

We found Pandora’s Box down in the basement

One rainy day in January,

but we took it up to the attic

to try to find a way to pry open the lid.

The instant we started

the most amazing, blinding light came pouring out

Like a nuclear blast

Bathing us in cool fire.

We were so excited

and couldn’t wait to discover more.

As we threw open the lid

the room was filled with Angels and Wizards,

Majic and Mischief, Dragons and Drama.

and the Music was from another world,

familiar, but unrecognizable

It mesmerized us both

 until we were hypnotized

in a trace from which we thought there was

no escape

because we sought none,

and Bedknobs and Broomsticks

would never seem the same to us.

When we opened Pandora’s Box

we created such a ruckus

that we were banned from both the basement and the attic

But once that majic had been let out

there was no way to get it all back in.

It just refused to go.

Something there is that does not wish it so

To be confined or limited

or be told NO.

But as much as I miss the box,

I miss our friendship more.

If it’s Love that You’re Running From, There can be no Hiding Place….

(Peter Tosh said that, because eventually all manifestations and phenomena seek resolution, or a moment of stasis, and Love is no exception…you can run but you can’t hide…because Love can be unrelenting. And infinitely patient.)

(Patience enables us to see beyond what is now, to focus on what could be….)

And your Problems, are no one else’s problems.

They’re only yours to Face.

Yet it is Love that unites us wherever we go, and no matter what we do.

In our hearts we can do no wrong,

we face no shame;

we know no guilt,

Only longing.

And the

Persistence of Memory.

The Talking Monkeys and The Home for Wayward Souls: a work in progress

It’s Sunday morning…just barely…and I have been up for a couple of hours. It seems…it feels like my latest project is developing well. No matter what I think I will use as a theme for the latest chapter, the final product seems to take on a life of its own, which I consider to be a good thing because I no longer feel like I am forcing some set of ideas into the story, but rather that I am extracting a story that is already out there, somewhere, waiting for me to chronicle. I hope it does have a life of its own….

Almost all of my posts for the last six months are related to this project, whether they are titled The Home for Wayward Souls, The Talking Monkeys or a number of poems and other entries, like my posts on Polyamory, In Search of Cinnamon or The Crush, because it seems that whatever I write begins to manifest itself and roost within my private life, which is becoming more than I had ever hoped before…to see my dreams materialize….

Whether I was trying to create in the medium of Music, Visual Arts, or Words I have often felt as if I was intercepting some kind of code, like Venus Gas Music that comes to me like radio waves, if only I choose to listen.

Emerson once wrote how genius stands hand in hand, and one shock is felt the whole world round…I wouldn’t know about genius, but ingenuity and creativity are subjects upon which I feel qualified to comment. I thought the other night that perhaps whatever it is that represents the vital life force within each of us that leaves the body when we die becomes the Dreams we dream and the Ideas we entertain.

Perhaps as we host those Ideas and Dreams and conjure our own visions from their inspiration we breathe Life into Energy, as well as momentary Immortality into our Ancestors…Mortality Extension?…It’s just a thought.

I hope you find this story entertaining as it unfolds; it is now my Journal. Feel free to discuss this among yourself(ves)…I’d love to get some feedback. I will eventually put them all in one folder entitled The Talking Monkeys and The Home for Wayward Souls, like I did Dancing in Dreamland, my first novel.

Share The Love Award

SHARE THE LOVE AWARD

 

Anastasia aka http://astraltravler.wordpress.com/2013/06/15/share-the-love-award/ has presented me with this Wonderful Award.

In Accepting this Generous Award, I must complete the following questions and pass this Award on to no more than 11 Blogger’s.

 

1.  Name an enduring sorrow, something that has lasted for over a year.

The loss of communion and favor of my spouse, my Goddess.

2. Best song that captures an enduring sorrow.

Rain Tree in the Garden, or Torch Song

3.  Band with the best lyrics.

Dave Matthews

4.  Band with the best music.

Dream Theater or Jeff Beck

5. How do you relate to nature? I mean do you need it, trees, lakes, seas, mountains etc.

It is a part of me, and I am a part of it. We are One.

6. Appliance you cannot do without.

Air Conditioner and Refrigerator.

7. Have you ever been bullied?  describe it (if you feel ok that is)

Yes. Anyone who works for any major corporation already knows.

