THE FOG OF THE CAVEMAN’S BLOG Part 2

CHAPTER SIX

ZAWMB’YEE TAKES OVER THE BLOG

ENTRY 69

     I know it’s unprofessional for the stenographer to speak in her own voice but I wanted to make clear that I’m typing in the blog while Doug recuperates. Most of the time, I’ll just transcribe his words for him. Oh yes, in case you don’t know, it’s me(I?), Zawmb’yee, posting this stuff for a while. Actually, I guess it’s OK to speak in my own voice for a while, because I’m not a professional. It’s good that Doug tripped and fell, because the bullet just grazed him. If he hadn’t blocked the gun, I’m sure Zusoiti would have killed me[stenographer pauses]. (Yeah. I know it’s silly but I’m trying to be like the court reporter who puts everything in the transcript like “cough”, or “indistinguishable”, and all that…
     Geez, I know I could never be a court reporter because you have to record every word and sound that anyone says without getttin emotional, which reminds me that I can’t get through Doug’s steno poem without flooding the paper. It was horrendous for me as an adult being violated by the gods for their genetic experiments, but I can’t imagine the unbearable trauma for a child violated in any way. Well, I guess you don’t know what I’m talking about, so, be careful: this poem I’m going to show you I find disturbing. It’s fiction but nevertheless…

My Poem For Mommy Steno

Mommy, a Lady’s writing
big hand for me with commas.
Did you write me down, and
everything? Ok. Here goes:
No wait a second. Ok, umm

Mommy don’t let me cry too much.

I didn’t mean to be mean
to Daddy when he yelled

Didn’t want to make you
go to jail

Mommy, I’ll let him
touch my breast again
if they’ll let you out
from jail

Has he gone to Heaven?

Foster people say
you’re trash

Mommy, forgive me.
Didn’t want you to kill Dad.

Mommy, don’t let me cry too much.

My poem. Is it good, Mommy?

Lady don’t cry. Make it good? Ok?
Make it pretty on good paper.

     I’m sick. Doug writes such dark poems, and I’m not sure how he connects to what he writes. I’m so glad he and Utcoozhoo are OK, but still, Zusoiti did escape. Oh yeah, more about that later…

ENTRY 70
     Because Doug is still too fatigued to write the blog, I’m going to continue. I don’t know how Doug and I expected to stop Zusoiti in her War Room without weapons; it’s just that we were the only ones in position, and time was running out. I was trying to run up the stairs in the War Room when Doug and Zusoiti got shot. By the time I turned around, all I could see was the FBI surrounding Zusoiti on the floor. I don’t know why they took their time, but a trapdoor opened under her, letting her disappear, and then it snapped back up. The whole task force, it seemed, took turns pounding the door with sledge hammers. Just as they smashed it open, there was an explosion. Smoke, dirt, and choking gases filled the air. Putting Doug on a stretcher, shouting into their radios, they moved en masse to the stairs, pushed me up the stairs, helped me put on a gas mask, and we all ran out of the library through the main ballroom, and out past the statute “Aphrodite Foaming At The Mouth,” when the entire Mansion collapsed into a pile of rubble. They never did find Zusoiti’s body. They assume she escaped.
I could not get to the hospital before they started interrogating Doug. I’m so glad he had sense enough not to tell them everything. I mean, what if he had told them that not only was Zusoiti running for Mayor in the village but also for high-priestess of the Grand Council that governs a secret cave society? Had they heard that, they would presently be tearing apart the “apparatus of the gods”, trying to reverse engineer everything.

ENTRY 71
     I’m sprucing up Doug’s apartment, or I guess at this point I should say “our” apartment. He did leave most of my decorations intact from the last time, as he said he would, which leaves just a few final touches — the major thing is that I’m going to put up my paintings. This time it’s really going to feel like home. My quarters in the Cave I’m going to think about as “school”. I want to think about it this way: Doug and I will have a sanctuary here, and our cave apartments will belong to the adventures of childhood.
     Knowing how I am, Doug set up my stuffed animals on the bed to greet me as soon as it seemed like I might be coming back. I felt so comfortable coming here, having my things, but Utcoozhoo says I should wean myself off ebben (I think they call it transitional objects in English). He says teddy bears are like amulets and should not be overused.
     This writing of the blog in English is so tedious — laying out all the pieces of events, each a section of canvas difficult to imagine from the sound of the blind letters. I much prefer the seeing of the Utd’mbts even though I’m just a beginner at it.
     I’m chattering away here, and I haven’t even written about Utcoozhoo’s escape on the thiktdi. I’m going to mount my paintings first.

ENTRY 72
     Well, something good came of all this. There is a new tunnel in the sacred quarters. I should have known Utcoozhoo wouldn’t allow himself to be trapped anywhere as he knows more about the gods than even Zusoiti. I’ve always wondered how great an emergency was required for Utcoozhoo to utilize the power of the gods, to embrace his prerogatives without shame, neither shaman nor king, an executor of the ancient endowment. Sometimes I think he is too humble for our good, should use his powers.
     Yes, the tunnel is a good example. He and the elders were trapped in the Tzvaleubhoi while Zusoiti made havoc. Finally the legend of Tpiqlat’ng was vindicated when Utcoozhoo declared pcapdyntpa. It must have been a shock when Utcoozhoo and Naztko, from the Forbidden Zone, reactivated the Thiktdi, “the flying mole in fire tube”. They loaded up 500 elders into the Thiktdi that looks like a jet plane without the wings. No one knows how, but it vaporizes rock in front of it, and compresses it off to the side into a kind of slippery glass. At the right moment, they flew through the rock into Utcoozhoo’s anteroom in the sacred quarters. Utcoozhoo got them all accommodations, and the next day, they stunned the Registrar when they marched into his office and registered to vote. That’s one step.
     With Zusoiti away, Utcoozhoo now thinks he can push through a Magna Carta in the Grand Council, but I’m not so sure how many supporters Zusoiti still has.

ENTRY 73
     So much has happened since the FBI went after Zusoiti — I don’t mean that they caught her, but her fugitive status has been a blessing. Utcoozhoo found her secret interface between the ancient technology and the modern. The good news is that he has developed his own interface device and has hooked up the gods’ grp’nl system to the Internet. Now, I can do my homework for Utcoozhoo from here, and actually, I’d rather do it here then in the cave. The bad news is that there may be other hidden interfaces that Zusoiti is using.
     I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t get my last assignment exactly right. I logged into the grp’nl with Utcoozhoo’s new password and went to the language practice page, thinking it would be easy, because I’ve done pretty well with his meditation exercises. The Utd’mbts language, in its full form, is much harder than I thought. I went to the first vocabulary word exercise all excited and confident. I was to simply learn one word that would be displayed on the screen. I stared at the screen, not consciously perceiving anything as I was told to do, and let whatever it was sink into my subconscious. Then, I lay down on the bed and meditated to await a vision. I saw an angry parent scolding a child, a rampaging gang of kids, a marauding group marching with a flag, heard a National Anthem of some kind, saw the construction of buildings, of supermarkets, of trains, of planes, and of ships, saw all of them blown up and destroyed. I was supposed to say what this word meant in English. I said I thought it meant that “the displacement of anger from family to ethnic group to country, over generations, was the cause of war.” Utcoozhoo said, no that’s not it. He said it’s a lot more complicated than that, and I didn’t allow myself to absorb more, that I was suppressing most of the important elements of the word. That was very discouraging because I thought I had already learned many Utd’mbts words and he said I had only learned a few of the beginner’s training subset language — the baby-talk babble of the beginner.

(Because Doug is still too sick to write the blog, I, Zawmb’yee, am going to continue to write this blog)

ENTRY 74
     I’m worried. I think Doug has lost the will to live. It’s odd but I don’t think he ever thought about his own mortality until Zusoiti fired her gun at him. It seems as though he thinks he will go out of existence at his death, and he will not be aware that he had ever existed. He is much too logical and analytical to be happy. I do think that Utcoozhoo is right that he has the curse of the eokxavexa. Utcoozhoo is all mystical and vague, but I could put it bluntly: some of the gods’ genes have been quite destructive to our people.
     Doug has been just moping around, doesn’t want to get out of bed, doesn’t want to eat.
     The other day I said to Doug, “I know you’ve been hurt because most people find it very hard to talk to you, don’t want to hear your ideas, can’t wait for you to gather your thoughts… But then, you hate what you are — you can tolerate neither kegmn, bsoer, bsoei, nor veb.”
     Doug said,“No, that’s not it. I can’t understand how people can talk, talk, talk, chatter, chatter, chatter, on and on, without saying anything. By the time they’re finished, I can’t remember what I wanted to say.”
     “See, that’s the thing: it’s not just chatter to talk about how you feel…”
     “What’s the point of talking about problems, if you don’t have a solution?”
     “It just feels good to vent,” I said, but I could see he was clueless.
     “Yeah. I know. You tell me everything, and I understand how you feel and you always say you feel much better after telling me. But I feel much worse. I don’t know how to solve anything.”
     “You don’t have to solve… just listen… You are a comfort to me…”
     “That is a mystery, but I love to see you smile, hate to see you cry…”
     “That’s empathy, isn’t it?”
     “For what purpose? It’s emotion without solutions, without goals…”
     “There you go again… Y’know, you haven’t seen this because you haven’t left the apartment, but I’ve seen quite a few people on the street wearing royal purple uniforms…”
     “What is that — the latest fashion? You’d look good in purple. You could get…”
     “No, no, no. It’s not fashion. I think it’s Zusoiti’s followers. I think she’s building a secret police. It’s the beginning of a movement. You know, like the Nazi ‘brown shirts’, except it’s the ‘purple shirts’ . ”
     “Oh come on. You’re just being paranoid. Enough already with all this cave culture stuff. Could we just join the mainstream for a change, just be normal people?”
     “Normal people?”
     “Oh hell, you know what I mean.”
     “So, anyway, you should see this… they’re holding rallies and meetings. I just know Zusoiti must be behind this.”
     “Uh huh. Zawmb’yee, could we do a joint painting — you could do a sketch and I could paint over it. ”
     “You see — that’s kegmn. You weren’t listening while I was talking. You were just thinking about what you wanted to say. You couldn’t wait for me to finish, and then you plunge ahead.”
     “No. You just keep talking and don’t say anything.”
     I was so mad, and almost started a tirade, but I don’t know, Utcoozhoo keeps telling me it’s eokxavexa. Yeah, but that’s no excuse for bad manners. Is it?

ENTRY 75
     I’ve been losing my temper a lot lately, but its just that this place is such a strewn-fest, my things scattered, boxes falling, hell, I can’t find anything, and Chloë’s driving me crazy with hassle, hustle meetings — I’m sick of the damn Moose Café project: I tell her it’s done, it’s done, I’m done — cash the check. An avalanche of building plans and escaping wardrobe snow are burying me in a shoe storm and fashion disasters, even though Doug gave me my own bedroom in case he snores, but the bed is piled high with my dresses and shoe boxes, and the carpenters are just leaving.
     Out, out, damn Carpenters, leave the spots — the painters will do it — give me my space, my closet… I must go on stage in a gown without sneakers if I can finally use the “closet organizer” right.
     I haven’t even used my bedroom yet and Doug doesn’t snore. Actually, I’d rather be with him for the snuggle factor, and getting my feelings onto his hairy chest. Oh, maybe I’m the one who snores. I’ve been angry so much, so often. OK, I’ve got the closet organizer, and Doug gave me his project room for my work. I should be able to bring my furies to the clothes. Where, the hell, are my Viwwa shoes — Chloë’s going to be envious, and I look gorgeous. It’s got heels like stalagtites. No one could run around in the cave wearing these if they didn’t want to fall into the K’ut’mbletaw’i. But who would want to be well-heeled in the cave anyway. Chloë says I have to dress well for business. Somehow I have to mix and match, or match and mix, or match and match, put on the make-up… which reminds me. I should go yell at Doug before we make-up. Just kidding. Yeah. I don’t know what I’m so angry about. Utcoozhoo says I should work on my anger. But I don’t know. I think my anger was justified when Doug dismissed what I was saying. But here’s this thing — oh hell, I can’t remember the word for it in any language. It seems I forget because I don’t want to let go of my anger — for some reason I want to keep it. Um, well, the thing was something like “firm assertion that cajoles attention for loving repromand(is this an oxymoron?).” Oh geez, even if I could remember some level of an Utd’mbts word for the thing, I bet Utcoozhoo would say I’ve got that wrong. Yeah, I’m lost — certain concepts I have a problem with. Yeah, maybe that’s why I can relate to Doug sometimes because we’re both lost souls. I really hate what Doug’s father did to him: made him repress all emotion and even forced him to show no facial expression(said, “Don’t look at me that way), and he remembers his Mom always saying, “That can’t be…” — I bet he had extraordinary abilities as a child and I bet they were frightened by how much he knew their thoughts. That’s why he claims he has no talents — they’re all suppressed or repressed or you know. Damn, I have to work on vocabulary. His father was incredibly destructive. Doug was already born poor at reading body language and he could have used some compensating skills.
     Doug needs to develop at least some skill. As Utcoozhoo says(don’t quote me), “If you can close your eyes and get into someone’s mind, you don’t need to read body language…”

ENTRY 76
     OK, I think I’m getting my closet more organized. Well, not exactly; I’m getting good at organized tossing and throwing: I tossed some of my shoes onto the racks, threw some onto the lower shelves, but I don’t know what tier a teardrop buckle shoe should occupy. Chloë says there’s a style for every occasion, but should I have a shelf for cocktail parties and gallery openings? I’ve had a pair of Wymucen “Ballerina” shoes in black patent leather that keep pirouetting around the racks and shelves and won’t let me toss or pigeonhole them. Do I have to dance if I wear them — no, I guess, if they’re not red, I don’t have to. Doug heard me mumbling and said I should get an automatic transmission and pump the cheap gas. I thought, huh-what, but then I realized I was mumbling about my flat open-toe PUMPS, and my evening CLUTCH bag. Now, I’m in the clutches of unforeseen consequences at the Moose Café, and we can’t seem to finish.
     Angela had to have the marble slab countertops for her transformation: she wanted an elegant design to scrub out the “Moose” image, but now, we’re on the antlers of a dilemma. She’s all hysterical because she read in the newspaper that some marble is radioactive. She’s the one that insisted on richly grained burgundy countertops. The technician went over it with a Geiger counter and it was fine, but Chloë wants me to get my own Geiger counter because Angela only trusts me. It’s ridiculous. Now, I have to learn how to use this thing. Some granite has uranium in it. I’m trying to tell her our granite slabs don’t. I mean, ours are not even from Brazil or Namibia.
     I wish I could just negotiate on the phone and send another technician, but Chloë says the “customer is always right.” The more I think about it, the more it gives me the creeps, because I’m remembering that Angela was going to vote for Zusoiti for mayor just because she had purple hair.
     Doug loves my long blond hair when I use the Gecmen Creme conditioner. He doesn’t know the trouble I go through — he thinks it’s just always soft and flowing like a self-washing river.
     This morning, I thought Doug’s mood had improved. When I came out of the shower, he said, “Y’know, you’ve been wanting to have a party in our remodeled dining room to show off the crystal and the chandelier you designed. Why don’t we do it tonight. Call everyone and you can invite Chloë and mix business with pleasure and …”
     “You want me,” I said, “to prepare everything on such short notice? How do you know everyone can drop everything and come over?”
     “Well, Chloë will come and…”
     “Uh huh. Yup.”
     “What do you mean uh huh?”
     “It’s not that you really want me to have a party to show off the chandelier. It’s just a little bsoei on your part, but it’s no mystery to me.”
     “So why can’t we keep it a mystery? I mean, isn’t that what romance is about: mystification?”
     “No, Utcoozhoo says bsoei is a form of manipulation,” I found myself saying, but actually, I have always thought that this sort of thing was harmless play and romantic(How did I change sides on this issue).”
     “No, not if we agree to it,” Doug protested.
     “He says bsoei…”
     Wait just a second… Um, what exactly does bsoei mean?”
     “It means when one person is masking his true intentions in order to manipulate the other to get what he really wants. He wants it to be a mystery as to what he wants and um…”
     “Are you sure that’s exactly right?”
     “Well, you know I can’t always explain it perfectly,” I said, “and I’ll admit that, as usual, if I gave this definition to Utcoozhoo, he’d say     ubemuwx .”
     “Oh geez. Now what does ubemuwx mean?”
     I laughed. “It means, ‘That’s not exactly it.’”
     “Are you sure,” Doug said with a sly smile, “that ubemuwx means that?” Doug was moving in for the coup de grâce. “What would Utcoozhoo say if you gave him that definition?”
     “He’d say ubemuwx to my ubemuwx definition.”
     “Ah ha. I know this one: you’ve made the uxomexn,” Doug said triumphantly.
     “Oh yeah. Well now, YOU define uxomexn!”
     “Um, it’s, um, ‘The spiral of the mirrors — the nested paradox,’ the um…”
     “ubemuwx!” I said.
     “Now, I forgot, what were we saying before?”
     “We have decided to have a mystery party for no purpose, but for the benefit of our friends, and then somehow we’ll be surprised when we end up having sex for purely noble causes.”
     “Don’t you think I deserve to share the Nobel prize with you for deception if you’ll switch back to your old naïve romantic self, so we can both be foolish and playful?”
     “ubemuwx. Love is better.”

ENTRY 77
     I think there are two good omens today; Utcoozhoo called to make it official: I’ve been appointed to the Grand Council to fill the vacancy left by Zusoiti. It’s only temporary, but I have all privileges and powers of a council member. And the other thing is that Doug has been writing his novel nonstop for three days straight. Well, that’s good, but he hasn’t gotten any sleep at all. I think I’ll wait a few more hours and tell him he’s got to stop and get some sleep. Maybe I should tell him that I’m dying to read it. If I can just take it from him and get him to lie on the bed, I’m sure he’ll fall right to sleep. Well, anyway, I have to meet Utcoozhoo now for my swearing-in ceremony and to receive my Nipusindi (equipment, paraphernalia, and vestments of office). Doug should be ready for sleep by the time I get back.

