Profound Gifts – or Musings on things unexpected and changing perspectives.
I think, well – to be honest – I know that I get entrenched in certain mindsets, thinking that I understand situations and people and that is simply the way it is and move on.
And yet – oh my darlings, and yet – there is always more to the story.
And as a storyteller I have been guilty of writing the narratives that suit me and may not be allowing others to enter my storyline and – gasp! Maybe change the story arc?
WHAT?!!?
Yep.
In the past few months I have sat dumbfounded, tongue-tied and wonderstruck at the stories from friends and learning about aspects of their lives that I had no clue about because I had already cast their character and moved on.
Big mistake.
I now have richer, deeper, and far more interesting relationships with these people now. It is a beautiful thing.
And it took courage for them to step forward and challenge my preconceptions and help me out of the tiny little circle I was living in and thinking I was the princess of infinite space.
Things are shifting in the Universe. My personal sliver of it and the greater Cosmos as Carl Sagan told us all about. We are all made up of stardust and I love sharing in your glitter.
Let’s all shimmer, glimmer and shine together.
And THANK YOU to the souls who loved me enough to reach out and share their hearts with me. I am forever grateful.
July – at least for most Americans – both born and those who elect to become citizens of the United States of America – means the Fourth of July. The great rallying cry of Independence, barbecues, red, white, and blue attire, parades, the taste of sunscreen mingled with ice cream as you lick the drips that run down the speed bump of your writes to the crook of your elbow. You end the day in a dizzy sugar coma filled up on carbs and good feelings about your country. And – hopefully – with all of your digits attached.
Yet, all the trappings of this celebration are big, loud, and super-sized, it has moved us from some of the smaller and incredibly heroic acts that have gotten us to where we are today.
Consider the gatherings of the Continental Congress, huddled together amid droning flies, unbearable heat and not a cooling Frappuccino to be found, putting pen to paper to create a country. Yes, the debates were loud, boisterous, and exuberant. But also, contempletative, heart-rending, and frequently somber. They knew their signatures on the final document would seal their fates to history – either as traitors or the founders of a new country. We all know how it turned out. Thankfully.
I also think about the woman who created our flag, the one we so cavalierly put on everything – from shoes to shorts, hats to handbags – and I wonder what was on her heart as she poured her patriotism into every stitch, working by daylight and candlelight in a fervor of excitement to share this flag with General Washington. She was brave, bold, and daring to create such a monumental icon for time in memorial.
That quiet courage gets a little lost in the cacophony of the day with the displays of raucous rockets, the brass bands and the deafening flyovers of the Air Force jets. I wonder what those Founding Fathers and Ms. Ross would think of all the noise we make to shout for our freedom?
I yearn for the quiet to think of those courageous enough to step forward and put their names, and maybe their necks, in a noose for a belief bigger than themselves.
And I hope that I will have the courage, in the midst of the silence, to step forward with my friends, family and colleagues to say, with a strong clear voice, that we ALL deserve Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness – no substitutions or deletions.
Let Freedom both ring and whisper. Both are just as impactful.
Demons had been observed in several cities, bodies were turning up without organs and so far, the police weren’t talking.
Those incidents came to be dismissed as urban legends and passed into the lexicon of slumber party and overnight camp stories.
“Don’t go home with a stranger, you’ll wake up without your kidneys!” Was the cautionary cry.
Nervous laughter around the story circle, but also some wary nods. Everyone liked a scary story, no one wanted to be the subject of the scary story.
The second message was that the body count was increasing, and that violence was tracking alongside at a record pace.
The message was received, recorded and filed away, hoping that it would become someone else’s problem.
The Council – balanced with Angels and Demons both were paying attention, but not too much. They were hoping that Humanity would get its act together and start being the luminous and loving souls they were designed to be.
The Council didn’t want to get involved.
Not just yet.
Meanwhile, a subset of Demons was counting on the Angels to do nothing but send thoughts and prayers, leaving them to take action. They took advantage of the apathy to sow the seeds of fear, chaos and anger wherever they traveled.
They were damn good at their job.
Message three read: “Acts of violence and domestic terrorism continue their upward trend since reporting has been shared publicly.”