8.  Did you ever sleep with someone because that would be easier than telling that person or persons, no?  Describe that…if you feel ok   That would be just about every time…because I hate to say no, and Yes feels so good, and if the question is persons, as in plural, absolutely! I find it very difficult to refuse anyone, as long as there is some kind of attraction, and I love to see the best in people for as long as I can, unless they insist on convincing me otherwise.

9. Is there a painter you like?  Link please…

Peter Paul Rubens http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Paul_Rubens

10.  favourite you tube clip…link please

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQO-aOdJLiw

11.  Most masochistic thing about you…..this is me after all …. describe if you feel ok.

I keep going back to work for someone else…and, oh yeah, sometimes I also like to have my ass spanked (but not at work).

 The Award Goes To The Following Blogger’s

 

1. Alice In Wunderland http://aliceinwunderland41.wordpress.com

2. DominatSoul  http://dominantsoul.wordpress.com/about/

3. The Wistful Sinner http://thewistfulsinner.wordpress.com

The Talking Monkeys and The Home for Wayward Souls: The Willing Suspension of Disbelief

Earlier that afternoon, Ash and his band, The ArchAngels were rehearsing in the amphitheater  at the Sanctuary for Saturday night‘s performance, as well as Sunday’s, which was much the same as Saturday’s, except for the fact that on Sunday, the content and material were less intense, and more family-oriented. Ash believed that he could still present the same message on Sunday as he did on Saturday night, but make it shorter, more concise, and more accessible to children, as well as some of the adults.

Ash had very successfully managed to combine the formats of Christian Televangelism and a Vegas-Style nightclub act featuring a band that played in the Rock and Jazz idiom, along with Late-Night Television-styled interviews with everyone from Buddhist monks, Islamic leaders, New-Age religious zealots, notable literary Atheists, Philosophers, Taoist and  Vedic Gurus, experts on health, fitness, and nutrition, Martial Artists, and other musicians, to just about anybody that Ash found to be interesting who was also interested in being interviewed by Ash, who was gaining a reputation as an intelligent and perceptive vehicle for getting more obscure or less-than Mainstream opinions and points of view into the public eye without pandering to stupidity or ridicule. Although he often opened with a monologue like a late-night TV show, he always saved the best part for the finale, (which most would usually regard as The Sermon), which he used to launch into a song that would be written especially for that week’s message. He often tried to engage the audience/congregation in the song in a Gospel-styled kind of halleluiah chorus to give them something to take away with them that might stick in their minds, like an earworm; something to shut out the commercial jingles and TV theme songs, maybe even remind them of the message.

He took all his chances on Saturday night, which was usually a three to five hour show, so that he could do a sort of “Best Of” performance that ran about an hour on Sundays. Almost all of the interviews were conducted during the Saturday night show, and videotaped, so they could be edited and even projected onto a large video flat screen that flew above the Stage/Altar for the live audience.  The Sunday performances were being picked up by a local-access cable television channel, although they ran it late at night, in order to avoid the wrath of the Moral Majority, and other Protectors of Childhood Ignorance and Superstition. Ash had been very careful to make sure that his congregation was prepared to accept the fact that parents should not be embarrassed about healthy sexuality or afraid to address complex intellectual or philosophical questions with their children. Ash also believed that everyone has to figure out what is true, or meaningful for themselves.

Given his vast knowledge of belief systems, although he was compelled to present all the information and knowledge he had acquired to his congregation, he was adamantly opposed to issuing dogma about what was right or true for anyone else. He was merely the messenger. He did a great deal of family and personal counseling to help them make their own decisions, but ultimately, it was up to them. So much information has been suppressed by one church or another, that it is often difficult to even know where to look for answers, or even information to make a conscious choice, and you are sure as hell are not likely to find it on TV, except maybe Ash’s show.

Ash was the son of a Lutheran Minister with a congregation in a wealthy suburb in Wisconsin, but he no longer considered himself to be a Christian, because he no longer considered himself to be exclusively Christian, and that was apparently not good enough for most Christians who did. He had gone through what most people would call a crisis of faith while he was still  in college, studying for the seminary, and so it was that Ashton Mueller ended up with a Doctor of Divinity, a pseudo-Nazi surname, and  little hope of finding either a specific religious affiliation, or a congregation…until Merle provided the inspiration (also by way of Kali)  to provide a means for his followers to seek a path of higher consciousness not dependent upon the interlocking series of lies and manipulations that supported the religious and political Zeitgeist of Modern Man, and in the process, Ashtar was born.