ENTRY 78
     It’s been scary. I came back home after being sworn in. I didn’t realize how much power Council members are given, and how Utcoozhoo had to call in a lot of favors to get me appointed — I even heard some grumbling in the background: someone said, “She doesn’t even know Utd’mbts.” Utcoozhoo just needs another vote on the Council while Zusoiti is away to make some vital changes. He told me not to worry, and that I’d just do some ceremonial things until he needs my vote.
     Doug was still writing at his desk, drinking coffee and splashing water on his face after each page.
     I went back to organizing my closet. Utcoozhoo had seven large ancient hand carved chests, containing the Nipusindi, delivered. I stuck five of them in the middle of the bedroom, heaved one, using a drawing board as a ramp, on top of the bed next to a pile of dresses, and dragged one into the closet. Before the chest arrived, I was going to dump out my old jewelry box and put all my rainbow bangle bracelets on a display rod. But there was some jewelry, ceremonial dresses, and shoes in the chest that didn’t really go with anything. So I became disorganized again.
     I carried some dresses and my old jewelry box into Doug’s bedroom. He was sitting on the bed still writing.
     He said, “More dresses? I thought you were organizing your closet?”
     “Well, I was, but I have seven new chests of stuff, most of which I haven’t even opened.”
     “Seven chests? Yeah, I wondered what all that noise was — I thought you were getting new furniture. What kind of chests?”
     “It’s Nipusindi.”
     “Nipusindi? I thought that was for Grand Council members only?”
     “Guess what.”
     “What?”
     “I’ve been appointed to the Grand Council!”
     “Whoa. Really?”
     Doug finally put down his manuscript and smiled. I took off my shoes, stood on top of the bed, put my hands on my shoulders and then unfolded my arms in a regal gesture, palms up. Doug got up and took my hands and we jumped up and down on the bed, shouting “Hooray, hooray!”. Doug’s manuscript fell to the floor. Letting go of my hands, Doug did a seated trampoline landing.
     I said, “Leave it. You should get some sleep. Tomorrow we should talk about your friend Ziohat — his curiosity is getting to him again. You never should have teased him in the 1960′s with tales of secret caves. Just tell him it was a joke. “
     Doug yawned, and said, “Well, OK. Um, he always wondered how I used to “disappear.” He’s always suspected their was a secret passageway from the party cave to the real one … and um, hmm, uh … I’m tired and uh …”
     I lay down next to Doug, touched his face. “Never mind about that now, ” I said.
     “Uh, well, umm, oh … Congratulations! You are uh …”
     Doug fell asleep. And somehow, yawn, so did I.

ENTRY 79
     Today has been an odd day. This morning, Doug was so sweetly dreaming that I wanted to fondle him awake to rock me fondly before the sunrise might intrude with exigencies. But because he hadn’t slept for three days, I didn’t want to wake him at all. I fumbled around quietly, and in the bedroom got dressed in the dark. I had to go to the Moose Café. Having only to just reassure Angela about her marble table top, I thought casual nonchalance would be the best look for my accessories. I had the jewelry box on the night table, but didn’t want to turn on the light and wake Doug. The box had my bangle bracelets, rainbow-colors collection, with the blue one on top that I easily snatched. I started to push on my blue bangle, but it was hard to get over my hand. I thought I must be getting fat or my hands were hot and swollen or something. I thought, gee, I’m not going to be able to wear my favorite blue bangle anymore. I pushed hard for a while until it grudgingly slipped on. Feeling my way around, I got to my coat that was slumped on the chair in the corner, put it on, and rushed into the living room to call a cab. That was no problem, but then something odd happened. I remember getting into the cab and telling the driver the address for the Moose Café, but then I went blank. I woke up with the driver shouting at me, “Hey, Lady, we’re here.” I didn’t remember anything in-between. I was startled, but I looked up and there we were on Darling Street diagonally across from the Antique Shop, in the first parking spot past the street light, right in front of the Moose Café. I paid the driver, and marched to the entrance. I had my shoulder bag, and my Geiger counter.
     I went in. Angela was waiting. She said, “Hi, I’ll take your coat.”
     Taking my coat off, I said, “Don’t worry. We researched this: your marble counter tops are certified safe. But I brought a Geiger counter, and I’ll prove it to you.”
     Angela put my coat on the rack. She said, “Yeah, I know. I’ve calmed down since I last spoke to you … Hey, I like your purple bracelet — where did you get it?”
     “Huh? I’m wearing my favorite blue bangle.”
     “I think I know purple when I see it.”
     I looked down and saw that it was purple. “Oh,” I said, “I got dressed in the dark. I thought I put the blue one on.”
     “That’s funny. I’ve always wanted one of those. It has a very pretty design engraved in it. You can only get it in very exclusive boutiques — very expensive. I hope you got it on sale. But not everyone likes them: you have to get it an extra size bigger because it shrinks over time. So tell me the secret. Where’d you get it?”
     “Oh. I think Chloë gave it to me that night that we came back from the psychometry lecture at the Blue Attic Club. I don’t remember where Chloë got it from but Chloë has expensive tastes.”
     “Well, never mind — I could never afford it, even on sale. So, as long as you’re here, anyway, why don’t you try out your Geiger counter.”
     We walked over to a marble counter top, and I said, “Well, it’s going to click a little, but that’s just normal background radiation — see, I put the wand over the table and the meter stays in the normal range. OK?”
     “Yes, alright. I guess we’re done then.” Angela tossed her hair off her face, and ran her hand over the counter top.
     I started to feel dizzy. I said, “I don’t feel well. I have to sit down and … ” The next thing I knew, I woke up home again on the living room couch.

ENTRY 80
     I didn’t know how to couch my feelings. What had happened? Was I forgetting things — having blackouts? No, probably, I thought, just fatigue and exhaustion.
     For a while I wondered if I had actually gone to the Moose Café, but the phone rang.
     I felt panic, but reached for the phone on the end table, picked it up in trepidation. It was Chloë. She said, “Good job. Angela is pleased with our work, and we got the bank transfer, paid in full.”
     “Finally. And I went out there for nothing.”
     “No. Answering a client’s questions and concerns is always a good idea, and it helps our reputation for satisfaction … “
          “Yeah, but I spent a lot of time — more than the project is worth.”
     “Hey. Just think of it as a down payment on a future project from a referral.”
     “I guess so. But … “
     “Stop fretting. You did a great job and Angela said you were sick, so just relax for a few days and …”
     “You’ll never believe what … “
     “Shush. Lie down, drink some warm milk or whatever … I’ve got another call. Gotta go. Bye.”
     I think Chloë has been a little too efficient sometimes. Words couched in concern, but cynical in execution.
     Maybe all this was language overload — trying to learn Utd’mbts and idiomatic English. I vowed to call the couch a sofa. But in any case, it was no place to rest.
     I went to Doug’s bedroom, and turned on the light to see that he looked dead in bed. I jumped on the bed. Doug opened his eyes and smiled. He said, “I was dreaming of you and here you are, gorgeous one. Can a council member give me a kiss?”
     “Yes.” I gave him a quick kiss.
     “What’s wrong?”
     “Um nothing. I finished the Moose Café project.”
     “That’s great. Finally. It was giving you a real headache. How is Angela?”
     “Oh she’s OK, but we didn’t talk much because … never mind. I need a vacation. Maybe I’ll just do my art work and take more acting lessons and … “
     “Hey yeah: ‘You’re a class act’. I just learned that. Do you know that expression? “
     “Thanks, yeah. I’m tired of language studies — I think I’ll just grunt … “
     “And what a lovely grunt you have Grand… Oops sorry, I almost said ‘Grandma’. “
     “Huh?”
     “You know, the ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ story, except that I got the wrong character. You’re nothing like a wolf and … Oh sorry, I’m just rambling … “
     “Uh well, before I forget, we have to discuss Ziohat. He’s … “
     “Hmm.”
     “What are you staring at?”
     “You’re so beautiful, so … “
     “Not now … “

ENTRY 81

     I wondered why I would say, “not now,” when I had always succumbed to a moment. I could have fallen as, oh, I was feeling so engulfed in a metcar or maybe a ipzabexr, and Doug is such a cute animal, but Utcoozhoo wanted me to resolve this problem with Ziohat, and I didn’t really know that much about him. I said to Doug, “How did this Ziohat character get the idea to create an artificial cave in the rock bluff above our cave complex?”
     Doug, sighing in disappointment, said, “He just wanted an exotic, out of the way location on a cliff suitable for a Guru. It was his way to hype the hippies, make a movement. You know, be groovy, far out, cool, an avänt-gärde, he thought, but no matter how much he tried, Jack Chelka always called him the ‘fake guru’. “
     “Jack Chelka?”
     “Yeah, I think he was the only one in the group who had a genuine interest in poetry itself.”
     “What group?”
     “Ziohat called it the Xyiwa poets, and Utcoozhoo told me to join the group to learn up-top poetry. It was supposed to begin a rebellion in poetry to embrace the Zeitgeist: love, peace, compassion, and rock-and-roll — ‘power to the people.’ You know, all that jazz and blues, and psychedelic enlightenment ..”
     “Supposed to … ?”
     “Well, as far as the poetry went, it was mostly angst. But actually Ziohat wasn’t really interested in promoting poetry … “
     “The guru thing I guess was a little bsoei and veb, uh, games. Right (and if you say, ‘ubemuwx!’ again, I’ll slap you silly) ?”
     “Yeah. I think you have it pegged. Yeah, he was all excited about Camille, a rich older woman, who was his patron, and paid for the construction of the poetry cave. The whole thing to him was just a gimmick to attract chicks and an excuse for an orgy. There were some pretty wild parties in the cave.”
     “And you?”
     “Uh, me too … “
     “Thought so … “
     “Don’t think so much … “
     “I have to . We have a problem with Ziohat, and I have to get to know something about him … What ever happened to the group?”
     “Well, it was disbanded years ago, and the club was closed down and sealed. I guess I’m the last of the Xyiwa poets. But recently, Ziohat has been cleaning up the mess left behind, and has been rummaging through the storage boxes. I gave him a blog to post some of the poetry he recovered.”
     “What poetry is that?”
     “I made copies of what he found so far — I can show it to you, but could we do this tomorrow?”
     “Uh, well, the thing is: he seems to be remodeling and expanding. We don’t want him finding one of our secret entrances … “
     Doug sighed again. “Don’t worry, he won’t … You know, I was dreaming of you before you jumped on the bed .. “
     “Yes, you told me.”
     “And you came in here to unwind and relax. Right? ‘Cause you love me, you came here, blue eyes, gorgeous one … “
     “Sometimes it’s not love after a hard day, but a desperation to avoid metca, you know, anxiety.”
     “I relieve your metca because I love you.”
     “And I don’t suppose you enjoy the process?”
     “You are beautiful you know.”
     “Well, um, Utcoozhoo, always says, eujxami.”
     “eujxami?”
     “Well it’s somewhat like the French expression: ‘La beauté sans vertu est une fleur sans parfum’ “
     “Which means?”
     ” ‘Beauty without virtue is like a flower without perfume’. “
     “And that’s what the Utd’mbts word means?”
     “Sort of … “
     “ubemuwx! “
     That’s when I lost it and couldn’t help but pull down his pants and see that his beauty was already standing erect saluting me. I gave it a few licks and got up from bed. Doug grabbed my arm, but I managed to reach the night table. I let Doug pull me back onto the bed and I rolled a condom over his beautiful hardness.

ENTRY 82
     This morning I felt strange. The purple bracelet on my left wrist only would slide a little bit. I wanted to put on my wide silver bracelet and then put on my gold charm bracelet. I thought it would be a funky tricolor expression. There wasn’t enough space for all three.
     I took a shower wearing the purple bracelet that seems to have shrunk and is too small to take off. I was thinking that I should read Ziohat’s blog to see if he is really a bumbling, harmless person not capable of stumbling into anything important. Doug seems to think that Ziohat has no idea about our secret culture, and just thinks that we’re a bit eccentric. Yeah, I guess we should try to be a little less eccentric and blend in better. I’m beginning to embrace the up-top culture which, I think, is what Utcoozhoo wanted me to do — uh, well, I suppose he really wanted me to learn about it, but not embrace it.
     I got an e-mail message from Fewo Jegucso saying they had a way-out, blowout designer sale. Yeah, maybe, I should run out while I have the chance and get Christian Nuiduim suede booties at only $700, and the Marc Pestymorvo totes for only $600. Hey, all the designer handbags and shoes that I could ever dream of getting are all now on sale. Well, I don’t know, it seems all about prestige. I mean, it can’t really cost that much to make a handbag or a shoe as a raw leather object with stitches, can it? I buy a brand name so other women can admire me? I mean, Doug likes me naked, doesn’t he? No, I don’t mean sexually, just that he likes me as a person without decoration. Uh, well, most of the time, I think.
     Dare I say that fashion is empty. No, I think that blasphemy should always be a last resort. I think I’ll just print Ziohat’s blog while I think about it all.
***

CHAPTER 7

THE BLOG OF JAMES ZIOHAT

JAMES ZIOHAT’S REMINISCENCE
founder of the Xyiwa Poets

     Much has happened, but for now I’m left with the task of cleaning up the old party cave. I’m James Ziohat, the Poetry Guru. Doug, who’s the last one around that I know of, has lent me a blog to post on.
     In the 1960′s (who can remember exactly when) I founded the Xyiwa Poets. Poetry readings were held for a few select followers in secret caves. Like the impressionists in painting, we, the early vanguard poets were scorned. A few rich patrons financed the building of a luxury cave complex where wild parties were held and poetry was written on the cave walls. We called ourselves the Xyiwa poets because Jack Chelka found some obscure words that he learned in his travels, and we just picked one. We condemned the dependence on the traditional University system for validating the decadent standard for poetic excellence. Some of the early works were moderately incoherent, and meant for shock value such as this wandering verse by Jack Chelka:

Forbidden Cave
by Jack Chelka

The scrub
cave way
often not high
not hiding
entrance to danger:
spikes and crevices of stone

Inside
never gone to.
Outside fire
guardian sits

Mob on fire
slays him
evil curiosity

wandering flesh torn inside
falls and torments
spirits savage
many hours to death
screams louder
softer
spikes and crevices
broken gasps
stone and stream gurgles
screams many hours

guardian spirit
greets the dead.
rather be outside

The Xyiwa poets can easily tear apart and destroy any formal form of poetry, making it unrecognizable. Here’s an example by Douglas Gilbert that shows how a haiku can be distorted into nothingness:

COLD ENDINGS
by Douglas Gilbert

For the festival cry
many at the reflecting pond
see each other see
a lunch time in the park
a man gushing blood on a tree
cops jumping back to catch a

trial day for the
collapsing man on marble
his woman crying by

our exploding Sun where
couples in weeping willows
release spirits from ashes

by meowing lions
lambs in meadow’s lake

for all to
ripple still waters
with sneezes deadly mocking

Here’s another fragmented style by Douglas Gilbert:

INCOHERENT ICE
by Douglas Gilbert

Lost cake
no birthday
deeply my song
in twists confesses

Flat note dance
in double time confessions
floored hard
fallen

With me gravely
deeply jam
rasp my horn
berries red

Lonely the night
leaky eyes stain
in fog lashes
for ships on ice
coldly stoned rocks
bleeding red confessions

Flat death
smashed cake,
deeply un-noted
twists turn to
song gash,
betrayed icing

The Xyiwa poets often ridiculed the poetic forms by including them with a non-traditional internal rhyme scheme. Here’s an example:

MRS. CLAUS HATES SONNETS
by Douglas Gilbert

Santa Claus left her
a sonnet to read:

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust is cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss

I know you love me mole and mountain bluff
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss
no gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss

Mrs. Claus hated his bluff –
rarely did she see
his cherry lips or cheeks

She could play
with farce no more, for
the fantasy wishes
in unlabeled boxes
would not suffice
for Mrs. Claus who
wrote free verse
while Santa was busy

Santa answered
delightful letters
from giddy children, but

she received letters
of rejection from the
poetry editor,
a trochee donkey
iambic like an ass

Mrs. Claus hated when the big one
went away on Christmas,
when the snow looked like
semen dried up and flaky,
his departing stomach
like a pregnant indulgence
she could only wish for

Finally, one Christmas
when no more
could she count the
melting snow flakes on her tongue,
count the elves, the reindeer,
the orphan toys, her emptiness
overtook her sanity, and
she took an empty sleigh
to drive into the city of sin,
her naked body wrapped only
in a fur coat, a pocket
for her Santa cell phone

She left the sleigh,
tied the reindeer to a lamp pole,
strolled the streets showing a leg,
singing “Ho, ha, ha”; Heaven’s
white tears covered her head as
she peered into loneliness
waiting for a finger of love, but
she spied a lost little girl

She hoo, ha, ha’ed the girl
’till the crying subsided,
asked her name
found a Lisa

“Where’s your Daddy?”
She didn’t know,
said he went for a quickie walk

She would look to find him as
the snow thickened, her head covered
with a white crown of sorrow. Lisa skipped
and jumped close behind her like
a newly born calf not
straying too far, waiting for an available tit

Mrs. Claus walked, showing a leg. A man
appeared from nowhere, laid
his hand on her thigh
like a roadway, followed the path

Eventually he noticed
her glistening tears. Looking
in her eyes, saw
he knew her
once before

Just then, the
Santa cell phone rang.
The Elf Secret Service said,
there’s been a sleigh crash, and
Santa is dead.

The world was wrapped in gloom
as Mrs. Claus
brushed snow from her head

Joy fell from artificial boons
and wrappers filled the ocean

With a poof
unreal gifts
vanished in a twinkle,
elves all banished
to a realm of puff

Starlight appeared
on Lisa’s tears,
a word on innocent lips:
“Can we all be married, Daddy?”