The Council had to take action, more people were noticing, and members of their own ranks were turning in reports that, frankly, scared them. The Veil was getting torn at an alarming rate and there didn’t seem to be enough soldiers to repair the damage.
Meanwhile, personal gun ownership startled climbing to 33% over the past year’s sales figures but gun safety training has not kept pace with purchases. Death by domestic violence also has increased dramatically.
The Department of Health and Human Services continued to monitor and report on the situation.
Meanwhile, police officers and social workers could see the connections all too clearly. More anger, more frustration, less investment in the infrastructure, something had to give and most likely it would be someone’s temper.
The Council knew that something must be done, but what, if anything at this stage, was the question?
Perhaps they should call an extraordinary meeting of the full council and maybe, just maybe, take action?
They’d have to discuss it first.
The general public was too jaded to believe in miracles any longer and if Christ did make a spectacular return, he would most likely be arrested as an undocumented immigrant.
Christ didn’t look anything like the paintings and stained-glass renderings in most Western churches. He was much less surfer dude and much more swarthy.
In the heart of Dis there was great glee. The Demons knew that their patience was being rewarded and that Pandorous was going to take his place on the throne of thrones and the age of Chaos would come to be.
No more reason, no more calm, just full on gluttony and gorging on flesh, fowl and fauna.
Jasper prided himself on the ability to compartmentalize. He measured his days in small moments, focusing on one task at a time. When he woke in the morning, if it was cold, he would scrape the ice off the top of his cardboard shelter so it wouldn’t thaw and make it wet. He would roll up his duffel coat into a small ball and tuck it into the bottom of his backpack, he would fold his blankets and do the same, adding each layer, building a stratum of his daily life. He would add his small kitchen items, his own pan, his own spoon, fork, and reasonably sharp small knife to this bag.
The last to be packed were his books. He liked his books on top so he could reach for them instantly. He wanted to know where they were and have access. They were his talismans against the world. When he read, he was invisible to the world and the world was invisible to him. He lived inside of his books and that kept his mind from wandering too far back into his previous life. No good would come from that stroll.
Packing done, he would stretch and wash his face wherever he could find fresh water. He would spend the rest of the morning walking the streets of whatever town or city he happened to find himself in. He mostly kept to the West Coast and the I5 corridor. He could hop on trains, catch rides with kind souls or simply walk. He didn’t bother anyone and no one bothered him.
He always walked in a counterclockwise pattern, tracing an invisible star that only he could see. He would have to complete his star eight times before he would settle into a space for the night.
Whenever he arrived at a new place he would find a map, usually the visitor information center would have a few that they handed out. He would draw his path on the map and walk it, slowly, steadily and thoughtfully for eight rotations, picking up garbage that was in the way or a few odd bottles and cans that he could turn into cash.
At the end of the eighth cycle, Jasper would find a place to hunker down for the night. He sometimes carried cardboard with him to make a simple shelter, other times he would simply find a place to build a little nest of warmth and be out of eyesight and therefore, out of bullying range for the night. He would read a few chapters in one of his books and then sleep for the night. Ready to start the day fresh again tomorrow.
He had been in Seattle for almost three years now. He liked the city, the rain was fine, he had layers to wear so the cold didn’t bother him much, the only problem was finding somewhere dry to sleep. The homeless network here was friendly enough, they showed him the more popular bridges to sleep under, no one teased him about his books and he was able to get a few more and trade some with others. He was able to stake out a little space of his own under one of the bridges. He still packed up every day and kept his belongings with him, but he did return to his spot at night. He had found a way to incorporate his sleeping destination with the path he walked during the day.
He didn’t so much change his clothes as simply add on another layer. The clothes closest to his actual skin were his sacred garments, a fine silk undershirt that he had discovered at a Goodwill or St. Vincent de Paul shop years ago.
Jasper washed it out by hand whenever he could, feeling lost without the softness of it next to his battered torso. He had also acquired a pair of satin boxer shorts somewhere along the way. They were a few sizes too big but he liked the way the fabric made him feel. He felt regal in his soft underclothes. The rest of his ensemble was a patchwork of long johns, pants, shorts, tank tops, t-shirts, polo shirts, sweatshirts and a bulky duffel coat that served as both jacket and sleeping shelter as required.