He was tall and had a very Nordic-Viking sort of look about him. His hair was long, straight and dirty blonde. He was lantern-jawed, and his chiseled features were darkly tanned by the South Florida sunshine, which he worshiped religiously. He was long-boned, muscular, and very tastefully tattooed with a number of religious icons or talismans. It often seemed like every woman, young or old wanted to fuck him, and every man wanted to be his friend. He and Kali liked to go to Haulover Beach, a nudist-friendly section of oceanfront located on the Northern most edge of Dade County, just south of Fort Lauderdale, where they were usually accompanied by an entourage of members of his congregation. He was often quoted as having said that he felt much so more relaxed standing in front of his congregation clothed after having stood naked in front of many of them at the beach, that he began offering Sunrise Services right there at Haulover.

Ash stood in the center of the stage as he listened to the last echoes of the band bounce off the walls of the empty amphitheater staring out into the blackness. The band was tight, and this week’s material was well-suited for his sermon, entitled The Willing Suspension of Disbelief. He had been a big fan of Coleridge’s work since high school, and the theme of his message was about not only about lost faith and hope, but also how that fit into maintaining the Majik that allowed couples to stay in love for a lifetime.

Samuel Coleridge of course was writing about what it takes to make literature alive and connected to the reader, and how the story transported the reader out of his analytical mind into a state of being that became one with the story. In much the same way, Ash wanted to transport his congregation out of their mundane, analytical, rational, marginal existences into a world that embraced a Joy that continued to unfold, blossom, and bear fruit. There are all kinds of reality, and not all of them are mean or minimalist.

Ash always preferred to rehearse his sermons in the amphitheater, with the PA system and the assistance of his soundman, Lothar. The volume gave him what he called Big Balls, and an entire rack of digital special effects gave it the Ambience he liked to provide his own particular version of The Willing Suspension of Disbelief, including, surprisingly, “ canned laughter”, which helped him rehearse, which he also liked to consider “seed laughter” to help keep up the pace during the live performances, including signs that prompted Applause, or Moan that also flew above the stage. The rehearsals were more casual, and were generally improvised, but when he put on the headset to practice the sermon, he did it like The Whole World was Watching, and Ash always said, If God really is watching…let’s give him a good fucking show…Today was no exception. He had high hopes for later tonight, and he really projected that hope and enthusiasm into his delivery to his favorite audience…his band. He loved playing to the ArchAngels, because although they always got his most obscure and offbeat references, they also gave him the feedback he needed to keep it real…He took a moment to get in character, and to wind up for the pitch. He considered his voice to be an instrument, just like his guitar…only more like a baritone sax…

The Archangels broke into You’re Probably Wondering Why I’m Here (well so am I) by Frank Zappa, playing only the first eight bars, then abruptly stopping. (This was a fairly common theme that they employed to open Ash’s sermon that Ash and the band often referred to as Introductus Interruptus.)

There’s something I’d like to share with you all tonight, because it suddenly came to me as something of a revelation I experienced while I was in the Shower this morning. (Laughter)…No I’m serious…I’ve shared that with many of you before, that I get some of my best ideas in the shower (More laughter)…I can see where your minds are going tonight…And good for you! That means you’re still Alive, and Playful, but to move on, last night I had been reading about The Palace of Kubla Khan, both the unfinished poem, and many things written about it over the years…(Loud Snoring sound bite blares out over the PA)…(Laughter)…but to get to the point…Samuel Taylor Coleridge once wrote how part of what constituted good literature, in his opinion, required the Willing Suspension of Disbelief,  whereby the reader is given sufficient provocation to suspend the mind’s analytical tendencies long enough to accept and assimilate the story, transporting the reader to a place outside the common mind, Where Anything is Possible, and freely accepted as real and true, at least for that moment, The Ever-Present-Never-Present Moment, which is where we all come in…You can take your analytical brain far enough into Quantum Mechanics to find reasons to believe in many different versions of what we call Reality that closely mimic any number of belief systems based upon Faith.