With a ho, ho, ha
and a ho, ho, ho
they vowed to
do better with love
to listen to snow
gust up and swirl,
to see a gift like a crystal
had already been born

          APOLOGY BY ZIOHAT

     When we were partying and scribbling poems on the cave walls, I never thought about preserving them. I suppose that even though the walls now appear to be blank, there must still be some residue, chemical imprint, or subtle difference in the surface that was temporarily protected by the pigment of the writing. We could bring in some experts, but we really don’t want to reveal the location of the cave complex to any outsiders. However, I have found some old photo’s of a party where the walls are visible in the background and I’ve been able to read some of the old stuff.
     I’m sorry, but most of us were relatively young at the time, and although I put on a show as a Guru promoting poetry readings, the ostensible leader, I was really just excited about a rich older woman who took more than a casual interest in me. I guess, foolishly, I just thought of the poetry as a gimmick or excuse for an orgy. The older guys I guess must be dead by now. Looking back, it was really stupid not to publish in a book — after all, we were too drunk to memorize anything. Well, a few kept notebooks and did do some vanity press books. Doug has stuff out now, but not all of it is authentic to the movement — ah, well, I guess I shouldn’t be such a snob, especially as he’s been gracious enough to let me use this blog site…
     …And now that I think about it, Jack Chelka hasn’t always been that consistent either because he wanted to be published in the Mainstream press, but still wound up broke in the creek. Anyway, here’s a few different ones:

SEA SHACK
by Jack Chelka

Below the tide line
a shack sits on my sorrow
on her grave in shallow soil
spotted ramshackle place
lair of the leopard who
could not but kill her nagging.

Wave crown like a lion’s mane,
erosion has left
an ocean opening for
pain’s swirling wash and drain

The beach shack of this leopard
shall not stand as
roaring sadness bites me there
where I will tell Guilt one thing:
eat me as prey,
pray me down soiled
blot the blood in spots
before I die awash

FRYING LAMENT
by Jack Chelka

If feelings were enough
I could just be sad
like Swiss cheese
but there’s a hole
in that argument

You don’t know me at all
never asked to listen to me
’cause you say your tears
speak for themselves,
mine don’t
being too few, you say

If you’d let me speak
I might cry too
with an explanation that
I made the oceans

Let me fish in peace
and I might gut our problems
fry love in olive oil
stuff your poem in
a green pepper, sweet
and sour with a note from me
that doesn’t rhyme but’s
on rice paper that’s edible

I’ve been thinking about how to organize Jack Chelka’s scattered poems because I think the style varies quite a bit. I suppose I really should wait a few years until I’ve synthesized it into a more intellectual presentation, but I decided to plunge ahead with my primitive first draft. Ok, so I’ll embarrass myself a little. Jack would have liked that — he always thought I was a bit pompous considering how he suspected that I really didn’t know anything(I think I once overheard him call me the “fake Guru”, or maybe it was a curse word…) Anyway, here’s my first attempt.

Jack Chelka often fretted about his sense of identity, and pondered Love as a loss of ego:

ON DISAPPEARING

I spread myself
to be without boundaries
to conquer, to control,
yet diluted drop
doesn’t taste of
blood, soup, love
that I take back
when feeling loss of identity

Not I would be
if lost in love, but
who
is an owl, and
what a hoot feathers are
shedding

But, of course, Jack could often be grandiose. Here he imagines himself being God:

BEING GOD

I awoke this morning
finding myself not a cockroach
as in Kafka, but
as God

Everything is a bit much.
Therefore, I put all humanity to sleep,
except for one

You foolish one:
I give you
the power of Love, and
a baby

I know you will give it
the infinite Love
I have infused in you,
because this baby
is you.

Teach yourself, and
when you’re finished,
help me to continue.

I have many billions more
to surprise
with laughter

Jack experimented with the re-assignment of word function. He forced the verb to be noun with an article: “the IS” — beingness; preposition with verb also used to force the verb to be a noun: “with COULD” means “with hope”…

eeHuh Light

sanguine pump in the played
the laughed love gushed
with could by the wished
the is by the bleed
a duel duet sings
the where ever light
up pump the huh down
duh the why burden heavy

beamed out the shadowed
the light by the be
sings the shine
on flashlight, onward

Jack liked spoofs. Here’s a spoof of the song “Anything Goes”:
ANY SONG
In
the
fun
the sun
is magnificent
warming the scent
to tent all the
tender ways,
and anything goes

well,
decamping a passion
lighting a fire
drinking desire
wellsprings a choir
so,
anything goes

On
the
march
the strut
is parading love
blowing our horns
to vent all the
kisses saved,
and anything goes

Drum up a throbbing
trumpet a
heart beat
glide with a
trombone smooth,
but

In
the
sun
the fun
is significant
warming the tent
to scent all the
tender ways
and anything goes

Well, that’s all for now. Geez, I’m thinking of deleting this — I don’t think this selection does justice to the body of his work — I think he’s done better. I could leave it for now, and I’ll search for more — I know I remember there was a lot more that was better…
————–
One of the underlying techniques embraced by the Xyiwa poets was the unending sentence, dependent clauses galore. This one is hard to follow until you realize that it is structured as “John, a blah-blah, troubled, is lost”:

The Explorer of the Clause
by Jack Chelka

John, explorer of the weird
troubled by the accumulating
detritus of fear, greater in
reputation than courage, who
might easily step into
an abyss of unending tragedy, if
his fans goaded him into
indulging his foolish bravado by
leaping into supernatural danger, a
lurking phantom of dread, a figure
from the closet of his childhood,
this danger that he could
wrap around himself like

a cloak of honor, he, standing on
the magical cliff above the cheering crowd
who wait for his downfall, playing for time
that would run his future out of luck
with his last coin for the
slot machine of lemon cars driven
into rivers of lost hope, and who
distinguished as a novelist
fighting to publish the memoirs of a fool,
hoping bad jokes can be extremely bad,
campy comic and like a
very excellent counterfeit painting, one that
all collectors will insist is real to
save both their face and his, hoping a
cult following will astound the critics, but
not curse him when he ultimately
disappoints them with his frailties, those
quirks that twitch in the night of the dead authors,
is lost

John is lost and so am I, but this one is a little easier to follow:

Blubber

by Douglas Gilbert

The psychic woman
had showed her
rough seas ahead,
said beware the tides
and flowing kisses,
but that seemed like
shallow waters to her

She had a fifth
her thick handkerchief
mopping up her eyes
highly high on her trumpeted mope
slipped on her poor spilled
cocktail of his love kisses
lost crawling
across the stage
where she was to sing beige
before a sea of mahogany tables
over drunks and hecklers
sticky stinky beckoning
bass strings plucking her heart
blubbering
woe tale wagging about him
the bragging whale
who blew his spout
and left her high and dry.

Seeing her collapsing,
I could not bear her despair,
rose to say,
“I have always loved you,”
and we all stood,
hecklers and all,
to beg the last song

She knew me at last–
kissed me, the little one

Turning from beige to blue
caressing the mike,
she rasped in weeping harmonies
“Stand for me
the stood-up one;
harpoon my love and

sail me to the Port,
wine me down mellow,
me, a cello solo
singing this tale of prophecy:
the big ones get away, and
the little ones stay.”

———————————–

Jack worked as a chef once and had a steamy affair with a rambunctious waitress named Marie who wrote a few poems about him, and although they had many fights, she did tend to exaggerate. Here’s one of the milder ones:

I Dump the Chef for the Poet
by Marie Draper

My precious chef is a practical man
knows where to find fragrant garlic
can drive a chive dish to profit
buys me gifts and trinkets
but won’t let me buy him mouthwash
says smell is macho natural
won’t wear sissy cologne

I want less spice
more romance
but not a diamond ring;
mushrooming passion singing
brings a new excitement to

another, my passionate poor poet
complex, enigmatic
a soul layered
like an onion

In my buttercup, Poetry Man,
I shall sauté our bubbling love
and be soft
don’t make me cry
though I’m unfaithful to riches

Now, who will bring me
a hero
sandwich first

Marie could cook too. She made some special dishes on occasion. Pastele is a traditional Puerto Rican dish — Wrapped green banana stuffed meat pastry. It’s wrapped in parchment paper, and made with pork.

Having Pastele
by Marie Draper

When I write my poems on parchment
he is my spicy pork
boiling with passion
wrapped in words of love
filling my scroll
dipping in the lip
of a labia pastele seeker
————————————-

I seem to remember there were a lot of poems written by the Xyiwa poets about floods and storms, but unfortunately I think most of them were written during the purge ceremony: We had a pile of pens, markers, crayons, and paint brushes with buckets of paint scattered about with a giant stack of old computer fan-fold paper. Someone started a chant, “Write your ire — throw it in the fire.” All night we wrote hundreds of pages, most of it crap, and threw it into a bonfire. By not worrying it was supposed to eliminate writer’s block. The day after, we liked to imagine that
everything we wrote was a masterpiece. But unfortunately(or fortunately), Paul Chelibi had bad aim and a few of his poems missed the fire, or at least that’s what I surmise from finding a charred scrap, or maybe it was from a different time and he meant to burn it and changed his mind. I suppose it might need more work, but it’s too late for that now. Well here’s the burnt draft I found:
Her Floods
by Paul Chelibi

Technology
you fair weather friend,
have you seen her?

500 year almanacs, and
planes by twilight
didn’t warn us

She and I had last cognacs
before floods scoured

Now lost I am
forgetting her for hours
awash in fragrant flowers
in harsh despair I pray will soften,
but since I see a glimpse too often
of glints in shadow sorrows seen,
I look for her still in rainbows
gone in soaking drowning rains
those floods awash in flagrant flows
of love remains awash and soaked
like boundless muddy sadness buried,
in all, forlorn to mourn a body missing,
not saved by dams man-made
nor comfort jammed assistance,
but madness of sadness remains to be found lost
on ships listing heavy in names of my loss

I also think this one escaped purge night:

Still Verse Born Dead
by Paul Chelibi

I showed you my
only poem child
who wanted to sing me
the gospel of my wails
to sail on windy travails
my hurricane of desire

He is too fragile for you
to adopt

You won’t
rock us to sleep
when calm seas
seem too boring
to let us dream
of tranquil verse
because
our cries to the sky
are more amusing
by doldrums
than albatross

Here’s a more recent one written by Doug, but he claims he wrote a much better one those many years ago that he threw in the fire on purge night, claims it was magnificent, but nevermind — we’re all stuck with minor work now:

A Wash Day
by Douglas Gilbert

Clear skies a sad beauty
blue light on the
heavy smashed awash

Flagging hopes asunder
only her scarf waves
a brick on its end

My eyes flutter full
overrunning my face
a thunder sob escaping me
though death escapes her not
beneath a fallen wall

Waves
she had for me
while I was away

Waves she got
while I could not
wave good-bye

Last wave
too high for tiptoes
dancing toes, dainty
toes in the water

I wave of me in light
it waves of blue in dark,
last waves cried tsunami
—————————————

The Xyiwa Poets had many “unanswered prayers” — none of them were ever published in a legitimate publication to my knowledge, and I don’t think any of them made it to Woodstock. I haven’t been in contact with any of them except for Doug who’s letting me use this blog space while he recovers from his brush with death and … well that’s another story. I think Paul Chelibi went to the Grand Canyon once, but probably that has nothing to do with this poem of his:

Climbing Music
by Paul Chelibi

I am my own donkey
carrying my mule-song
down this canyon road
narrow ledges slippery

More than once
I grasp a tree root
protruding from rock crevices
devastated to hear
answered cries are echoes
off backpacks heavy with
futile supplies
too heavy to cross the river
too light to turn back
unanswered prayers
heard by vultures circling
seen by eagles leaving
scenes tumbling in
avalanched dreams
hoping to reveal a cave
a cave-in song, or
you

Marie Draper was a troubled person who prayed often and experimented with many different religious movements. She kept a journal or diary but was unfaithful to it. Sometimes she shared her journal entries with the group and certainly, everyone would agree that she had many “unanswered prayers”. She said,
“The restaurant where Jack works(where he thinks he is chief Chef, but is really just a lackey — I mean, he hasn’t been to Cordon Bleu school or whatever the hell those elite saucy snob cuisine colleges are called) has been in turmoil ever since one of Jack’s prize steers on his cattle ranch died. He’s not much of a rancher or cattleman and his dream of a new cut of prime famous branded beef has died. As they say, “he’s all hat and no cattle.” He was going after that dream of a perfect herd and great riches. The death of his best stud was the end of a dream. I told him that the Native Americans always said a prayer before eating an animal(so maybe he forgot that part): they thanked the spirit of the buffalo for sacrificing itself for their survival. Jack doesn’t want to put prime beef on the menu for eating anymore — I wouldn’t be surprised if he put a memorial sticker over the entry on the menu. He’s too sad. He just wants to bury it. I say, eat the meat because we have canine teeth for it and we’re not meant to be vegetarians. I’ve written a poem in honor of death and chicken bone soup for poor Yorick or Boris or whoever that famous allusion is, and I think I’m going to dump him, the arrogant chief Chef, because we fight too much. I guess I should have taken him with a grain of salt and thought of him as a poetic moment— wait, um, what ever happened to that discussion at the cave party? I thought we were going to amplify on that concept. Somebody started a flu poem and then did a second more poetic version…. well anyway, here’s the poem:

Marie on Death of a Chef Who Loves His Beef More Than Me
by Marie Draper

Don’t rip me no more
you’re tearing out my guts;
I’m tearing out yours
spewing entrails
in my trail

I’m stuffin’ it;
take your chitterlings and go
’cause I’m not mad enough
to eat your brains.

Sweet bread, I
once thought you
were sweet enough
to eat without your pancreas

Defeated I cry blood, but
your pain:
take it with you
because
it’s a pleasure
to vomit alone without you:
I can flush

Oh, writing hurts so much, well.. so this scattering:
Oh hell, what is this crap, “Poetic Moment”. I’m not sure what that means. Is it an incident and an emotion that’s trying to be expressed? I’m not sure what many of these poems are trying to say. Some seem to be hiding very dark events that are too painful to express. But I don’t think that vagueness in poetry is always a virtue(I almost accidentally spelled that “vulture”, but I guess vagueness can’t be a vulture, because the carcass is the vagueness I guess— you can see I have trouble with metaphors). Am I wrong about this? My poetic moment is confusion:

I’m confused about
what words to use
to stew my angst
banking fear by the river
where I stir my pot
over the campy fire
with soft marshmallows
charring with emotion

Maybe I misunderstood something, but I thought one of the poems that someone blurted out during one of our drunken orgies was about rape. So I wrote a poem talking about revenge and/or forgiveness. So we come back to vagueness: I don’t know what I’m saying, if anything:

Cornered in Hell
he holds his breath
while praying for his birth

The Devil asks me
shall he be forgiven:
you decide

No, no, no,
I cry in remembered blood, but
a question occurs to me to ask

Have I ever been in Hell
on Earth or elsewhere, and
whose forgiveness did I require

I was tempted until I heard
my former tormentor shout,
I will get you even from Hell

My screaming anger
burst into flames
turning him into the ash
of a phoenix

Whose remorse
will God seek now

Not mine is a life that
is an end to suffering.
Pain will not let me forgive”

That’s the end of the entry that Marie donated to the group. Each of these is very different but I think they both represent “unanswered prayers”.
—————————–
Discovery! I found a box of old 45rpm records, and tucked between “Honky Tonk Women” by The Rolling Stones and “Knock On Wood” by Eddie Floyd, I found a gem of a poem by Marie Draper. Gee, I don’t think there’s a turntable anywhere in the cave to play any of these. Oh well, here’s the poem:
Minding A Mine
by Marie Draper

Loving a stone
is like being stoned
’cause
he comes alive
sometimes, love
revealed
coursing in gold veins,
sometimes he’s
in my mine
and I share my treasures
pleasures we are
in my mind, but
he is a rocking
a stone of mystery
sometimes
he is a gem,
could be
I love a stone
And I found this one at the bottom of the box. I had to wait to stop sneezing from all the dust before transcribing it.
Rushing Love

I call to the waterfall
who shushes my heart
fallen

Peeking through
a shining sky peaks

Waterfalls speak that
shining tizzy for bears who
love a glistening fish falling in

jumping bubbles of dinner calling,
but alone I watch for

the arrow of Cupid
within the rushing twirling fluid
and I pray to the guardian
of the calming sound
for a listening lover
found so fit
to christen me in
the love in a bubble
a splashing sound
found when
champagne glass
breaks for a ship
————-

   Cleaning up the mess has been more tedious, more arduous than I could have ever imagined, slowed when an objet d’angst brings me the pain of reminiscence, tiny little crumbles and broken things. What is it I should remember…
     Y’know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that as kids we were arrogant and foolish to think we were inventing new theories of transcendence: we thought that thought-games would liberate us from redundant emotions and sentences to obscurity such as this. Venting anger on paper was supposed to cleanse us. It didn’t work. If anything it reinforced our rage.We must have written hundreds of angry, unfocussed poems that wound up in the trash. But I think when Paul Chelibi helped Marie Draper write a few, it wasn’t too bad.
     I found something the other day. I had been doing a meditation on a stack of 45′s when I found a tightly crumbled up wad of paper in the center hole of a record. At first I thought it was a crude version of one of those plastic conversion discs that were used to change the large hole of a 45 to a small hole so you could play it on a 33 1/3 rpm turntable. Maybe, out of curiosity, I’ll try to play it, some other time, to see if it has any significance– hmm,”Lover’s Holiday” by Peggy Scott &; Jo Jo Benson? Sort of scratched up…
     I’ve unfolded the crumbled up center paper and even with all the dark black pencil scribbles all over it, I’ve managed to pick up the impression of the writing from the undersheet. So here’s one which I think was a tamed down version from an argument between Marie and her sister about who would make a better hypothetical Secretary General of the UN. It’s pretty mild and I think maybe the original rant was better. Paul broke up the fight, and by the time he and Marie decided to collaborate on a poem they were both too calm and too drained of passion. I’ll look and see if I can find some other draft, but for now here’s the crumbled up version:
Adze
by Marie Draper (with Paul Chelibi)

While resolutions were tabled
at the foot of war
peace was axed, and
the ancient evil growled
in the castle fortress
on the pimple of the world

The blond UN lady
knew I would blitz
up the hill with
my adze
for I had advertised
my attack with polish
that it was time to chop wood

Dreaming at the foot of twilight
the ancient house called
me to reform its recalcitrant wood
to etch a notch in the handle of my adze
by slaying the dragon
saving my son but
I had brass and so did he,
so I arrived to his triumph
kissed his success
as we cried for the dead

Kiss my adze blond lady
if you want to auction it
to the highest bidder who
chops down ancient trees
in the forest of the evil castle
where the Beast waits
to be transformed by
the Beauty of justice
at “twilight’s last gleaming”

If I would be as beautiful
as he is ugly
I might approach him
with reproach
but I polish
the handle of my adze
until I am pure of heart
and the wood is ready for carving
because death is the only solution
for the impudence of ignorant brutality

Only revenge now
when evil breathes fire

Tasty is the barbecue
that roasts on the
spit of freedom

And speaking about rage, here’s one by Doug:
Killing Dad
by Douglas Gilbert

Justice, I called on you
to shield me
from my father,
a hanging judge
self appointed
child critic
who made me
an orphan from love
as he had been one
in fact and for me
de facto. TURNING AWAY,

a scientist, giving me
a time machine,
let me go back to pre-mean.