In his pockets there were various writing implements, sharpies, pencils and one very fine fountain pen that he used for the most important of messages. He liked the finer things in life, had always had a taste for them and even though he was currently, as he would say, “without permanent domicile” he still maintained a certain sense of decorum.
He carried a battered backpack, standard issue military by the look of it. It would probably be dubbed as “upcycled” by the fashion industry. Worn and practically colorless, it seemingly had infinite pockets and zippers and zippered pockets where Jasper could squirrel away all of his treasures and personal affects.
The left zippered pouch held his soap, razor and comb, the right, his toothbrush, nearly flat from months of use, he would have to replace it soon and several sample sizes of toothpaste. He would casually shoplift them from any store that carried them. No one noticed when two or three tiny toothpastes went missing. And he always made a point to buy something in the store, so he wasn’t technically shoplifting, he was more getting a gift with purchase.
At least that is what he told himself.
Jasper’s weariness was beginning to take a toll on his psyche. He was starting to see things. Things that didn’t make any sense. He had been homeless long enough to know that the world wasn’t always as it appeared to be. People who looked kind but would give him a kick while they walked by, or those who looked tough and swaggered who would take the coats off their own backs and offer it to him. He knew to not to judge but listen and watch. Tonight, he still didn’t believe what he was seeing.
A couple had entered the alley in a fever of sexual tension, that wasn’t anything new. He had seen that thousands of times, maybe even hundreds of thousands of times probably. He turned away from them so they could couple as privately as they could in public. He didn’t need to witness; the thrill of voyeurism had long passed by.
But then he heard the woman moan in a way that didn’t sound pleasurable. It sounded painful, Jasper’s head snapped around and he could see that they were still locked in their embrace, but the man had his lips locked on the woman, as if giving CPR, had she had a heart attack? Was that the source of the moan? Jasper inched forward a little bit and tried to peer through the darkness at the couple. He heard a slithering, wet noise and then the man broke the kiss. It looked like he was going to vomit.
The tall man held the woman easily in one arm, lowered her to the wet pavement and scuttled behind the dumpster, he pulled out what looked like a box? No, it was a cooler, Jasper could see that now. He watched, horrified as the man retched into the cooler. The splat was very loud in the quiet alleyway. Jasper’s horror intensified as the man bent over the prone body and sucked at her again, his own body heaving over her with exertion, again, the retching, the splat and the mouth connection. The rhythm of suck, retch, splat was repeated. Jasper watched it three times as his eyes grew ever sharper in the dim light. Finally, he grasped what was happening. The tall man was sucking out the woman’s organs!
This was not right! This could not stand. He walked the alleys and the streets to keep others safe in world. He felt as a veteran the least he could do was to keep people safe when they wandered into places they shouldn’t, or when four or five guys would pounce on a smaller kid, or the women! The number of women he had prevented from being raped. He didn’t mind if couples fucked in the alleys or under bridges, but he would not tolerate violence and pain.
Jasper’s own body was a map of scars and bruises from all of the times he had intervened. One more beating wouldn’t phase him. He knew the woman was probably already dead, but this desecration of her body! It was one thing to kill and have done, but it was another to eat a person!
Before he could stop himself, Jasper stepped into the light and started his slow steady shuffle toward the couple.
Before he could get closer a hand reached out of the blackness and pulled Jasper behind a dumpster.
“Your instincts are noble, my friend, but you can’t save her. This will play out as it has before. We need to watch and report.” A voice rasped in his ear.
Jasper was shaking. He had walked through this alley for months now and had never seen anything like this. The man who was sucking on the woman seemed to be convulsing over her and when he would rear up to spit into his cooler his face was all bloody tongue.
Jasper was frozen. He didn’t know what to do. He had never seen anything like this. He was afraid he was going to wet himself right there. He had seem dismembered bodies and broken babies, but never anything like this.
“I… I… I…” Jasper sputtered.