There is a symbol that has been a trademark of more than a few movements (…and an unknown number of tattoos) that involves the image of a Snake Eating its own Tail, called the Uroboros. It has been used to symbolize the conversion of matter into energy, and even the conversion of energy into matter, rebirth, and even the spiral verbal presentation style of the Aboriginal Fireside Talks.

Another way to look at it is this: If All Things Return to the One, to Where Does the One Return?

Ash touched the tip of his thumb to first the index, then middle, and finally both middle and ring fingers of his right hand, with the thumb on the bottom, palm facing down…he watched his hand perform the pantomime like it was a puppet performing there for everyone, smiled, and shrugged, dropping his hand beside him as he returned his focus to the “audience” not due to arrive until tomorrow night…

Funny how each of those hand gestures form a Zero, even though each one has a different possible implication of its own…but the answer would still appear to be Zero…even the One returns to Zero. Hmmmmmmm! But as always I digress…

In most belief systems, everything leads back not only to its origin, but its polar opposite, like Yin encircling Yang. Scientific research can lead us away from our faith in one form of Religion as well as toward faith in Something Else. Even Science presupposes to ascribe to dogmatic and axiomatic beliefs that cannot be empirically proven outside of itself…Faith in Science…. Sometime later, I will share a rant or two about how Physics, especially Astrophysics, Relativity, and Quantum Mechanics lead me from Despair to Rapture or if you will, how the road of Excess lead me to the Palace of Wisdom. But just for now, digressions and all, I would like to present an idea that may give you pleasure to pursue all the way back to your own palaces.

It is this; To Be the Hero of One’s Own Hero is to Steal Fire from the Gods. (This slogan appears on the flat-screen projection above the stage, quoting the source, a Navajo wedding vow). Think about it. When two people enter into a marriage, if both are equally committed to the other to ensure that whatever that significant other of yours wants or believes, you will do everything within your power to help them achieve, it does not matter if that world that you two create within and between yourselves is something the rest of the world considers to be a delusional fantasy, as long as you both can continue to maintain that reinforcement of Reality as you see it.

About a year ago, I was discovered by a member of the self-proclaimed, self-righteous Moral Majority and pronounced as be the Man Farthest Outside of the Religious Mainstream in All of America…and my career skyrocketed. His attack included my wife, Kali, whom he described as a witch: “The Pornographic Priestess of the New Sodom and Gomorra”, and as a direct result, her website went viral.  He never bothered to explain how he found her website in the first place, by the way, since she had purposefully tried to obscure it from the Ignorant, the Superstitious, and the Salacious or Malevolent. Business was never so good before that, and so Kali and I decided to donate ten thousand dollars of our own money to the Church of my self-proclaimed enemy, which proves that whatever you focus your energies upon, you strengthen and energize it, even with hatred or anger, and we were most grateful for his support. In My world, the louder he denounces me, the more of his flock that are driven to me. Of course there is more than enough room in this world for both of us to prosper, so I wish him every good fortune. The more he attempts to draw attention to himself, the more my congregation increases.

It appears that there are a lot of people who crave the fellowship of others in search of not only earthly happiness, but also Communion with some sort of Higher Consciousness or Higher Power, who doesn’t try to convince them that God somehow does not want them to enjoy oral or anal sex, or even share that love with others who love them as well. We seek Union with Something Larger than Just Ourselves, as well as each other. We already know that there are no shortage of swingers’ clubs around here in South Florida, but there are also a lot of people who would also attend some kind of church as long as it didn’t mean you had to get up early on Sunday morning, just to be damned and berated for what you did on Saturday night…tends to make me believe Poor Mr. Preacher ain’t getting No Satisfaction, either from Mrs. Preacher, or anyone else…Nothing like Envy or Jealousy to bring out the moral prick in almost anyone. (Band launches into eight bars of The Stones’ Satisfaction and pulls out hard…Musicas Interruptus…)

Now just in case you find yourself asking ‘Brother Ash, are you suggesting…

are you saying…

that a lot of the self-proclaimed Modern Holy Fathers need to get laid?’

(Snare shot, kick drum and crash cymbal, damped)

Hell Yes! That’s exactly what I am saying! 

When I look at most of those people, I think to myself…Shit! I can’t imagine any of those people Fucking Anybody…even each other. (Laughter as the Band break into eight bars of The Apocalypso, an original piece.)