Seeing my Grandmother
hit by a random stone
I lured her into a trap, thought to
let the crowd stone her to death
a method ensured to suggest
to Fate that my Father never be born.

Told I could not come back
as I wouldn’t exist,
I visited myself as a child,
had him kill, but
it took an extra day for
his Mother and him to dump the body,
never did tell his friend Becky
to check out the museum where
she was to meet her future husband,
father of the world’s greatest healer.

If it was my fate to suffer
I was convinced these paradoxes
made time traveling circuses
dreams not to be had
as I know I woke up from
somewhere unreal,
but next time I’ll
introduce Becky,
then kill him
except…
I could have gotten help
when Justice I called on you
but you were dead;
I am Justice alone.

———————————-

     I didn’t want to do any spring cleaning because bringing back memories is so painful. I’ve been finding all kinds of stuff.
     I found an odd note from Jack Chelka: “I’m sorry I left in such a hurry, so if you find any of my poems, could you please burn them. Well, OK, I know you never listen to me, so, could you give them to Doug in case he ever publishes anything. He can do whatever he wants with them. I’m going somewhere — maybe Australia. You are groovy Ziohat… and don’t take this the wrong way but you have been so cool and I love your… nevermind… peace and love,

          Jack Chelka, 1969
p.s. Marie Draper says, ‘Right on.’ “

Well yeah, great guy, and I’ve found at least one poem that was to be burned:

Not A Fair Match

This last affair
not a fair match
in the clinches

Saving the ring and little else
only one tissue an eye
dampened
dripped insufficient
last box

Only
a tissue in each corner
to watch her die
stifle a scream
sing a lullaby
put my voice in her
to ring out hush tones
wring out tissues
silhouetted shreds in a box
———————————–

HEY, ENOUGH OF THIS. I HAVE A BETTER IDEA. WHY SHOULDN’T I GET SOME DRILLING EQUIPMENT OR MAYBE EVEN SOME DYNAMITE. I’LL JUST BLOW HOLES IN THE WALL AND FLOOR UNTIL I FIND A PASSAGEWAY TO THE SECRET CAVES. I SHOULD HAVE DONE THIS YEARS AGO INSTEAD OF WASTING TIME TRYING TO FEEL ALONG THE ROCK FOR SOME KIND OF DOOR. WHY LOOK FOR SOME MECHANISM THAT OPENS IT? I’LL JUST BLAST THROUGH. WHY NOT? IT COULD WORK. IT’S GOT TO BE SOMEWHERE.

————————————————-

My New Exploration Blog

     OK, forget the archive blog. It’s time to do an exploration blog. I’m looking for a mining contractor who can get me some explosives. I don’t know why I never thought of doing this before. I remember how I saw Doug once go down a passageway as I was about to call him to ask a question, but he turned a corner and when I reached the turn he had disappeared. I dismissed it at the time, because I thought maybe I was distracted and somehow he just ran past me. No, he must have gone through a secret door.

—————————–

     I told them I’m mining for gold, but it’s all top-secret. They’re setting up the explosives. Once they’ve done the blasts, I’ll tell them I’m calling in a digging crew and I’ll dismiss them. I’ll just tell them I’ve run out of money for now and I’m looking for investors and blah, blah. They’ll think I’m a crackpot and lose interest. Then I’ll explore at my leisure. This could work. I’ve already paid them plenty.

—————————–

     I don’t know, maybe Doug was just kidding about a secret society. It was years ago and maybe I remember everything wrong. Yeah, maybe I was just drunk and Doug just ran past me and I remember it wrong. But wait, I think he did disappear more that once… Besides all that, it could just be a very minor cave of no importance.

————————-

     This is getting more complicated. I need special permits and an inspector has to come. The geologist says I’m nuts and there can not be any gold. Oh hell, the gold story was a bad idea.
—————————–

     I’m not sure yet, but I think a found someone who for a little extra money will do whatever I want — no questions asked…
     We’ll see… I’ll write more in the blog as soon as I’ve arranged something. Yeah, OK, and if this works out I’ll start to give a lot more details. Sorry about that — I didn’t think it was safe to give names and descriptions of the equipment… OK, as soon as I get this organized I’ll describe the whole operation in detail. This should be exciting….
***
CHAPTER 8

ZAWMB’YEE BECOMES HIGH PRIESTESS

ENTRY 84

     I’m a nervous wreck. When Utcoozhoo called, I thought he’d just wanted me to come back to the sacred quarters just to study the ceremonies and protocols that a Grand Council member should know. He had said he just needed me for a few crucial votes, but it’s not that simple. I thought I was to be a stand-in, a figurehead appointment. He has assigned me a Mieta (tutor), but I feel like a little young Queen and he has assigned me a Gavicte (Regent). The Gavicte will handle my executive duties until I understand fully what my responsibilities and powers are.
     I had thought when Utcoozhoo had me appointed to the council that I was just going to join Utcoozhoo in a few votes, and otherwise, I’d just stay in the background while he and his Wejamn (cabal) rescinded Zusoiti’s powers. Utcoozhoo had said it was just a technicality, but the fact that he had cajoled the Grand Council into electing me as the temporary replacement for the absent Zusoiti, has made me the High Priestess. He had said not to worry because I didn’t have to actually do anything, and that before Zusoiti, most High Priestesses did not actually exercise their powers although, theoretically, they could have.
     Maybe, I’m just a silly naïve little girl: I mean, look how I’ve just been bopping around the Wejpob down the staircase that Utcoozhoo showed me, and that he allowed me to decorate. I’ve always been happy to just turn the corner into my apartment without noticing the nooks and crannies in the corridor that are actually doors to other places. I’ve just been on the edge of a maze of passageways, oblivious to a profound matrix.
     But now, ever since the Gavicte has shown me the entrance to the Kmpamew (Palace), I am astounded.

ENTRY 85

     Yenkoi seems like a trustworthy Gavicte. I think that if Utcoozhoo recommended him, he must be reliable, but maybe not. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, and maybe Utcoozhoo was forced by the Council to appoint their favorite. On the other hand, he does seem meticulous in the way he lays out all the caveats and options.
     Yenkoi does pay attention to every detail with his penetrating brown eagle eyes. His deep voice resonates with careful enunciation and I imagine that his aquiline nose will vacuum in the scent of trouble, or sniff unkindly at the vulgar, he, standing tall and grandly thin, but all seems heavy on his officious bushy brow.
     Yenkoi had said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, I am required to inform you that…”
     “Excuse me for interrupting,” I said, “but what does ‘Fevepo’ mean?”
     “Um, well… I see that your Mieta has a lot of work to do. Let me put it this way: it is a title or term of respect which means roughly, ‘Your majesty High Priestess who is all powerful.’ ”
     “Oh, that’s scary. Maybe you could call me chicky babe…” I thought poor old Yenkoi was going to have a heart attack, so I added, “I’m just joking — I’ll work with my Mieta to learn all these terms. Sorry, please continue Gavicte Yenkoi.”
     “Yes, thank you. Fevepo Zawmb’yee, I am required to inform you that I will be acting in your name to exercise all executive powers of state while you study the Ofuye and legal documents. However, although it is generally not recommended, you have the power and right to overrule or rescind any order I have issued in your name, and may if you deem it necessary, issue an order or decree of your own which will be followed and obeyed by all subjects of the realm. You may write and promulgate laws to enforce your decrees as you deem necessary.”
     “Kievifkwa!”
     “Don’t worry. Your Mieta will instruct and inform you on the state of affairs, and I will handle everything until you are ready…”

ENTRY 86

Oh Kievifkwa, this has been all too overwhelming. I’ve only spent one overnight at the Kmpamew. I’ve postponed my appointment with Apacevj, the Mieta. I’m not looking forward to having a formal teacher. I mean, Utcoozhoo is a fatherly figure, knows when I don’t understand something, and knows how to explain a subject with a story. His homework can be difficult, but I don’t mind doing it for him. He doesn’t push me too hard, but guides me toward the subtleties. Utcoozhoo is always very patient with me, but Yenkoi, now, I’ve come to think, is in a rush or panic about something, and very eager for me to get started with Apacevj.
     Oh Kievifkwa, I nearly ran screaming from the Kmpamew (but I was calm and polite to Yenkoi, actually). I told the Gavicte I had to consult with Utcoozhoo urgently, and that seemed to placate him. I told Utcoozhoo I had to go back to Doug’s apartment to unwind, because I was still feeling weird and not myself. Oddly, he didn’t object, seemed preoccupied, and just thanked me for the report on James Ziohat.
     I don’t know why I didn’t want to stay at the Kmpamew. It’s very luxurious. Yenkoi, proudly gave me the grand tour and told me the statistics: there are 800 rooms, 25 State Rooms, 60 guest rooms, 100 offices, 200 staff rooms, and 100 bathrooms. Doug would be impressed with the State Dining Room and the kitchens and the chefs, and … . Oh Kievifkwa, I don’t need all that.
     I’ve chosen my Royal study and bedroom. Oops, I’ve forgotten the correct terms for those, but anyway, I guess, considering how scatterbrain I can be sometimes, Yenkoi has done the best he could.
     Well, I can say this: the Grand Ballroom is magnificent, with a sky high ceiling and with a seemingly endless staircase, and thanks to Utcoozhoo’s instructions, the Gavicte took extraordinary measures to accommodate my tastes. When Yenkoi said, I have a special surprise for you, I thought, oh no, now what. We had entered the huge room through the main entrance off the sacred corridor.
     But he had said, “We’ve taken special measures for your Grand Ballroom. We’ve hung Velijdiko that reflect your esthetic tastes while still functioning quite well… ”
     “Velijdiko?”
     “It’s drapery or curtains made from the traditional fabric of fiber-optic threads, and carbon nano-tubes, joined with the standard interstitial crystalline rubies and sapphires and with rare-earth wave-guides. But the enhancements are adjusted to… ”
     “Too much information for me right now, um…”
     “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, let’s just say, it’s beautiful adjustable-color curtains that also act as a communication device and antenna. Will this do for today?”
     “Yes, thank you, Gavicte Yenkoi. I’m sorry, I interrupted you — you were going to say?”
     Yenkoi gestured and we walked across the expansive marble floor. Yenkoi tilted his head: “Look up at the Gijlek, um, the frescoes…”
     I looked up at the ceiling. Beautiful landscape paintings adorned the surface. I said, “Wow. It’s great and so intricate, but the ceiling is so far away and … Oh, didn’t you say before that you had a ‘special surprise’ for me? Is this it?”
     “No, Fevepo Zawmb’yee. Walk with me to the center of the room.”
     We walked across landscape mosaics imbedded in the floor, meadows and flowers, deer and fruit trees. As we approached the center, I could see a desk and chair on a long low platform resting in the center of the room. “That’s an odd place to place a desk,” I said.
     “Well, step with me onto the platform. Be careful of the rim — step over it.”
     We stepped up just an inch or so. I sat down in the chair. “What’s the rim for?”
     “That’s so the chair doesn’t roll off the platform.”
     “Well, then if it did, I could just roll around the marble floor… ”
     “Not if you’re near the ceiling…”
     “Oh?”
     “Yes, well. It is after all a Reksipj, and if you’re flying around you have to be careful. Look up — do you see that white blank spot?”
     “Yes.”
     “That’s for your painting. Look at your desk.”
     “Oh… tubes of my favorite acrylic paints. Let’s see. Yes, wow: you’ve given me all the primary and secondary colors, custom shades… um, extra large white, yeah OK. Great. Brushes?”
     “Yes, in the draws, all the standard types and sizes, and if you need it we can custom make a brush to your specifications.”
     I told Yenkoi I’d take flying lessons some other time. Painting in the sky is something new for me, and I’ve never seen a bird use a paint brush so even though birds are good at flying, they must not think that painting is safe.”

ENTRY 87

     Now I’m really starting to worry: I think I’m having blackouts. I remember after leaving the Kmpamew that I gave Utcoozhoo my report on James Ziohat, and then I went to my old sacred quarters in the old main corridor that I was familiar with and that Doug had been to.
     But something major is happening because I woke up in the morning back at Doug’s apartment with no memory of how I got there. Other than the missing time, I woke up in bed with Doug, feeling wonderful, but something is missing. I think I’m back to myself, but where was I and what did I do? I got dressed quickly, had some coffee to wake up, and went back to the bedroom. Still a puzzle.
     I kissed Doug and he woke up smiling. I said, “Do I seem normal to you?”
     “Normal?” he said, “When have you ever been normal? You’re extraordinary…”
     “Yeah, right … um, how is your novel going?”
     “Well, being absorbed in the world of my characters, feeling as if they actually exist and are real, I wonder what is real. Do we live in a dream? Is everything we perceive just our imagination? How do we know this is real and … ”
     “Evewapei! ”
     “Huh?”
     “It means something like, ‘Philosophers can say the world is unreal until reminded of pain, chocolate, and sex.’ ”
     “One word for that?”
     “Actually, it’s more than that. Most Utd’mbts words are symbols for concepts. There are different levels of sophistication for the Utd’mbts language. Utcoozhoo says I’m mostly at the baby talk babble stage where a symbol stands for a sound, but higher forms of Utd’mbts have nothing to do with sound. There is the ‘thing’, the actuality of what is referred to, and then different levels of symbolism which are to re-trigger the experience of the ‘thing’. ”
     “Huh, what?”
     “Oh, I know, I don’t know what I’m saying exactly. I’m just bluffing. But now I’m supposed to do better.”
     “What do you mean ‘now’. Now what?”
     “Uh, well, the whole Grand Council can ‘speak’ the upper levels of Utd’mbts and they’re probably maneuvering behind my back to keep control. I think only Utcoozhoo is watching my back.”
     “OK. Try this again. The highest level of Udt’mbts is what?”
     “A word is a push-dream. The word is a trigger to a two hour movie that occurs in a second. It doesn’t have speech but it has music, vision, smell, and flavor. It has a meaning and a taste. To speak, one would push the vision of the singing pigeon that is to be eaten without remorse… you devour the thing and you can ‘have your cake and eat it too.’ ”
     “This makes no sense.”
     “It is: a word for a thought as complete as a dream.”
     “Oh?”
     “You have to do it to know it.”
     “I tried a little of that sort of process but didn’t get far. If Evewapei then after death when the reality of the world stops for the individual, is there nothing? And if there is something, isn’t that more real or,… or, um, more permanent? Is anything real beyond the self… um, you’re giving me a headache…”
     “Utcoozhoo always says, ‘Jipacy!’ ”
     “Which is?”
     “Only love is real.”
     “That doesn’t sound like what Utcoozhoo would say… he’s never definite.”
     “OK. That’s what I say.”
    
ENTRY 88

     I told Doug all about the Kmpamew and I said I thought maybe he should come to live with me there during my interim appointment, just until the new Council is sworn-in in the new year.
     Doug said, “you know, they lied to us. Didn’t we always think the caves were barren and underpopulated, especially after so many moved up-top to live? They didn’t say anything about a palace and a secret city.”
     “Yeah, we missed an entire world. How could we have not known about an isolated and secret society in our midst?…”
     “And did you ever see any workers coming and going from there?”
     “No.”
     “And these people are not any of the crowd in the main cave that we saw on the day of the last crisis?”
     “No. They don’t dress the same and I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”
     “Speaking of dressing: you were organizing your closet and you were going to finish unpacking the seven chests of the Nipusindi.”
     “Well, yeah, but I’ve been busy…”
     “Well now that you’re part of the upper-upper strata of society, you may want to wear some of the clothes from the chest.”
     “I don’t know what to choose or where to put it all and, um, how to organize…”
     “I would think they have endless closets in a palace, and some kind of servant who can help you. Didn’t you say there’s a large staff?”
     “Well, I just met the Gavicte and I wanted to study some documents before seeing my Mieta … Oh damn, oh Kievifkwa!”
     “What’s Kievifkwa ?”
     “Oh hell, it’s just our general all around curse word, or expletive… you know how I am with definitions…Oh Kievifkwa! And damn, how am I going to remember all these rules and stuff…”
     “What stuff is that?”
     I explained to Doug what little I knew about the weapons in the armory and about the rules for intruders. I said, “There’s a possibility that James Ziohat might accidentally drill into the ceiling of the Kmpamew.”
     “What?”
     “It’ll never happen: the little twerp just talks big. His grand plans never go anywhere… but I’ve got better news…”
     “Yes?”
     “I get to paint on the ceiling of the Kmpamew.”
     “Really?”
     “Yup.”