“I know. Just stay put and let him finish. We’ll catch him in the other side of this. It’s too late for the girl. We can talk when he’s gone. Now, hush, Jasper,” the voice commanded.
How did the voice know his name? Jasper was very upset. This didn’t fit into his compartments or his routines. He didn’t like disorder. Disorder allowed for randomness and randomness would mean that anything could happen and Jasper didn’t like that. He liked routine.
The hand that had pulled him into the darkness pulled Jasper closer to the body it was attached to. Jasper was helpless to resist.
“Rest awhile with me, Jasper. I know how tired you are. Rest here with me and I will get you home to complete the circuit. Just rest.” The voice crooned.
And Jasper felt a sense of comfort come over him. He trusted this voice for some reason and he felt the tension drain out of his body. Tension he had carried for decades. He thought he might pass out as all the anxiety rushed out of him.
“Just rest, I’ll watch. You can rest and together we’ll get you home, Jasper.”
Jasper closed his eyes and rested against the body that was holding him in the darkness, not questioning, not worrying, not fearful for the first time in more years than he could count. Jasper slid into a dreamless sleep by the body that held him watched over Jasper’s shoulder as the Demon finished up his horrible al fresco treat.
Once the Demon had tidied up his date and rolled her onto a disused pallet, Dr. Charles Rollings, the Street Scholar thought it was time to wake the slumbering Jasper so he could escort him home. It wasn’t too far to Aurora Street from where they were. Dr. Rollings could get Jasper settled and still make it back to the body before sunrise. He wanted to see who would show up this time to either claim her or take her away. Each cycle there was a new shift in the pattern and he wanted to be there to document, and, if luck were with him, to shift the narrative.
He pulled a much-loved copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles out of one his commodious pockets, thoughtfully thumbed the pages, made some notations, underlined a few key words and tucked the volume into a hole in the wall near his shoulder. It was a regular pick up spot, the book and the message would be gone before the police arrived. Meanwhile, he needed to get Jasper someplace to rest and then he could come back and see what would unfold this time.
If he was fortunate, he might be able to prevent the end of the world.
The Sidewalk Syndicate has always used the handwritten word to communicate with other earthbound Angels who are on the road. It’s a way to pass information that can truly only be read by the receiver. Analog messages are harder to intercept and more difficult for the Demons to understand.
Messages can be simple: “Lost Dog, if found, please call Dan.” No details, just that. The Syndicate knows that Dan is Daniel, one of the Arc Angels and they need to call to get their next assignment.
Or the Nickel Ad drop boxes provide ample opportunity for messages to be left. Half a shopping list, a torn part of a receipt from the dry cleaner. Only the Angels can read the sigils and markings underneath the words. All messages would be completely innocuous to anyone, apart from the Angels that is.
The messages lead to drop offs at bottle collection centers or sometimes meetings at local shelters. Information is shared through the smallest of gestures, the handing over of a seemingly empty bottles with notes wrapped around the labels, tattered plastic bags, layered upon one another containing a change of clothes, of identity and a new mission with coordinates and contact information tucked into the linings of the shoes.
Once the agent was at the new location, more information would be shared, and the mission undertaken.
In extreme situations the neural networks are employed from the Heavenly Communications Hub. The Syndicate avoided the neural networks whenever possible because the residue of some messages could be picked up Demons, or, in some cases, empaths.
An empath, moving unaware among the Syndicate or who had come into contact with an Angel could sometimes pick up a stray messages, odd images or bewildering instructions. The stronger among them could resist, the more sensitive the empath the more susceptible they would be to the vibrations that were swirling around the Universe.
Sometimes the sheer volume of the messages would cause empaths to experience migraines or nausea. In extreme cases it could cause seizures or mental breaks.
The intensity could cause the empath to mentally depart from all that they thought they knew and suddenly experience a blinding clarity about the world around them and simply be unable to process it all.
No one could listen to low frequency and incessant Angel chatter and not go a little mad.
Besides, the fact of the matter is, even the self-proclaimed Christians don’t actually believe that Angels whisper in your ears, let alone scream through your soul They thought the Demons might do that, but never the Angels.