Hey! Thanks, I’ll be here all night, and don’t forget to tip your waitress…

(Camera slowly zooms in for Extreme Close-up)

No, seriously, that’s what The Home for Wayward Souls is all about…a Sanctuary for Lost Souls of Common Mind. I’m not saying you have to be either a Sodomite or a Swinger…or even both…but if you are, we will still love you, because We Like the Way You Think…and it’s a great way to hook up with other people who do too. (Another rim shot on the snare, kick drum and damped cymbal crash, but no laughter.)

(Camera switches to Head and Shoulders shot.)

We often talk about ‘Communities’, like Swingers, The Gay Community, or the BDSM, or GLBT as if we all lived in the same neighborhood (although sometimes we do, and never know about it…), but here, no matter who you are, or where you live, this is Your Home.

(Band launches into The Apocalypso again, and plays it through the first chorus. The flying flat screen starts to project the final lyrics for the evening, which first Ash, then the rest of the band began to sing.)

First, I want for all the men to sing along with me:

“I woke up this morning and I said to myself,

I must be the luckiest man on the planet,

And every day, my Spouse and my family

Wake up and do everything

They can

To prove me right,

And I do the same for them.”

(Ash claps his hands as he lets his electric guitar slide around to his back, still suspended by its wide leather strap.)

Now I want all the women in the audience to sing along with my Soul Chorus, Ladies Please:

“I woke up this morning

And I thought to myself

That I must be the luckiest woman

In all the world,

And every day,

My Spouse and my family

Do everything they can to prove me right,

And I do just the same for them.” 

Now I want the children in the audience to sing along with the Archangels:

“I woke up this morning

And I thought to myself,

I must be the luckiest person

In All the Universe,

And every day

My parents do everything they can

To prove me right,

And I do exactly the same for them.”

Now everyone (in Ash’s mind, at least) is standing, clapping their hands and doing a dance that Darcy had shown him earlier, that she called the ‘Bandaloop’, or something that sounded like that…and the Archangels did everything they could to make him look good, and sound good, and prove him right, because he did everything he knew how to return the Love right back to Everyone.

This is More

I would miss a cool ocean breeze on my face,

or the warmth of the sun.

I would miss tequila

or the sweet smell of Kush.

I would miss oysters,

Naked, Wet, and glistening,

awaiting My Desire.

I would miss those high-speed

runs along the beach

Going much too fast,

with the top down at night.

I would miss Romance confounding

All Reason,

Or Love Seducing Logic.

I would miss the moon,

or the feel of the night air in Summer.

But This is More.

My heart aches for you.

And nothing else

can make it better.

The Talking Monkeys: Prelude to the Evening

Kali stood in front of the mirror as she dried herself, as if taking inventory of her assets. She carefully studied the effects of the light on her soft, curvy form. How she looked from different angles, or from over her shoulder, twisting her torso, and of course, playfully bent over, looking backwards at herself in the mirror from between her ankles, face upside down, her hair dangling and swishing at floor length. Kali was not so much vain, as playful, and because of that, her actions were unselfconscious on a certain level. Yes, as an adult, she knew how to photographically catalogue a particular look, or pose, based as much on how she liked to be seen, as what worked for her admirers, her lovers…and for her fans. She stood all of about four-foot-thirteen and a half, but her figure was so…imposing by virtue of the exaggeration of her features, that each curve in her body seemed to call attention to itself, while contrasting its neighboring feature at the same time. She was childlike and whimsical, and had learned to be unabashedly unselfconsciously forward and precocious, if that word can ever be appropriate for an adult, and the fact that she kept every square inch of her body smooth and hairless further added to the illusion.