ENTRY 89

     I decided that Doug and I are too obsessed with our projects and we should just go for a walk. He’s right about one thing: I should finish unpacking the seven chests of the Nipusindi. But I just dragged Doug into my bedroom, threw open the lids to all the chests, and started pulling things out and piling them onto my bed. I said, “Which of these do you think I’d look best in?” Doug seemed to point to one at random.
     Doug said, “That one. The Royal purple dress with the gold trim or whatever…”
     I stripped off the plain green dress that I had been wearing and I looked over at another of the chests. I threw a collection of colorful bras onto the bed. I said, “Which of these?”
     Doug said, “First take this one off,” and he unfastened my plain white bra. He tickled his fingers over my nipples.
     I said, “I’m getting dressed, not undressed. Remember?”
     “Oh yeah.”
     “So which would you choose?”
     “Um, the one with the metal breastplate — the warrior princess look or um, whatever it’s called…”
     “OK. But I’ll do it. I’m putting it on, not off.” Yes, I thought, we do need a walk in the fresh air. I slipped into the Royal purple dress. I said, “How does that look?”
     “Great.”
     “Does it fit? It doesn’t bulge anywhere?”
     “No, no, no. It fits perfectly. Your body is perfect.”
     I pulled out some other dresses. I said, “Maybe this one would be a better color?”
     “Well, um, uh, that whole bunch looks like the wrong size?”
     I said, “Uh, yeah, those seem different.” Then something weird happened: I found myself saying, “Of course those are different. They are the slave uniforms.”
     “What did you say?”
     “Oh, I don’t know why I said that. Um, OK, I’ll just put on some make-up and we’ll take a walk. OK?”
     “Fine.”
     I rushed around and quickly got ready. I took Doug’s hand and we were out the door. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”
     “Yes?”
     “Whenever I go in or out from your apartment, I never see anyone… ”
     “Uh, well, actually the whole building is empty except for me. All of the other apartments are just there to provide addresses and false identities so Utcoozhoo can launder money. He sells precious metals and other things from the Tzalbihuki under different names. The wealth that the gods brought us is what gives us a source of income. If an inspector comes, we put someone in an apartment for the day.”
     We walked down the clean well-lit hallway with the gold carpet and plain white walls. I said, “Well if this is your building, maybe I could practice painting murals on these empty walls.”
     “Sure. Why not.”
     We arrived at the elevator with the car ready. “Oh, well, now I understand why the elevator is always here.” We stepped in, and I pushed ‘L’. “But if there’s no one here, what do we do in an emergency?”
     “Oh we have double backup.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Well, the original building plans don’t show it, but we took out several columns of apartments and we used two of those columns to make two extra elevator shafts.”
     “Huh? How would we get out of here?”
     “Well, see the handle on the side panel that says, ‘emergency only’?”
     “Yeah.”
     “That opens to a parallel shaft that has a hand operated pulley system with multiple shelves that fold at the top and bottom of the shaft to make a continuous loop.”
     “Sounds complicated.”
     “No, you just open the door, pull down the nearest shelf and hop on. You can hoist yourself up, or let gravity take you down. Wanna see?”
     “No some other time.” The elevator opened onto our opulent lobby with the red carpet, blush couch, and the fish pond. “You know, maybe you should invite someone, and make them wait down here just so someone can use the couch.”
     “I suppose, but its really just a front.”
     “Ah, it’s a sunny day.” Doug opened the door for me and we walked to the corner. The sign said ‘WALK’, so we did — across the street into the honking, dodging the cars that had trapped themselves in the intersection at the change of light, and we swirled around the line at the hot dog stand. We pushed our way to the pedestrian flow that was moving in our direction. I said, “Let’s walk to the park.”
     “Look at that tourist over there coming towards us: She’s wearing your purple dress.”
     “No. It has a different collar … How do you know she’s a tourist?”
     “By the way she’s looking up at the skyscrapers and looking everywhere like she wants to take in every sight.”
     “Nice heels…”
     “…yeah, stands tall, struts confidently with proud marching breasts…”
     “What?”
     “Never mind…”
     The woman smiled and passed us by, but I became worried. “Did you feel that?”
     “What? I think she said something but I couldn’t make it out.”
     “No, I felt an upper Utd’mbts word.”
     “I could have sworn she said, ‘Yes, I’m a tourist of sorts.’ ”
     “No. She didn’t speak. She pushed an Utd’mbts word into your subconscious and you allowed it to bubble up into your consciousness, though a little distorted.”
     “Hmm. Now that you mention it, it did feel like upper Utd’mbts. I haven’t tried using that in years…”
     “I saw ‘Old Faithful’, the geyser at Yellowstone National Park, a plane to the city, a car to her hotel room, and her walking here… and she thinks you’re cute…”
     “Hmm, um. Her life story in a second?”
     “Sort of …”
     “Wow. Great. Cool.”
     “No. I’m not so sure it’s benign. I’m worried.”

ENTRY 90

     We made our way towards the corner of the park. I think we passed the building with the trees on every terrace, and the buses faced us at every stop with their unloading commotions and their boarding confused hordes looking for cards and change. But mostly I didn’t notice if there were gems in the din, or new fashions in the store windows, no, mostly, I listened to the music of Doug’s chatter because I love the sound of his voice — it comforts me and I know when the song of his voice turns tender, when I laugh, that he loves to be with me, and when my word of acknowledgment makes him smile and pause, I know he loves me like the humming bird loves the flower however fast the flutter of his wings. I think perhaps I dress to be his nectar.
     Doug said, “Could this be a Phthalocyanine Blue sky?”
     “Huh what?”
     “I mean, it seems like a god has lent you his brushes, and you’ve painted my sky. Is it you who paints my world?”
     “No, it is you who shines on my tears, penetrates the rainbow of my feelings and I show you the canvas of the world as I see it. I look in your eyes and pray they will see every color that makes you happy and if I would be on your palette, brush me.” His hand brushed my cheek and touched my lips, but we nearly collided with a passerby who said, “Idiots!”
     Doug said, “Maybe we are foolish to speak poetically. I mean, if we don’t speak colloquially or idiomatically in English, and develop such bad speaking habits, then how will we blend into the up-top world?”
     I was a little insulted — I thought I was flowing and in tune with a romantic moment. I said, “No we’re not foolish. A little blend, a little metaphor. All things in moderation, as they say, but I say, except in matters of love, and then, and then, um…”
     “Um, uh, and then the silent blend,” said Doug as he kissed my hand, and then we crashed into a hot dog stand.
     Doug said, “Um, we’ll take two with sauerkraut.”
     I said, “Mustard and chili.”
     “Look, there’s a hansom cab parked up ahead and someone is giving the horse a carrot, and see over there the portrait artist doing someone…”
     “Dougie wougie wougie, yeah, why don’t we cross over to the hotel side and then cross to the park? Yeah…”
     “OK. You’ve got mustard and chili dripping down your face.” The vendor gave Doug a napkin and he wiped my face clean with love, patience, and indulgence if I may speak in such terms — I don’t know if I know the words for this moment.

ENTRY 91

     We went down the corner staircase to the fork where the rocks rest in front of The Big Pond. A guitar and a saxophone player were tuning up while people climbed the rocks behind them, and people to the right in front sat on the grass behind the benches that lined the northward path.
     We took the westward path, along the pond, the water and ducks on the right, a lawn, trees, and the border stone wall on the left. Above the wall we could still see the street in chatter-walking glory, see the hotels across the way, and we drank in the day, springy stepped and steeped in joy.
     The benches were flecked with picnickers carousing, singles, double-troublers, troubadours, people, some at ease, one at an easel on the grass, and a bearded man washing his face at a water fountain.
     We walked along until we could choose an interesting path that led into the interior of the park. At a short distance in, I felt an inner commotion. An influence swept by us. I said, “Did you feel that?”
     Doug said, “Yes, I felt something in Utd’mbts: something about ‘Runaway Horse!’”
     “Yes,” I said. Just then, a figure in a purple dress, far up ahead, ran across the path and up a rocky hill so fast that it seemed just a flash of color that froze at the top. Two others in purple followed right behind.
     Doug said, “Another word: it feels dire, but I can’t understand it… ”
     I pulled Doug over behind a tree. I said, “Duck down and stop thinking — meditate on nothingness.” One of the figures pulled out what looked like a weapon of some kind. A beam of light struck the figure who stood still and then vanished in place; there was no fall, change of position, or obstruction, but the figure was just gone instantly. Doug was not focused and reacted. I said, “Doug! You spoke to them in Utd’mbts.”
     “I did?”
     “Yes, we’d better run.” We turned and ran back the way we came, and then across and up an outcrop of rock. We could see the two figures go under a pedestrian bridge, open a door and disappear. “Watch what you say!”
     “I don’t know what I said.”
     “Exactly.”
     “What? Um, is it safe now?”
     “I think so. I don’t feel anything.”

ENTRY 92

     Oh, well, this is the second time we had had a bright sunny morning, and an ominous afternoon. But this time we decided not to rush into anything. Last time, when we rashly chased after Zusoiti, Doug was nearly killed by a hand gun. But this seems to be an escalation: I had thought weapons from the sacred tiboesri were never to be used up-top. Whoever this was, evidently, is willing to use the legendary acacizg weapon. With the exception of it possibly being used in ancient times, as described in the Ofuye, I don’t think it has ever been used before. It was to be stored for the gods return. But I’m not sure if the brew of this storm is mixed with lightning or with swirling updrafts.
     I suppose jogging and dodging through traffic and crowds back to Doug’s apartment had been good exercise, and I had gotten to practice seeing upper Utd’mbts, but in my fancy flights I think I have felt more like a pigeon than a hawk, not much like a dove, because my anger waits for its eagle nature to emerge while I rest in the fatigue of ruffled feathers, a sadness that reigns in the unknown. I wonder how it is that Doug remembers a little Utd’mbts in a crisis, but usually doesn’t know any; it’s not that I’m an expert or anything (and I too often only speak the verbal lower Utd’mbts) but …
     Oh I forgot the point I was going to make. So anyway, we got back safely, Doug made eggplant parmesan with sardines, anchovies, and cherries, and I made mocha-cinnamon-ginger coffee with banana ice cream on top, a happy foam.
     We ate in the dining room which we used to call the banquet room, but ever since Doug bought a new table at “Curiosity Tables” in the village, it doesn’t seem so elegant or royal. The guy told Doug it was made in the 1950’s but I think it’s too primitive — more like the 1890’s. Oh Kievifkwa, what do I know: I’m not a furniture expert; I should ask Chloë. Well, it is a curiosity: the table setting areas on the periphery are normal, but the center is taken up by an oblong conveyor belt. The whole thing seats thirty without a squeeze, but there’s usually just the two of us. Mostly, we sit together at one end, but sometimes we sit at opposite ends of the table so Doug can play with the mechanism. He puts the plate down at his end and it circles around the table until it reaches me. We don’t do it much anymore because he once told me to pass the pie while we were sitting at opposite ends. It annoyed me. I raised my pitching arm and threw it at him like a flying saucer. He threw it back and so no more face-offs.
     I think we’ll ask Chloë to find us an elegant table, or we’ll just put the old one back. This time, Doug served me graciously, and we sat together staring into each other’s eyes.

ENTRY 93

     It had been a delicious meal and we were more relaxed, but the thought of some sort of wipzib roaming around in the up-top world was disquieting. I took a sip of coffee foam and used a spoon to eat a lump of ice cream still floating on the top. Doug jabbed at a piece of eggplant.
     Doug said, “Y’know, I think you were right a while back when you said you thought you saw Zusoiti’s followers wandering the streets, organizing rallies. I thought at the time you were just imagining it.”
     “I think it’s wipzib.”
     “What’s that?”
     “Um, a secret police.”
     “Well, um, we’re in big trouble. How minor is this catastrophe do you think?”
     “Oh, just the end of the world… Just kidding… um, I think…”
     “Hmm. The dance of doom. Is it? Well, so, what would Utcoozhoo say?”
     “Tiglekso!”
     “Yes? And what does that mean?”
     “OK. Here we go again. Um, Tiglekso means, um, uh, um … “
     “Yes?”
     “It means: there is no sense in brooding on possibilities in a fog that may yet bring water to a catch-net in the desert, no sense in not letting the music of fog horns teach caution when only the dawn will lift yearning spirits ready to grow in sun and in shade, these spirits who have looked for dream stars in the dark of nightly prayers, and no sense to brood when all is lifted by the clearing.”
     “What?”
     “In short: don’t worry.”
     “Oh? Fog condenses into water on netting hung on a tree?”
     “Yes. This is just an approximation — you have to feel the word as a whole to see it all at once and the metaphors can change, although the underlying concept is static. At least that’s how Utcoozhoo last said it, I think. Maybe I’ll ask my Mieta, um, my tutor.”
     “You have a tutor to teach you Utd’mbts?”
     “Yes, his name is Apacevj. I’m supposed to make an appointment with him, but…”
     “You’re procrastinating?”
     “Yeah. Not just Utd’mbts: I have to learn rules and law and protocol and a bunch of other stuff. I’m in a fog… Hey let’s make a sunrise now!”
     “What d’ya mean?”
     “You get a tarpaulin or plastic sheet or something to cover the hallway carpet from your workroom, and meet me in the hallway. I’ll get some paints from my room. Race you to the hallway — loser cleans the dishes.” I knocked over my chair and ran toward the door.
     Doug said, “Wait, not fair. You got a headstart.”
     I turned and shouted over my shoulder as I left, “And bring some brushes.” I got to my room, grabbed a bag, ran out through the living room into the hallway with my duffel bag packed with tubes of acrylic paints. I shouted, “I win, I win!” Doug came lumbering out onto the gold carpet with a giant rolled up tarp. He dropped it with a thud. I kissed him. We unrolled it all the way down the hallway and covered all the carpet.
     “Wait,” he said. “I’ll get a bucket of white paint as primer and a bucket of blue for a basic sky background.”
     “As long as you’re going, could you also look in my room and get some charcoal sticks or some soft 4B pencils…”
     “OK,” he said and turned back. He has a nice behind and a bold brisk walk. I had some good ideas for a mural and for him.

ENTRY 94

     It had been a long day and it was hard to get into my artist mode. I walked up and down the hallway, staring at the blank wall, trying to envision what I wanted to paint. I was thinking I didn’t really feel like brushing on a wide broad background first. Doug returned with the bucket of blue, the bucket of white, the charcoal, and the pencils. I said, “I know it’s harder, but I think I want to do a sketch first, do some fine shimmering detail around the edges and then the background last. Yeah, it’s backward, but it’s possible to do, and the wall is already in good shape — it doesn’t need any priming.”
     Doug dragged the unneeded buckets across to the opposite wall, and brought me the pencils. He said, “Well, what I’ve done when my foreground has gotten out of control and destroyed the background beyond recognition is to sketch in some guide lines to keep the perspective correct for the beginning and end pieces of hidden objects in the background and … ”
     “Yeah. I get it. I do my drawing first. Then, I could sketch guide lines for the background. I could start a horizon line and lift my pencil as I pull it through my sketch and push it down again as I reach the other border of my drawing. Yeah, I’ve got it. I can do it backwards… ”
     “OK. Are we ready now?”
     “Uh… You’re not going to be mad, are you if …”
     “No. Did you forget something?”
     I did the coy look. “You could do me a little favor …”
     “What does the cute little Zawmbee Warmbee want to inspire and to equip the preparation of her pièce de résistance ?”
     “Dougie Wougie-Wougie, Sir, if you would be so kind as to get a big bucket of plain water for rinsing and some little empty buckets for the little brushes… ”
     “OK.”
     “And could you get my purse and some skin lotion.”
     “Alright. Is that everything?”
     “Uh, and a partridge, and a pear tree. No, just kidding. And bring your gorgeous self back.”
     “As you wish, Miss artist extraordinaire,” he said with equanimity though he did not exactly perform an entrechat — more of a trudge then a leap. But he can thrust his legs out in a wide strided power walk away in animalistic grace. I had my own purr waiting…
     I walked to the end of the hallway and started a sketch of a deer. Not exactly right. I walked up and down the hallway, stopped in the middle, and sketched a tree.
     Doug came back with all my stuff. He was sweating. I said, “Take off your shirt, and look at my deer sketch.”
     Doug walked down the hallway. “It’s a good start… Y’know, I haven’t heard much about the deer this year…”
     “Yeah. I noticed that. Every year they do stories about how the deer are eating people’s gardens and one group wants to hire hunters and another has some birth control scheme. With all the protest marches, nothing gets done, the population explodes and they starve.”
     Doug said, “We’ve always just ate them. It doesn’t seem like such a problem.”
     “Yeah. I don’t know — city people only eat cattle, I guess. But anyway, this year there are no stories.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “The deer have disappeared,” I said.
     “Oh? Well, we have plenty in storage. Next time we’re in the cave I’ll try out a new recipe for some 20,000-year-old venison.”
     “Yeah. I like your venison… And walk along and look at my tree sketch…” While Doug stood in front of the drawing, I gazed at his back. He has a thick ribbon of twisted hair down the center of his back that looks like a double-helix. The hair on the sides of his back has a horizontal growing pattern from the side towards the center. It was disrupted, so I took a comb out of my purse, combed his back hair from each side towards the center, and then softly brushed it in the same way with my hands. Doug turned and I combed his chest hair downward. His hair is soft: some blond, some brown, and some gray, although the ribbon down his stomach is all dark brown. I petted his chest with my hands and when I rested my hand over his heart, it was beating so hard I thought my hand would be bruised. When I asked how my sketch was, Doug couldn’t speak, and when I reached into his pants I knew why. I pushed him against the wall. I said, “I have an idea for a drawing. Stay here.” I unbuckled his belt…

ENTRY 95

     Even in the very bright lights of the hallway, Doug looked delectable in the nude, and he stood tall and erect. I said, “I’m going to do a sketch first, but the theme of my painting is going to be ‘Flying mushroom fountain between two trees…’ or something like…”
     Doug looked down at himself and said, “Well, uh, umm…”
     I gently wrapped my fingers around his scrotum and rested my thumb on his lower shaft. “Hmm,” I said, “the shaft is thicker and wider than a mushroom, and the tip has complex curves, actually…” I unwrapped my hand and touched the tip with my forefinger. I said, “Hmm, only a portion of the top front part is a rounded sphere-like shape with two lobes, and uh, what would you say Doug?”
     Doug said, “Uh huh, uh-ha uh-ha uh-ha uh-ha mmmm uh mmmm uh…”
     I said, “I don’t understand… is that a breathing exercise?” Doug sounded like a speeded up version of ocean waves crashing on the beach: the exhale like crashing waves, and the inhales like swooshy gasps. I ran my finger alone the surface towards the back edge. I said, “Hmm, the back edge curves upward, but a mushroom curves downward. Sort of like a ski slope or … What do you think Doug?”
     Doug said, “Mmm uh, uh-haaa, uh-haaa, uh-haaa.”
     I said, “Yeah, I think I have the basic form. I’ll do a sketch outline and then I’ll paint it.” I stepped back to get my pencils and look for a good spot on the wall.
     Doug said, “Umm. You don’t want to get paint on you dress — why don’t you take it off.”
     “Not yet,” I said. “I’m just doing a sketch first.” I found a spot on the wall next to Doug. But there started to be some changes, so I backed up, sort of hugged myself and did a little dance in front of Doug. He stood tall again and I went back to the wall, but I drew with my right hand and did some exploring with my left hand. I said, “Should this be a realistic painting or a surreal symbolic landscape?”
     Doug said, “Uh-haaa, uh-haaa, uh-haaa, uh-haaa.”
     “Yeah,” I said, “I should put in an ocean.”