Then there are those souls who live on the knife edge of anxiety and the input of so much information into their minds would push them in committing deeds and actions outside the realm of decency or common sense. Some have proclaimed themselves as ‘the chosen one’ or as ‘the new messiah or ‘the megaphone of the Lord!’ at various times in history. Jonestown and Waco to name just two examples.
Or others turn their mania into running megachurches, or multimedia conglomerates turning their ‘gift’ into cold hard cash.
Whenever any single person claims to have the true word of the Lord, step away slowly, God is too big, too vast, too otherworldly to choose just one being as a vessel anymore. The first time cost him his son.
God is many things, a slow learner is not one of them.
The visible invisibles – that is the Sidewalk Syndicate.
To be fair – they existed before there were sidewalks so it is a bit of a misnomer, however, as I am adding to my chronicles in the 19th Century I will choose this moniker to identify them.
They are the foot soldiers in the daily war to keep the world in balance and spinning along it the somewhat wobbly access.
They are the men and women who travel the byways, alleyways, and side streets asking for a little kindness, maybe some spare change and a safe place to sleep.
As time has spooled forward they have found means to communicate with one another and to hide the warriors among their ranks.
They frequently use bulletin boards to communicate with other earthbound angels. The messages to lead to drop offs at bottle collection centers and information sharing at local shelters. Information is shared through the smallest of gestures – the handing over of seemingly empty bottles with notes wrapped around the labels, tattered plastic bags, layered upon one another actually contain changes of clothing, identity and new missions to undertake. Coordinates are frequently tucked into the linings of the shoes.
Then, once at the new location, new instructions would be shared and the agent activated to go out into the world – once again – and work to maintain freedom from fear and protect the gentle people of this planet from the really scary things that lurk on the other site of the veil.
In extraordinary situations the neural networks could be employed from the Central Command Hub. However, the Syndicate prefers to avoid the neural networks because the residue of the messages could sometimes be picked up Demons.
Or Empaths.
An Empath encountering the Syndicate unawares could sometimes pick up stray thoughts, images and odd sentence fragments. The more in tune to the Universe the Empath is – or more sensitive — the more susceptible they would be to the vibrations that are constantly swirling around the ether and that amount of input, the sheer volume, frequently causes empaths to experience migraines or nausea. In extreme cases it can be known to cause a complete mental break.
Detached from the tangible world and swimming in the neural network an Empath would suddenly experience such blinding clarity into the human mind and all the minds around them that they could not process it all.
No one could listen to low frequency and incessant Angel chatter and not go a little mad.
Besides, the fact of the matter is, even the self-proclaimed Christians don’t actually believe that Angels whisper in their ears, let alone scream through their soul. Many think that Demons do the whispering – and they’re not wrong. Seduction always feels better at a lower volume instead of a shout.
Then there are those souls, raw and fragile, who live on the knife edge of anxiety and the input of so much information into their minds could activate them into thinking that they were the ‘Chosen One’ to deliver the True Word of the Lord. They seek the stage or a spotlight or a television studio to share their vision of the Lord to other anxious souls seeking salvation. Some end up running mega churches, or multimedia conglomerates channeling their particular mania into to cold hard cash.
Angels talk – mostly to each other – but lean in and you might hear something to help you get through the coming times of trial.
They are spread through human interaction and are virulent.
They are carried by Fear and Anger. Dispersing through the world at a pandemic pace, they multiply in moments and cannot be removed or eradicated easily.
The only cures known are Kindness and Empathy. Both of which seem to be in dwindling supply as the world grows ever older and wearier.
There is a Veil that exists between Good and Evil.
The Veil is held together by the good deeds of humanity and is watched over by the Angels and their soldiers. The fabric gets stretched and torn and has to be mended frequently or the tears and rents will become bigger and allow true Evil to enter the world unchecked.
The Demons seek out the weak spots and try to push their more violent brethren into the world to create more hatred and to literally sew Chaos into the fabric of humanity so that Anger can flourish.
The seeds of the dragons are not planted in the soil, they are planted in the hearts and minds of humans who then act out the will of the Demons.
It is an ancient tale and it has survived because it is true.
Doreen Lynn Aarhaus O'Skea 