She raised her arms above her head, and giggled as she watched her large, round breasts levitate and swing slightly as she intertwined her arms that seemed to give her head a hug, nuzzling the skin of the inside of her upper arm, looking coyly at her image in the mirror. Whether she was frolicking like a fawn, or spreading her thighs, she could be both the ageless, shameless Goddess and the naughty vixen at the same time. Part temple prostitute, part Catholic school girl Lolita, part dirty country cousin, wise and innocently curious, she was all women at once. Imagine your Yoga instructor in crotchless panties, or the first girl that ever showed you her goodies behind the garage, under the porch, or in the tree-house or fort you had just built. Her complexion was a light mocha, and she had that nebulous sort of ethnic look that could as easily been Israeli, Arab, Italian, Greek, Slavic, Spanish, East , West or American Indian. Her face, like her body was a study of barely controlled generosity. Her cheekbones were high, and her face, including her nose, was just long enough to balance her large, disarming eyes. Her eyes were so dark that you could not tell were the pupil ended, or the iris began, and her lashes were long and dark. Her aureoles were large, puffy… dark as baker’s chocolate, and her nipples were so large, they looked to be erect all the time, but even the slightest tactile sensation would make them engorge and stiffen until they were as big as the first joint of your pinky finger. She had those National Geographic Titties you couldn’t take your eyes off of whether you were a fourteen year old boy pretending to read “the articles”, or a bored adult in the waiting room of the doctor’s office (doing the same thing). Her thighs and calves could not contain any secrets about her muscle tone as they swelled and receded accordingly any time she walked, or even shifted her stance. Despite her softness and roundness, she was very athletic and strong and gave the impression of a large feral cat, waiting to spring upon her prey. She was a study of contrasts and contradictions that seemed to change like the fluid landscape of the sea. There was a timelessness to her that balanced the Primal against the Refined, as well as the Sweetness against the Salt. She could be No Woman at All astride Every Woman who has ever been, or ever will be…Tonight.

Her lips were full and inviting, and if she smiled at you, she could make you forget your own mother’s first name, and maybe even your own….

And tonight, along with other anticipated functions, those lips would be telling the two most important men in her life of news she could barely contain, it excited her so. Her web site had finally gone viral…amidst a seemingly minor storm of controversy, and it now looked like The Sanctuary was so secure for funds that they were going to have to enlist the assistance of some serious financial and legal advisors.

A little over a year ago, she had decided to start up a website devoted to esoteric and spiritual eroticism. Throughout her life, she had devoted a great deal of time and effort studying what she had dubbed “Sexual Anthropology” comparing and contrasting the Culture of Lovemaking around the World, including a special interest in the erotic arts. From the Venus of Willendorf  to Japanese Pillow Books or Persian and Turkish illustrations of Karezza texts, as well as a fair amount of Study of modern erotic art, including film and video, she had studied with the diligence of any serious-minded academician, except that she refused to be any more serious than was absolutely necessary, and sometimes, a great deal less. Her childlike playfulness was a cultivated art form she had developed the longer she pursued her studies.

What she had found to be most disturbing was the fact that although ancient erotic texts were revered and venerated, albeit somewhat apologetically, (at least among the academicians who knew about them in the first place) they were esoteric and occult to the zeitgeist of modern society, and even more scarce were the few worthwhile modern practitioners’ offerings.

“Its time to take Sacred Sex into The new Millennium and the Internet is just the thing to make that a reality, both practically and financially, and I believe that I can do it in a way that is authentic, spiritually and technically. It has to be genuine…the work of practitioners rather than actors, and devoted to the pursuit of the High Art of Lovemaking while still remaining essentially licentious, lewd, explicitly sexually stimulating…True Pornography minus the stigma.”

Her plan was to link her site to any reference to anyone’s version of Sacred Sex of one sort or another, as well as established types and genres of Modern Eroticism as Art, and providing still photographs of recreations of ancient erotic art and Sacred Sex to full-blown documentary style video depictions, even branching into live webcam performances, although she almost buried it away from common view, as if you didn’t know what to research, you wouldn’t be very likely to find it, and if you did, the website home page would only hint at what lay inside (i.e. you had to be able to read). And make it expensive, almost prohibitively so, to discourage all but the true believers, at least initially. The real question was if there was a large enough demographic of affluent intellectuals and connoisseurs to support both the site, as well as the Sanctuary. It had been a big gamble that had paid off handsomely.

Kali now represented the new face of Sacred Sex. Only she, Ash, and Merle had even dreamed of the power they had learned to unleash thus far, and tonight was to be a renewed awakening of the Sacred and Pagan Rites…the ways of Majic and Love to be used for Good Only…White majic and more to summons primal energies and spirits, a mingling of minds, and energies from the four winds, the four cardinal compass points, the four elements, the four seasons, the heavens above and the earth below.

Tonight, Kali would be not only the face, but the Altar herself.