ENTRY 96

     Geez. Oh Kievifkwa! I’ve been struggling to do a Gijlek in Doug’s hallway. How am I going to do one on the ceiling of the Kmpamew if I can’t even practice a little splash of creativity. Well, I suppose I had demonstrated that I could exercise a certain amount of self-discipline by not removing all my clothes and throwing Doug to the floor right away, but I had struggled to stay in artist mode and only tease Doug and not myself, but he has always been so cute and… oh Kievifkwa, never mind.
     I had finished the sketch when Doug said, “So now you’re going to paint. Right?”
     “Yes,” I said, knowing where this was going, but I wanted to succumb to the emerging seduction, because his transparency of desire has its native charm, and even if he doesn’t know it, I think he is different from the tiger with alpha sperm, as no tiger wears a condom like he does, but his seeds in actuality are more like spiritual teachings by serendipity that would bear orphan followers, if bare essences be known, more like this than the seeds that would create his own child who he would dearly love if he could. So something of him must continue to thrive, and that is why I must keep him alive, because I am his only fun, his only true love, and I do love to play and why should I not be of pure lust sometimes. Philosophy can be written later when we conquer the world gently, when the outgoing tide leaves us oysters and pearls. Oh Kievifkwa, this is nonsense. I’m enough grandiose for two. Never mind. I can’t justify anything. I didn’t care. I’d eat my dessert if not first, then soon.
     So I had done a preliminary sketch and had thought maybe after I got started, I’d just do pure painting from then on — and if necessary, even do more ‘sketches’ but with the brush and paint because it’s acrylic and not oil anymore; I could do quick changes.
     But Doug had said, “You don’t want to get paint on your dress.”
     I said, “OK. I’m going to paint now. I’ll mix up some flesh colors and if the wall is bumpy enough, maybe I’ll do a dry brush technique to get color variations just right.”
     Doug said, “Y’know, you don’t want to get paint on your dress.”
     “OK. Stay there. Stand tall.” I walked back a few steps to where I had dumped my purse and bag. I dumped out some tubes and a board. I squeezed a lot of white onto the palette board, and squeezed dabs of several reds, two yellows, two blues and I had to try to remember which was which: cadmium yellow medium is actually slightly yellow-orange and cadmium yellow light is slightly yellow-green, or is it the other way — oh phooey: mix and see, mix and see. Then oops: I almost dipped my dress into the paint(yeah, I know, I could have changed before I decided to run out into the hallway for this project). Yes, alright, it was time. I stripped off my dress. I carried the palette board in one hand, and my purse and a fist full of brushes in the other. I put them off to the side of Doug where I had started the sketch.
     Doug said, “You don’t want to get paint on your bra, do you?”
     I sat down in front of Doug, and looked up at his endowment. I said, “Hmm, these flesh colors are all different. Let me see the palms of your hands. Hmm, no, it’s not anything like that color; even the tip is darker than that, and the edge is an entirely different color.” I reached up and Doug’s knees bent and shook a little. I ran my hands up his inner thighs. I said, “How do I paint all these colors?”
     Doug said, “Mmmm, uh, mmmm.”
     “I want it,” I said, “to glisten in the sun for the painting. I got up and walked to the side to get my purse, look at the sketch, and mix a little paint.
     Doug said, “How would I glisten in the sun — there’s no sun here and what color would I be in sunlight?”
     I left the palette on the floor and came back in front of Doug with my purse. “Glisten?” I echoed. “Well, I can add a little shine.” I fumbled through my purse and found a tube of K-Y jelly. I put the purse down. I stood and squeezed some onto Doug’s shaft, let the tube drop to the floor, and spread the lotion with my finger tips. I said, “I think this will help capture the light and reflection and give the painting the right touch. Don’t you think so, Doug?”
     Doug said, “Mmmmm, uh, mmmm.”
     I sat down on the floor in front of Doug and looked through my purse. I tore open a package. I reached up and Doug’s knees bent and shook. I unrolled a condom on him, grabbed his hands, and like rowing a boat, pulled him down on me as I lay back onto the floor. He kissed me, thrusting like the artist he is.

ENTRY 97

     So the painting wasn’t done — just an idea teased out, a glimpse of something to come. ‘The calm before the storm’ as they say, or is that ‘the calm before the orgasm.’ No, the storm before the … Never mind. It was play; its was a play for drama, for time and moves, a game, a passion flowering as we stood nude in the hallway.
     After Doug had stood up and removed his condom, I had walked over to the scattered painting paraphernalia to dip one of the little buckets into the giant bucket of rinse water, and walked back to splash Doug’s new exposure and splash I did.
     Doug said, “Yow. Is that for the painting?”
     “No,” I said, “um, every cannon must be cleaned so it can fire again.”
     “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he said as he casually kissed each of my nipples and made his way over to the buckets. He dipped two buckets into the water and brought them back. He gave me one and said, “I demand a duel at 30 paces.”
     I said, “Huh?”
     He rested the bucket on the floor, put my face in his hands and he kissed me. He said, “We stand behind-to-behind, walk thirty paces, turn and fire our buckets of water.”
     “You mean, we stand with your little cute butt pushed against my voluptuous derrièré, and then we each walk forward thirty paces and turn to throw water at each other?”
     “Yes,” he said, picking up the bucket and turning.
     I stroked his hairy cheeks, and then I turned and bumped him. We each walked forward carrying our buckets of water. Doug had walked only 15 of his 30 paces when I turned and watched his cute hairy butt and cute hairy back move down the hallway. I stopped, raised and aimed my bucket to wait for him to turn around. As soon as he turned, I threw it as hard as I could, but it didn’t reach him. He threw his and the water hit me between the breasts and dripped down. We raced to the big bucket to get more water. I took Doug’s hands, and we sat down and laughed.
     Doug said, “You are a joy.”
     “We are,” I said. But then I frowned.
     “What’s wrong?”
     “It’s an Utd’mbts word…”
     “What?”
     “Uayi! It’s Apacevj.”
     “What’s Uayi? “
     “Well, it’s very formal. It means, ‘If I may have your permission to fuse and join into the node of your beingness, I would wish to impart to you, with deference and respect, the essence of my cognizance that I fervently believe is an element of truth which I believe will be to your benefit and which I offer with benign intention.’ ”
     “What?”
     “Um, it means that he says ‘hi’, may I speak to you telepathically for a moment please.”
     “Oh. At least, a lot more polite than what happened in the park.”
     “Yes. Um, give me a moment. I’m not used to this. This is very uncomfortable.” I lay down on the carpet and meditated. After ten minutes, I sat up.
     Doug said, “What does he want?”
     “He wants me to come back to the Kmpamew so he can properly teach me upper Utd’mbts. He says I’m awkward and not very fluent and it’s vital in these crisis times that I learn more.”
     “He’s that blunt or…”
     “No, I’m just summarizing it for you. He said it in a kind way. But…”
     “But there’s serious things happening…”
     “Yes.”

ENTRY 98

     Doug did the dishes even though I cheated on the contests for who gets to do it. But I don’t think he minds. He’s meditating while his body is automatically doing the chore. But he’s lost his way with meditation in general, I think — it can be an empty gesture if not done correctly. Utcoozhoo says, as a child , Doug spoke upper Utd’mbts fluently, but now, Doug mostly represses and blocks it — he almost always has to ask what something means. I don’t know exactly what happened to him to make him forget.
     In the morning, at the breakfast table, I said, “I think I’ll at least meet Apacevj in person, begin a little instruction, and then start on my painting for the ceiling of the Kmpamew.”
     Doug said, “Pirgrikwa! ”
     “Hmm,” I said, “you suddenly remember this?”
     “Something,” he said, “about all of this sudden outbreak of upper Utd’mbts speaking is disturbing. Is it even safe to contemplate that such a thing exists when most people are incredibly vulnerable, because they are only aware of such things in their dreams and even then, they protect themselves meekly with symbolism and rationalization. What if their defense mechanisms are manipulated by others deliberately?”
     It was a little bit shocking to hear this outburst. “So how would you define ‘Pirgrikwa’ ?”
     “Uh, well, um, uh… ”
     “Yes?”
     “Vigilance is required whenever we feel driven to perform an action which relieves anxiety, seems mandatory to survival, but has no known rational or logical connection to the resolution of conscious dilemmas. ”
     “Um, ubemuwx!And maybe if you practiced authentic meditation you’d now more…”
     “Yeah, touché, but just be careful.”
     “Yes, OK, I will, thanks. I love you… and I should pull myself together and call a cab to take me to a spot, a safe distance away from the secret entrance to the caves. I use slightly different locations each time, but the cabby usually looks at me and says, you want to get off here?”
     Doug said, “Well, Utcoozhoo told me not to tell anyone but…”
     “What?”
     “Uh, well, since you’re on the Grand Council, I suppose I could tell you… “
     “Tell me what?”
     “Uh, well, I know a short cut…”
     “A short cut?”
     “Well, remember how I told you there were two extra elevator shafts?”
     “Yes. You pointed to a manual emergency exit… ”
     “Yes, well, there’s something on the other side… ”
     “Oh?”
     “Yes. You can get access to a train… ”
     “Train? What kind of train?”
     “I’ll show you. I can get you to the sacred corridor and then you can go from there.”
     “Oh, hey. That would be great. ”
     “OK. Get dressed and when you’re ready, I’ll take you.”

ENTRY 99

     I was dressed in my formal purple dress with the gold embroidery that Doug calls my “Goddess Dress” when I saw that Doug was still at the breakfast table nursing his piece of venison and buffalo fried in duck fat with truffles. I said, “Let’s go. Put that away — you’re only picking at it anyway.”
     “OK… or maybe I should bring it to snack on the way…”
     “The oven and the stove are off. Right?” Let’s just go now. Don’t look so glum — I’ll make you some fresh in the sacred quarters. It’s not as if I’m asking you to defenestrate the baby from the fire.”
     “What?”
     “Like when the Bohemians threw the emperor’s envoys out the window.”
     “Egads, what obscure history that is. OK, OK, this meal is history.”
     “Sorry about that: I’ve always wanted to find a way to mention the ‘Defenestration of Prague.’ I guess, most of history study is a waste of time.”
     “Now, I think they say, ‘throw him under the bus,’ rather than out the window.”
     “I’m not throwing you under the bus. I just want you to show me the train like you promised.”
     “Yes, OK. I’ll go to the bathroom and be back in a second. You look great!”
     “Meet you in the hallway.” And I dashed out. I was standing at the elevator when Doug returned.
     Doug said, “Wait ‘til you see this. Step in.”
     The doors closed. We faced front. Doug pushed STOP.
     I said, “What are you doing?” I looked over to the right where it said ‘Emergency Exit.’ ”
     “No. Here on the left. I’ll stay here and you go to the back of the car and feel along this left wall in the back until you find a slight indentation.”
     I walked to the back and found something. “You mean, this?”
     “Yes. Now wait. I have a matching one here up front. OK. I’ll count to three and we’ll both push together against the wall and then step back.”
     “Step back?”
     “Yes, push and step back. We’re going to push the wall down. The top and sides will release and there’s a hinge on the bottom. Push and step back so you don’t fall forward. OK?”
     “Yes.”
     “Ready. One, two, three, push!”
     “Ugh.” I pushed, trotted back, and almost fell backward. The wall fell and became a platform. Straight ahead was the end car of a subway train. Doug walked out onto the platform to show me that it was safe. He pushed the handle on the door down and opened it for me. I walked across the platform and went through the door. The car was set up like a living room with a couch and a table. Doug came in. We sat on the couch. I said, “Now what?”
     “You see the panel on the armrest? Push Q1”
     “OK.” The car accelerated smoothly to a moderately slow steady speed. “This seems slow — is this going to take a long time?”
     “No. It’s following a downward spiral inside the building. As soon as we reach the basement level and then proceed into the underground bedrock below the building, it’ll speed up. When we’re deep enough, it’ll level off and go fast.”
     I looked out the window, but didn’t see anything except a narrow curved ledge. I could feel the continuous turning of the train, and the downward tilt. “We’re circling around inside the building?”
     “Yes. That’s right.”

ENTRY 100

     After I had just gotten used to all of the turning and tilting, there was a sudden change like we had just reached the top of a basement roller coaster and were about to plunge even further down, and I had grabbed Doug’s leg a few times on the way. A bing-bong noise had sounded. I had said, “What’s that?”
     Doug said, “That means we’ve reached the basement level and will begin a downward plunge.”
     It almost felt like free fall, and I was glad I wasn’t drinking any coffee. “Yow,” I said.
     “Told you it would get faster.”
     Just as I adjusted to the fall, holding Doug’s hand, the train slowed and leveled off. Then there was a buzzing sound. “What’s that?” I asked.
     “It’s the five minute warning. We should go over to the forward-facing G-posh chairs.”
     “You mean we could be thrown off the couch or something onto the carpet?”
     Doug led me over to one of the chairs. He said, “Have a seat. This will cushion the G-forces when we accelerate to super-speed.”
     “This is a joke. Right?”
     “No,” said Doug firmly, and he sat in another cushioned chair.
     “I’d rather sit on the couch,” I said and I ran back to the couch and stretched out.
     Doug said, “Come back quick.”
     “If you insist.” And I mischievously sat on Doug’s lap facing him. The train took off like a jet and I got pushed onto Doug like I weighed a ton — I thought I was going to crush him. Doug tried to get to a seat belt but couldn’t. The train seemed to stop suddenly and I fell backward onto the floor with Doug on top of me. He braced himself with his arms, so it wasn’t too bad.
     Doug kissed me and said, “Are you alright?”
     As he fondled my whole body, I said, “Not now. I’m supposed to see Apacevj. Remember?”
     “Oh yeah. Well we’re here.” And the side doors opened.
     We came out onto a platform with rock walls and no sign of an exit. I said, “Uh, well, we’re here. Where’s here? I have to get to the sacred corridor.”
     “Yes, don’t worry. We just have to open a door. It’s right behind these rocks, somewhere, um.”
     “Where, where?”
     Doug walked along the rock wall. He said, “Uh, yes, right here.”
     “I don’t see a door.”
     “OK. We just do the ‘ka’ sound thing like you taught me once. You know, you make the gargle sound, then the ‘ka’ on the roof of the mouth, and the motor sound through pursed lips until your sinuses vibrate.”
     “Yes, I know that one. ” We did the sound together and adjusted our tones until the beats made a wah-oh-wah-oh sound. I made the same mistake I did the last time and a rock from the ceiling crashed beside us.
     Doug pointed in front of us. He said, “No, focus here.”
     We did it again and a slab of rock rotated on one edge and opened like a door. I could see my paintings through the doorway. We walked into the sacred corridor.

ENTRY 101

     Doug had said he recognized the passageway to my old sacred quarters when I realized that he could sense that I wasn’t going to invite him to the Kmpamew. “Well,” I quickly said, “I know I said I might invite you to stay at the Kmpamew, but I have all these official things to learn, and uh, well…”
     “Well what?”
     “Actually, the only way you would be allowed into the Kmpamew is if I officially appoint you to some position, um, y’know, like Minister of Finance.”
     “No, I don’t think I could be Minister of Finance.”
     “Or you could marry me…”
     “Uh, um, good luck with your studies, and…”
     “Or you could be my official Lalasaco. ”
     “What’s Lalasaco? ”
     “It’s the Priestess’ official escort or consort or ‘satyr in residence’…”
     Doug hadn’t slept well in days, hadn’t been able to make much progress with his novel, and I think, given his eokxavexa, doubted he’d ever finish. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I’ll never learn to love truly, never really be of any significant value except to offer a jester’s lust: seductive speculations and a dance for profundity, like a rain dance that never produces rain.” Doug turned away, but I heard him cry as he ran up the far stairs of the corridor, past the children’s art works, and turned toward the stairs that led to the Qukwerpfm, the Cathedral formation, and past the golden stalagmite.
     I had a little silly note that I wrote for Doug, but I never gave it to him. It seemed too absurd, and I didn’t think he could understand it. I don’t know, I’ve always written silly things. I took out a folded up silly paper: “I’ve written many fairy tales, illustrating them in paintings of my heart, but every time I’ve read it again, I’ve seen you a vision there, and I have always searched for you, my Prince.” But I don’t want to appear silly. Oh, but I could do with a jest, and why couldn’t he be my laugh if I am in his smile.
     I had gone too far with the light banter, and should have known that even if he didn’t articulate it that he really wanted more than to be able to brag to his male friends of his sexual prowess, and sometimes the humor of lightness and the avoidance of serious issues goes too far. Sometimes accidents of slight are fatal. I hope not.

