Ysbryd Iawn o Ryfeddod

Part VII

we’re not in september anymore. Lovey would write a book and that would be the first line. she had always thought that. the line had come to her as when she was walking down the street her house was on. she had been looking at a house that had once been grand, beautiful, stately. now it was in shambles. the ceiling of the wrap-around-porch had been painted sky blue. that had been in november. she wondered what it had been like in september. it was the walk she had taken after the first time her father had come after her. she had hit him with a frying pan. i’ve already told you this but its worth repeating for it was her, is her, and will be Lovey. neither of them were in September anymore. we’re not in september anymore. in september there had been peace, but a creamy devil had appeared and with him the first of november.

yesterday had been the first of september, not on Earth of course, but it had to be on some distant planet. it was the day she had met Alaric. the star could see that blessed planet from where she stood in lyrical stillness. it was a perfectly viridecent orb. a gas giant the antithesis of jupiter. no storms. only affectionate winds like invisible cherubs playing in the elemental colors. yes for the best days are always in September.

Lovey walked away from home in the bloody cold. she knew that the only cold that could harm you was the cold you acknowledge. this held true with most things people like herself were afraid of. she should write theses of words of wisdom somewhere in her book. these words were hard to live out though, because sometimes acknowledge the cold gave her a sort of twisted pleasure, if only in saying, "it’s bloody cold," out loud to no one in particular. there was a lesson in that. anger never gives you as much power as you think. perhaps. perhaps her book should be about passions or what the philosophes call emotions. she could divide the book into sections, for each passion a picture of a harlequin cherub. Cherub made to look the ones that glided through the airy atmosphere of the planet that had facisnated her in astromony class. what was it called? oh yes. Shekinah.

She must meet this Spirit.

A man watched her walk away from home and these were his thoughts, for, at the moment, there was no audience to witness her death and that act must have a perfect, enraptured audience:

In the great literature of mankind, there are two characters bearing the name Absalom. The younger is a blue catepillar who manages to offer some sage advice while being addicted to opium. The older is far more terrible. He was the son of the famous Jewish king David, but was not very happy about it. He dethroned his father and forced him to flee his own capital. What did him in was his long hair that weighed five pounds altogether. it got tangled in a oak tree and a guy came along and killed him. Our Absalom modeled himself after the latter minus the long hair. He kept his hair in a shorter Edward Cullen style. He honored his predecessor for succeeding as far as he did, but even more so he honored him for not repeating his mistakes. He appreciated the younger-caterpillar-Absalom too, because people connected his name to him before they connected him to his actual ancestor, so his true character could stay unnoticed longer.

He smiled as he remembered standing up in a Bible study and reading his own story. He had chuckled at the end and walked out. You could have heard a pin drop. Sometimes it was so good to be himself. He smiled like a politican. Joe Biden. he wondered if that perfect slick man had ever met his master. his master didn’t tell him everything you know. but he had certainly told him that, that certainly didn’t mean he didn’t know everything. his glorious master. the son of the morning. feared enough by his enemy to be called the father of lies. we will see who's lieing when god-like Lucifer takes his place on the highest throne and YOU are proved a liar.

the little girl will never start your revolution. she wasn’t lovely enough and when she finally would be devastatingly beautiful her soul would no longer be able to move her hand to grip a pen or move even a single finger to tap tap tap a keyboard.

he would meet this Spirit some day. but right before that day he would smile and his master would swallow him into his own stomach where he would become the wellspring of his power. he, this lowly-john-wilkes-booth-type, would empower his master. did that make him more powerful than him?,

she reached the the swing set and sat down. she loved swings. it was the closest a human, who was afraid of heights could get to flying. she sometimes marvled at the mind’s capactiy for random thoughts. she defintely wouldn’t want to be a telepath because her thoughts were probably only cherishable by her. she hoped she would one day meet a guy who would cherish them in all their weird, silly, wonderful madness. perhaps she overvalued them and everyone elses thoughts were more original than hers. she hoped not. she prided herself in being able to think thoughts more artistic than everyone elses. that was the thing about art. art had two faces. one face should be cut off. that was the face of art that just allowed for some people to be better than othes. she wished she could cut that face off of herself. it only led to misery and half happiness that was perhaps worse than none at all. her thoughts on that changed everyday. the other face of art was the face that was just beautiful. as plato would say, the form of beauty. its pure essence that was never ugly but beautiful eternally and that could be denied by no one. art should allow one to glimpse that beauty. that beauty that can only bring humily, but even more importanlty community. true beauty brings love that binds souls together. perhaps that’s what beauty is. an essence that everyone recognizes. a being that allows everyone to see into themselves and then see into everyone else with a sight that brings love and castes out fear because one realizes no one is that different from everyone else.

She must meet this Spirit. for if the above thought is true that essence is God for in order for everyone to be not that different they would have to be from the same Creator and He would put His image on us. the most convincing argument agaisnt God therefore works stands against this idea's premise. that in fact there is no true beauty. that we are animals and to the animals we shall return. if we are animals then life is pointless and nothing is transcendent. the proof for this idea premise is evil. the injustice the hatred. the terror in the eyes of a little girl as she is forced to submit herself to the lusts of man after man till her existence whithers away. the hatred in the eyes of lynch mob who can’t see the humanity in a man whose only difference from them is the color of his skin. how can God allow these things. and if He does how can He be adored. How can beauty allow evil. how can love. how can there be beauty in brokeness.  there is though. i have seen it. perhaps that’s where God comes in.

She must meet this Spirit.

She swung with her eyes closed. the wind brushing past her face and she soon couldn’t feel the swing beneath her. she was numb to it and the earth. she was flying. after a few minuetes of the kind of rapture that can only happen when one completely forgets that it will end she gets off and walkes to a hidden rock so she can read in privacy.