***************
CHAPTER 9

ZAWMB’YEE PAINTS THE PALACE

ENTRY 102

     When I became an apprentice to Utcoozhoo and was given an apartment off the sacred corridor, I thought that was the ultimate privilege and luxury. But this little cluster of apartments and offices that have overt entrance doors are in sophistication a tiny fraction of what lies behind this secret entrance to the Kmpamew. There and beyond are where the actual elite have always resided. It seems to me there are levels of deception. Most of us have been lulled into believing that the world of our comfort zone is the universe, but mostly we are ignorant. Doug has walked down the sacred corridor and come to my apartment. I have let him feel that I had reached the upper class, but I have been a common and coarse acolyte who is dazzled by what could easily be a false magic, because I am never sure of the motives of any guru of miracles, or person of power. Some with powerful skills have no morals. Some with artistic talent express trivia.
     I had been standing in the sacred corridor where I had meant to tell Doug to hang out and wait for me at my old apartment in the sacred corridor where he had been many times. I should have seen to it that I invited him to the Kmpamew but now he’s gone and offended. I wanted to cancel the day and go cry in my old apartment off the sacred corridor, but I had stood there stunned. Gavicte Yenkoi and Mieta Apacevj appeared suddenly in the corridor from some portal.
     Apacevj was a short person with blond hair and gray eyes. But he was tall in presence, certainly more dignified than an elf, though he had a twinkle in his eye. I don’t know why I want to say he has a pixie nose — maybe because he looked mischievous. Actually the nostrils were on two faces of a rounded trihedron, symmetrical, in short, ordinary.
     Yenkoi said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, I want to introduce you to your Mieta, Apacevj.”
     “Pleased to meet you, Mieta Apacevj,” I said as he bowed and kissed my hand.
     Yenkoi said, “If it pleases you, Fevepo, Apacevj would like to teach you how to open the door to the Kmpamew. May we proceed?”
     “Yes please,” I said.
     “Fevepo Zawmb’yee,” said Apacevj, “as you have seen, it is possible to open a door with the ‘ka’ sound procedure, but that generally requires two people and it is a bit crude and noisy.”
     “Yes,” I said, “we’ve had a few random stones come crashing down.”
     Apacevj said, “Yes, that is typical, and that is why learning Upper Utd’mbts can be beneficial. Shall we proceed?”
     “Yes, please.”
     “Do you like the old sour pineapple?”
     “Yes. Most of the ones today are too sweet and plain.”
     “OK. Can you remember how succulent and strong the taste was?”
     “Yes.”
     “Alright. There is a pineapple behind the wall. Picture it.”
     “Yes, I see it.”
     “If you would pardon my effusions, would you cut it lengthwise, not all the way through, open it like a book, and smell the mouth-watering middle between the covering and the core. It is a wonderful perfume that fills you with desire.”
     “Yes, I crave to devour the flesh, and I am intoxicated by my anticipation for succulence, my pucker awaiting to fulfill a hanker.”
     “OK. Now close the pineapple book along the hinge, and restore it to its original form.”
     I was so hungry — an exercise in temptation, I thought, but I’d go with indulgence and a party in tart times. I said, “OK, but now you’ve made me hungry. Can we do this some other time — just open the door and the chef can make a …”
     “No, no, no. Don’t lose focus. The desire is to be captured as an object. Now gaze at the rock and notice the change. See it?”
     “Yes, it seems to be quilted and the divisions are orange and green … there are triangular husk-like drips over each section.”
     Apacevj perked up. “Good,” he said, “allow it to turn more orange like a ripe pineapple.”
     “OK.”
     “Now when it looks like a pineapple, slice it lengthwise and open it like a book…”
     “Yes, I feel like I want to rip it open.”
     “Do it.”
     “Ay ya oh uh,” I grunted and the door to the Kmpamew opened.
     “Careful: Hold on to the action feeling and remember the feeling in all its aspects. You must cling to this eksetyk memory however subtle it may seem … ”
     “How did I … ”
     “You don’t have to know how you opened the door. Just remember the feeling when you willed it. You don’t know how you move your arm, yet you just do it. conjure this learned eksetyk and a door will always open.”
     “Um, uh … ”
     Apacevj closed the door, and said, “Don’t think too much. While this eksetyk is fresh in your memory, do it again quickly without thought.”
     The door opened again at my whim. I said, “Did I do that?”
     “Yes, ” said Apacevj, “very good.”

ENTRY 103

     We had walked across the landscape mosaics of the Grand Ballroom in the Kmpamew to reach the flying desk, my Reksipj, when Yenkoi said, “I think it is time for Mieta Apacevj to teach you how to fly … ”
     I said, “Uh, well…”
     “Tiglekso,” said Yenkoi, “I think you will enjoy painting a Gijlek on the ceiling. You must pass through the forest to get to the river…”
     “Huh? Oh, the Reksipj. You mean how to make the flying desk move up and down… I don’t have to be a bird?”
     “Well, no, not a bird, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, not today. Tiglekso.”
     “Alright, OK, Gavicte Yenkoi. Very well, my faithful Regent and master of protocol. Proceed Yenkoi honey-babe Sir.”
     “What?”
     “Oh sorry. I forgot we are to be formal…”
     “Yes, as I’ve said: as much as I might have an affection for you under different circumstances, I can’t address you as the High Priestess Chick, and I’d prefer to be called Gavicte Yenkoi.”
     “As you wish, Gavicte Yenkoi. Thank you very much and proceed.”
     “May I leave you then to Mieta Apacevj?”
     “Yes,” I said, and Yenkoi bowed, turned, and left.
     Apacevj bowed and said, “This won’t be so bad, High Priestess Chickie Babe…”
     I laughed. “OK. How do I do this?”
     “Make yourself comfortable in the chair behind the desk. I will stand in front of it, and guide you.”
     I sat down and sunk into the plush, form-fitting easy chair. “Mmm. Should I take a nap now?”
     “Not quite. You’ll do a deep meditation and stay relaxed but alert, stay poised yet placid, in short, the mikwumpa. Alright?”
     “Yes,” I said, and did some deep breathing for the mikwumpa.
     “Picture the pfambuuwisen. Can you see it?”
     Without effort the pfambuuwisen appeared. “Yes. The iridescent blue lights seem to beckon.”
     “Good. Can you find the one that has an image of the Reksipj?”
     “Yes.”
     “Allow it to expand and dive into it to explore and travel through every molecule and every atom. Tunnel down, deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper. More relaxed and confident, and you hear my guiding voice soothe you. Yes?”
     “Uh huh.”
     “Uayi?”
     “Yes.”
     “Now I will lift us all up into the air. Here I do it. Do you feel my effort?”
     “Yes.”
     “Now join me in this eksetyk. Let us all together rise up.”
     “Ah.”
     “Now open your eyes and see that we have lifted off the ground and are moving upward toward the ceiling.”
     It was incredible to control a flying desk without being a bird, and I said, “I can do this?”
     “Yes. I give you this eksetyk. Now focus and remember it. Now I will subside and you will continue. OK?”
     “Yes.”
     We started to fall as Apacevj let go of the Reksipj, but I willed it to rise with my newly learned eksetyk, and we resumed the rise in the air toward the ceiling. “Did I do this?”
     “Yes. Remember this eksetyk.”
     “OK.”
     “Uayi?”
     “Yes.”
     “Now I will move us downward. Here I do it. Do you feel my effort?”
     “Yes.”
     “Now join me in this eksetyk. Let us all together lower the Reksipj.”
     “Uh huh.”
     “Now I give you this eksetyk.”
     “I’ve got it.”
     “Good.”
     And thus I learned to fly.

ENTRY 104

     I had learned all the maneuvers when I said to Apacevj, “Now what?”
     “Just practice, enjoy yourself, and when you’re ready, fly to the ceiling and do a painting. If you can’t focus on an eksetyk, there are mechanical switches on the desk — see: UP, DOWN, HOVER, EMERGENCY LANDING. Or use the joy stick. No problem. OK?”
     “Um. Uh…”
     “Tiglekso.”
     “Um. Well, I’m not really much of an artist and…”
     “Uayi?”
     “Yes.”
     “Feel better?”
     “Yes, I understand.”
     “Good. OK. Have fun, and afterward I would suggest for homework that you read at least 600 pages a day for this week from the Ofuye.”
     “Uh, well…”
     “Please, High Priestess chickie babe… When you’re finished absorbing the written context, I will show you the Upper Utd’mbts equivalent of those 4200 pages in about 5 minutes. That, I think, you will find astounding and worthwhile. But without the preparation it will be impossible to absorb. Yes, a bit arduous, but well worth it.”
     “OK.”
     “Thank you, Fevepo Zawmb’yee. Then may I have leave to go?”
     “Yes.”
     Mieta Apacevj bowed and left. I started to think this might be fun.
     I laid out all my paints and brushes and a jar of water on the top of the Reksipj. I flew it just below the ceiling so I could recline in my chair and brush paint onto the ceiling. I did a background like I did in Doug’s hallway. Doug… My eyes washed the hands he would have held, would have maybe added a suggestion, a praise. I rested: the artist reclining, declining to continue without his laugh, just in hover mode.
     But this limbo didn’t last. There was a loud grinding sound in the ceiling and then the tapping of a pickax. It seemed like the explosive drill-pick-and-chisel music of a lunatic archaeologist, who in his mania to discover, has thrown his careful brush aside, and the sounds were coming closer. I jumped out of my chair, ducked…
     Yeow ugh Kievifkwa hell: ceiling burst open — rain of plaster, rock, and a falling lunatic who crashed onto my desk, screaming and moaning, a drill bit in his lap.
     I said, “James Ziohat, I presume.”
     “Yes,” said the lanky manic man, flailing about. He had curly black hair, half straitened for vanity, half left curled for guilt. Ascetic by appearance, hypocrite by fat vulgar intrusion like the cork screw of a wild boar.
     I hit the emergency land button, and we plunged to the floor. Four Kutibea agents ran to me and carried me twenty feet across the marble floor while ten Wipzib surrounded James Ziohat with drawn guns. A team in haz-mat suits charged across the floor and sprayed him with a foam.
     An agent said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, are you alright?”
     “Yes, I’m fine.” I watched from a distance.
     More Kutibea stormed into the room. One took direct aim at James and shot him with a stun gun. He fell to the ground. The haz-mat team tore off his clothes, rinsed him with a water cannon that slid him around the polished floor, and handcuffed his hands behind his back.
     “Fevepo Zawmb’yee,” said a tall muscular Kutibea with crisp enunciation, “the intruder has been neutralized and decontaminated to level one. We may approach, if you wish, for the questioning, but contact is to be avoided. Do you want to observe?”
     “Yes,” I said, and we walked over to where they had pulled him to his feet.

ENTRY 105

     Yeah, I know, I was supposed to do a live blog(is that the term?), speaking extemporaneously as things happen and I started to it when I first took over the blog from Doug, but I can’t seem to just write to you all on the web in the middle of a crisis(and there always seems to be one). I just can’t seem to understand the up-top culture. Utcoozhoo told me to learn all about it. What do I do on a blog … um, is it: “today my breakfast was cold. I sent the kids off to school, and the old oak tree crashed into the kitchen that is being remodeled”? Kids? I can’t do that — I sent Doug away and … I can’t eat breakfast when I’m supposed to supervise the interrogation and torture of James Ziohat.
     Did I say torture? Well, I don’t know — I’ve read the procedures to be followed for intruders who penetrate the Kmpamew, and I can see the goal is to prevent secrets from being revealed to the up-top world, but the various methods are … never mind. Oh, then, actually, I suppose this blog is treasonous but I doubt any of the elite read the up-top literature as it’s beneath them. But I do have to edit and interpret because most common daily chatter is boring and trivial. Isn’t it? (Oh God, I sound like Doug). You know, an execution here or there, quite ordinary. End of the world — that sort of thing.
     How do I tell you everything? Oh, Kievifkwa, oh hell. Yeah, I know, I’m all over the place. I speak in present tense and then as I fail to record as I go, I pop up at random with a discombobulated rendition in past tense of everything I’m behind on. Yeah, no way to run a blog even for a High Priestess. Oh geez, Oh Kievifkwa, oh hell, I can’t figure out English past tense or Utd’mbts conglomerations. Yikes. I’m here, I’m there, I’m not quite what would have been if I were an amalgam of precious metal, mettle, and omnipresence in a narrative dream. Oh what precious gibberish, and look what I’ve done — Doug used to think I was precious. Oh Kievifkwa. This day hasn’t gone well.
     I mean, what would you do if you were a High Priestess with absolute power and threatened by pip-squeaks like James Ziohat? (Oh yeah, I have to figure that out — “if you were” is subjunctive case.)
     But anyway … more and more, I’m having an uneasy feeling about what my role actually is in this palace milieu of intrigue and deception. I am much too ignorant to be a leader. I fear, therefore, I am a puppet unaware of the strings attached to my undeserved honors. I’ve been having some incredibly weird and grandiose feelings lately. Maybe, maybe not, paranoid.
     Perhaps to survive, I should call some hidden cabal’s bluff, and take the unlimited power that they assume, in my naïveté, I would never dare to claim, before evil forces can organize for a coup. Perhaps I must strike while I still can. At his moment, there are traditional forces who would blindly follow my every order, but I would be commanding blindly, sending troops into a remote battle foreign to my understanding, while certain generals position themselves to survive with whispers in a code I don’t understand.
     But all of this is a fantasy unease like a child who fears monsters in the closet and under the bed, shadows on the wall. They must know what a child I am.
     I could, at this moment, order the execution of an opponent, but I can’t even be sure who is my friend and who is my enemy. From what I’ve been feeling lately, I’m wondering if I’m my own enemy.
     I need to learn a lot more to understand what’s going on. Can I trust Apacevj to teach me?
     Geez, Kievifkwa, Utcoozhoo should have appointed Doug to this job — he’s more rational and in his own way not any more oblivious to reality than I am, but at least he can repress his feelings and take more control. I could see him say, maybe, everyone cool it, do nothing, write a report and I’ll decide when I’m up to it or something. No, that’s not it.
     I should e-mail Doug and apologize and maybe I should tell him everything and let him take back the blog so he can expose everything and be treasonous with me. I’ll issue a pardon or something… I should look it up…

ENTRY 106

     I’m in the High priestess’s library. It’s an extravagant abode, and they say I can remodel it if I wish. There are the books, but also the grp’nl is available. It’s like the Internet, but it’s a network that the gods have left and that the elite here in the Kmpamew use to chat, I suppose, but I don’t know exactly. Utcoozhoo started to teach me how to use it, but I never really got into it fully. I’ve been using the up-top Internet that Doug asked Utcoozhoo to install in the caves. I don’t think the elite care about it.
     There are what one would expect in a library, y’know, shelves of books and dust, but no librarian, so I suppose I could shout and yell because there’s nobody here. Oh, Kievifkwa, I could make love to Doug on the floor and shout eureka! : his love is overflowing and … Oh, I’m so silly to cry so much, to worry if I’m pretty, when I would have been always, no matter what , in Doug’s eyes. And now I primp and strut among the elite. Oh eujxami!
     I’ve been trying to finish my 600 pages of the Ofuye and read the legal document of office also, but it’s so overwhelming that I do have to leave the daily operations of things, whatever that is, to Gavicte Yenkoi.
     There’s a grand four-post, elegantly carved bed in the library, with a ceiling partially mirrored and partially decorated with odd abstract mythological paintings that I suppose are for contemplation and meditation. I suppose, one is to learn, and then meditate on it, or something, or nothing or maybe it’s all a colossal joke. Maybe it’s barbarians in priests’ clothing, wolves with weapons, but what would I know. Oh, Utcoozhoo, why have you abandoned me?
     Oh Kievifkwa, I stare at a teddy bear on a shelf, but I hear Utcoozhoo say, “uebihukxa: ‘don’t give power to objects.’ ”
     OK, yeah, I have to pull myself together. I am the High Priestess. I’ll study my options. I don’t have to visit James Ziohat today. They are doing the decontamination level 2 today: they’re shaving off all of his hair, including his eyebrows, and washing him again. I’ve been to the up-top world, so I have immunities to the various viruses, bacteria, allergens, and antigens, but the elite at the palace who have never been up-top may be vulnerable to poor James’ sweat and agony. Oh, Kievifkwa, look what his curiosity has brought him on his clumsy cat feet. If he was ever a friend of Doug, he couldn’t be that bad.
     The false guru will be stunned and numb. Too bad: seems like a decent fellow. I guess they’ll handle it. They did determine that he doesn’t have epilepsy. If he had, they would have executed him immediately, unless I stayed it, because they’d have problems using flashing lights. I’m glad I didn’t have to decide.

ENTRY 107

     It’s been an odd few days. James Ziohat doesn’t know who he is anymore, and I don’t feel like myself either.
     I seem to blurt things out with a temporary air of certainty, but it’s as if someone else said it. But, of course, it’s me. I guess it’s what happens when you let emotions get out of control — something from the sub-conscious pops up. No, that doesn’t sound right. Maybe it’s just fatigue and overload from all the studying I’m doing. Could be I just automatically remember something I’m supposed to know for an appropriate few seconds. They demand that the High Priestess, me, make a quick decision, so I do it by barely plucking out something from the crash study-course swimming-headache pool of my mind that I’ve been thrown into.
     This seems like a plausible explanation, but I have a feeling it’s just wrong, because…
     I did finally have to visit James Ziohat in the interrogation complex. I came with Gavicte Yenkoi, and an entourage. James stood nude, hands behind his back with guards restraining him in a large rock chamber with cave entrances and rock staircases leading into what looked like endless mazes on narrow ledges and cliffs. Yenkoi had said, “What method should we use to handle this intruder?”
     I blurted out, “Pzkpac.”
     Yenkoi said, “Are you sure. That’s an ancient method. We have more modern and efficient methods to…”
     “No,” I said, “Jevkwyi! The Wipzib can have you removed and executed if you refuse a direct order from the High Priestess. Jevkwyi!”
     “As you wish.” Yenkoi was stunned and surprised. “Gacplk, would you begin please.”
     Gacplk, a burly, ferocious looking man, who looked like some sort of ancient gladiator, approached James and said in an oddly gentle voice, “You must be thirsty after your ordeal. Would you like something to drink? Some whiskey perhaps?”
     James seemed relieved. He said, “Yes. Now can you uncuff my hands. I was only just exploring and…”
     “Not yet. Maybe, if you cooperate. Now, would you like some rye whiskey?”
     “Yes.”
     “Open your mouth wide, so I can pour a little without spilling.” Gacplk picked up a clay cup from a small table. Gacplk poured a cup of salt into James’ mouth, and with one huge hand on James’ head and one under his chin forced his mouth closed while one of the guards taped his mouth shut. Gacplk said, “Explore if you wish James, but don’t fall down any stairs. See you tomorrow… ”
     Gavicte Yenkoi said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, may I suggest that you confer with Mieta Apacevj to explain this procedure further.”
     “No,” I had said, and blurted out, “Jevkwyi.”
     “Yes, Fevepo.”
     “I will return to my library for study and contemplation.”
     “As you wish.”
     So, it’s been an odd few days to say the least. And here I am again, alone. Well, I did blog a little. Right? I gave you a little — I didn’t describe everything, but I’m all mixed up. I should give the blog back to Doug or not.

ENTRY 108

     These are the yo-yo days that try the student’s soul, and I’m deep in study and worry, deep in remorse, bits of text on pages scattered across my desk, planes of emotion enabling the staining of paper planes crumbling like me. I know, I should use the ancient grp’nl computer, or use the modern computer to gather my thoughts, but my sorry brain can’t compute very well, and I’d rather draw things out.
     Yeah, I should finish up on e-mail to Doug, and maybe, at least, have it set up on the computer to send it later so that if I ever think it’s ready, I can just hit send — um, and, if there were an impending emergency or crisis, I could quickly hit “send” without thinking. Well, what I mean is: I so much lately don’t feel like myself that if I were ever more “not in my right mind” I could in a lucid moment hit “send” before I lapsed into insanity again, if that’s where I was or where I am. Oh, hell, holy Kievifkwa, what am I saying. Never mind.
     I don’t know where Doug is, but I know he checks his e-mail, or he used to. I heard a rumor he was living with Angela at the Moose Café.
     Yeah, maybe I should tell Doug to do the blog — he could do it from wherever, but I haven’t even told him that I … never mind.
     Oh, sorry, I didn’t even finish telling you about what happened to James …
     After the last episode, Gavicte Yenkoi had timidly inquired at the door of this royal library where I’ve been crashing (Oh, I should know the name for this, um, its called the “kngacev”). Anyway…
     Gavicte Yenkoi said, “Do you wish to observe the Pzkpac for James Ziohat?”
     “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry for my outburst last time. Yes, I want to see it.”
     “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, there is never a need for an apology. It is your prerogative to issue orders without explanation. I am gratified for your magnanimity and concern. Thank you. I have a security detail ready if you wish to visit the mevltikacle…”
     “The what?”
     “Oh yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, the interrogation complex that you saw the last time — it’s known as the mevltikacle.”
     I gathered myself together as best I could. I didn’t want to have another outburst despite my privilege to do so. But you know me. Oh that’s just an expression. Maybe you don’t . Maybe I don’t. I’ll tell you in the next entry. Yeah, OK, Doug always said I was a tease … (yeah, I should finish his e-mail).

ENTRY 109

     When we had arrived at the mevltikacle, James Ziohat wasn’t looking well. He was very weak and the guards had to hold him up as he stood with his hands behind his back.
     Gacplk sat in front of him next to a small table as he moved several objects around on the table: a hinged steel neck collar, a tape measure, a pitcher of water, and a full glass of water.
     Picking up the tape measure in his massive hands, Gacplk stood and pulled it around James’ neck. “Yes,” his insidious voice affirmed, “the perfect size.” Next, he picked up the collar, opened it onto James’ neck and snapped it shut. James Ziohat still had tape on his mouth, and struggled to make a sound. Another guard came from behind, put his hands on James’ face and tilted the head back a little.
     Gacplk slid the collar up and down and said, “Perfect fit: firm, but not too tight.” He rotated the collar a few times. “Chafes a little though, doesn’t it. Oh, and here’s something interesting: there are many lines and buttons all around the collar. It’s hard to tell where the hinge is and where the opening latch is. Each button looks like it might open the collar. I wonder what would happen if I pushed the wrong button.”
     James Ziohat struggled a little while Gacplk turned the collar around a few more times. Then Gacplk casually sat down and took a sip of water from the glass.
     A guard yanked the tape off James’ mouth. James screamed, “You’ll never get away with this. My friend will have gone for help by now.”
     “Oh?” said Gacplk, “you mean the friend who was waiting with your equipment at the mouth of the cave?” He looked across the room to a cave entrance. Two guards dragged a body across the room by the feet and dropped it like a lump in front of James. “This friend?”
     “Charles?” James gasped.
     “He’s dead, you know.”
     James ranted incoherently, trying to jump up and down, but the guards held him up in place. He repeated, “You’ll never get away with this.”
     I observed all of this, a safe distance away with my entourage. Gacplk turned and looked at Gavicte Yenkoi and me.
     Yenkoi said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, Gacplk needs your permission to use an acacizg. May he?”
     Without knowing what I was approving, I said, “Yes,” and nodded toward Gacplk.
     A guard pointed an acacizg at the body and Charles vanished in a burst of light. There was a slight trace of ash and dust on the floor. Gacplk stood, took a deep breath like he was about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake and blew the ash and dust away.
     The guards continued to hold James up while Gacplk walked around James like on an inspection tour. Gacplk came around to face James again. Gacplk turned the collar again.
     James yelled, “Ouch.” Red marks were appearing on his neck.
     “Hmm,” said Gacplk, “perhaps it’s not the right size after all.” He suddenly changed tone and put on his odd and sweetly warm voice: “Shall I remove it then? We can count on your cooperation, yes?”
     James was confused. He said, “Yes.”
     “Alright then, I’ll open the latch.” Gacplk pushed one of the buttons on the collar. “Oops, I think that’s the wrong one.”
     The collar tightened. James struggled, went limp and lost consciousness. The guards let him fall to the floor.
     Gacplk strolled over, bent down, and pushed a button on the collar. It loosened. After a few minutes James opened his eyes. The guards lifted him to his feet again.
     After sipping a little more water from the glass, Gacplk said, “would you like a sip of water, James?”
     “Um,” said James, “Yes, um, I mean no. Uh, what do you want me to say?”
     “See, James, I took a sip — it’s just plain water…”
     “Uh, OK.”
     Gacplk brought the glass to James’ lips. James sipped a few drops tentatively, and then took a gulp. Gacplk pulled it away, carried the glass to the table and sat down again. Gacplk glanced over at Gavicte Yenkoi and me.
     Yenkoi said, “Gacplk wants permission to begin phase 2.”
     I carelessly said, “Yes.” Poor James.

ENTRY110

     Poor James. He has been enduring the punishment for the crime of blabbermouth, and curious cat, I guess. Well no, of course, there’s something more official. If he were to reveal to the world the GPS coordinates of an entrance to the caves, our entire society would feel under attack and would have to retaliate. (A bit harsh, but I can’t explain now). Actually, at this point, I’m so ignorant that I don’t really know all the motivations of the elite. Oh, I forgot, I’m the elite now. Oh hell, oh Kievifkwa.
     But poor James. We had taken a break because they were just going to shave and wash James again. They kept him handcuffed and naked except that they added jewelry. They dressed him up with a hilukwil on each arm. A hilukwil is an ornamental-decorative armlet with a ring. It’s part of the traditional ceremonial jewelry that’s worn on special occasions, I think. I have some in my Nipusindi chest that I never did finish unpacking and sorting, or maybe it’s on one of my jewelry racks — it reminds me of the jewelry in one of those “sacrifice of the virgins movies” except that James is not a virgin… Oh, I lost my train of thought again.
     Oh, I was saying, we had taken a break while they cleaned up James and fixed up the mevltikacle. It had taken time for them to set up the tikwitipj. The tikwitipj is similar in concept to the “wheel of fortune” that the ancient Greek “goddess of fortune” used to choose suitably capricious fates for humanity. But the tikwitipj is a large wheel with pegs distributed around the edge and it has a flexible pointer at the top that bumps and clicks over the pegs when the wheel is given a spin. Eventually when the wheel loses momentum and comes to a stop, the pointer rests between two pegs and points to a message. I guess I don’t have to explain it so much — you’ve probably seen such things for gambling at carnivals and seen it on quiz shows.
     I did finally finish the email for Doug: I have it set up on the computer so that whenever it happens that I feel the need, I can just tap “send” and it’ll be gone before anything else can happen. I had just barely finished composing it when Yenkoi returned to my kngacev. He and I and the whole entourage went back to the mevltikacle.
     Poor James was standing again with the guards while Gacplk sat on his chair next to the table.
     Gacplk said, “I have good new and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?”
     James twitched. He said, “The bad news.”
     Gacplk smiled, and said, “The inner village of Eszkja, beyond the palace, has no need for workers, so you’re of no use to us. Consequently, your execution would be prudent since you have no real useful information for us.”
     James said, “Um, uh, I could tell you, um, all about our construction company, um, or…”
     “No, it doesn’t matter. We know everything. So, forward with the execution.”
     “Wait,” James sputtered, “what’s the good news?”
     “Yes, of course, you get to spin the tikwitipj. Round and around it goes — where it stops, no one knows.”
     Over in a far corner, beyond and to the side of the maze entrances, there was a huge wall of orange and purple mosaic designs. It was well lit like at a carnival. In front of it was the tikiwitipj about six feet in diameter. At the base of the tikiwitipj was some sort of gear box and to its side, there was a large plank of wood standing at an angle like a pedal.
     The guards dragged James over to the pedal while Gacplk followed. James’ hands were still handcuffed behind his back, and he wore only two hilukwili. Yenkoi and I got into a position, still a safe distance away, with our security detail shielding us, so that we could see the wheel.
     Gacplk said, “Spin the wheel.”
     “How? Uncuff my hands, and ..”
     “No. Just step on the foot pedal.”
     James stepped on the foot pedal and the wheel spun. Around and around it went and…
     And I’m tired of typing the blog for now. Poor James.

ENTRY 111

     James’ mind had been spinning, no doubt, and the wheel of the tikwitipj stopped at “Take Another Turn — Prize.” A guard brought over a can of peach juice, and handed it to Gacplk.
     The sound of the top popping open made James jump. Gacplk said, “You’ve won a prize.” He brought the can to James’ lips and tilted it. James gulped it all down.
     James said, “Does this mean we can stop now and…”
     “No,” said Gacplk as he walked behind James and tightened the handcuffs. “Look over to your right — do you see the three doors?”
     “Yes.”
     “Well, you can spin again, or you can have what’s behind door number one, door number two, or door number three. What do you want to do — spin or choose a door?”
     “Um, uh, um…”
     “Or you could choose to be executed now by acacizg — that would be painless, but there’d be no remains, if that matters to you. Of course, there are many methods of execution. There’s that old favorite: stoning to death, but a circle of your new friends throwing stones at you doesn’t work that well and can be messy…”
     “Um, uh, door number… um, no…”
     “But, of course, there have been refinements: stones can be thrown with slingshots that are more accurate. Then there are catapults that can be used and …”
     “Um, uh, door number… ”
     “Oh, why don’t we just see how you might feel about door number one.” The guards dragged him towards it.
     There were two posts, a foot in front of door number one, with locking fasteners. The guards squeezed James between them, and attached him to the posts by locking the fasteners onto the rings of his hilukwili so that he faced the door, tightly restrained at his elbows.
     Gacplk said, “So, shall we open door number one?” Suddenly, Gacplk and all the guards retreated backward until they were twenty feet away from James and the door. The security detail pushed Yenkoi and me back also.
     James said, “Um, no, or maybe door number…”
     Gacplk gave a signal. A guard placed a plate of raw meat up against the bottom of the door, and ran back. “So you can’t decide,” said Gacplk, yelling from a distance, “perhaps a spin, or door number two?”
     James tried to get loose from the posts. He tried to kick at the posts to push them down, and tried to get the hilukwili to slide down his arm but everything stayed firmly in place, and didn’t budge.
     Gacplk gave a signal, and the door opened a crack at the bottom. There were ferocious roaring and scratching sounds.
     James tried to kneel down. The hilukwili slid up his arm slightly. He was able to turn a tiny amount, and he rocked from side to side. But he made no progress.
     Gacplk said, “I don’t suppose you’re inclined to choose door number one?” He gave a signal. The door opened a little more and a paw reached out from under the door. “So, would you like execution by acacizg, or door number two, or a spin of the wheel?”
     James struggled harder. He bent down, stood up, bent down, and pulled from side to side.
     Gacplk said, “Have we decided?”
     James, twisting his body back and forth as much as he could, shouted, “Um, no, um, yes, um …the spin, the spin.”
     Gacplk gave a signal. The paw pulled back and the door closed. Everyone cautiously walked back towards James. “Unlock him from the posts,” said Gacplk.
     As soon as the fasteners were unlocked from the rings of the hilukwili, James fell to the ground and started rolling away towards the tikwitipj.
     Gacplk said, “Hmm, OK, roll out the execution platform, pick him up and perhaps we’ll let him take another spin if he chooses that or…”
     James broke away from the guards and ran into a cave opening on the other side of the mevltikacle next to a cathedral stalagmite formation, and a pond.
     Gacplk said, “Seems like a good time for an intermission. He can wander in the maze while we set up and call in a fresh team. Anyone for lunch? My treat.”
     Yenkoi and I headed back to my kngacev, and he told me what the chef could make me for lunch.

ENTRY 112

     I’ve almost finished reading the Ofuye. It’s very tedious, and I hope I’m absorbing it. The true test will be when I see Apacevj. It’s been a very long process and that’s why I’m behind on writing the blog.
     I’ve added something to what I think I should call the emergency email to Doug. I had the computer create a random number which I haven’t looked at and I’ve blindly put it in the email and will have it blindly be a new password for the blog if I send the email. That way, I can stop access from here, even by me and turn it back to Doug. It seems peculiar to do this, but more and more I’m not feeling like myself because… Oh, I don’t know, oh hell, oh Kievifkwa. Sorry, I should get out of the habit of cursing at every turn. Not very regal.
     Poor James. If I were more like my old self, I probably would have had him released, told him to promise not to say anything and sin no more. Oh, that’s silly. But it’s too late for that now. Poor James. What have I done.
     We never did go back to the mevltikacle after lunch on that day, but the construction crew did finish installing the agroape. It’s an execution platform that has a wall at the back, and a giant turntable in the center. In the center of the turntable are shackles for the ankles. Cables hang from a scaffolding at the top. The agroape was placed in front of the tikwitipj, and across from the agroape, they built the eksikmazm, the firing-squad platform. The turntable could be rotated to face either the tikwitipj wheel, or the eksikmazm.
     Unfortunately, wandering in the maze, James had fallen into a crevice. He was pulled out but had a few minor bruises and scrapes. He was given first-aid and cleaned of mud, moss, and rock dust, but needed to be punished for attempted escape. They put him in a tilneskoyg.
     They fitted its yoke over his neck and shoulders with the extra long wooden beam firmly in place on his shoulders and extending outward. His arms were stretched out straight on top of the beam and his wrists were manacled to the far ends of the beam.
     We had returned the next day. A new team was in place: there were twenty or more women from a special division of the wipzib; they were called the Yacmyeep. Their hair was purple and their fingernails were painted the colors of the rainbow. They wore short yellow pleated dresses, decorated at the waist with equipment belts, and their immodest bodices had purple sun symbols on each breast with a blue triangle in the middle. Blue spiral designs were engraved on their calf-high green leather boots.
     Libikzi, a tall woman, with blond hair and purple lipstick was in charge. She wore a white shirt, a silver necklace with a sapphire pendant, gold bracelets, a black leather skirt and black heels. She stood with a sword behind James who was standing at the pedal of the tikwitipj. He was locked in a tilneskoyg with his arms outstretched, and they had added to his waist, a ceremonial metal belt that had handles on short chains attached to the sides, but he was otherwise naked. Two of the Yacmyeep held onto the handles.
     Libikzi touched the sword to his back, and said, “Spin the wheel.”
     James stepped on the pedal and the wheel spun. Libikzi walked in front of James, put the sword in a scabbard and bumped him. Turning around, the Yacmyeep switched hands on the handles, and marched James backward up onto the turntable of the agroape. They put the shackles on his ankles, and attached cables to the beam of James’ tilneskoyg so that he would remain standing. They left the platform.
     Libikzi gave a signal and James was rotated to face the wheel. James watched the pointer go past “stoning” and “arrows” and dozens of other choices that Gacplk had told him about, until it started to slow down. James squirmed. Finally the wheel stopped at “catapults.” A signal was given and James was rotated to face the eksikmazm.
     Libikzi said, “Prepare catapults.”
     There was a commotion on the eksikmazm as fifteen Yacmyeep assigned to the firing squad gathered their weapons and mounted the catapults into each firing station. The squad leader shouted, “Catapults installed.”
     Libikzi said, “Load catapults.” She looked at James. “Any last words?”
     James wiggled his fingers and shuffled his feet. “The FBI will find out about this and… Who the hell are you, you crazy damn bitch; what the hell are you doing, you, you… Stop, help, stop — look over there: the police and FBI are here.”
     “Good stall,” said Libikzi, “but no one knows you’re here.”
     “No, no. They’re on their way… You don’t want to be responsible for a murder,” said James, “and I could be helpful to you…”
     Libikzi said, “Aim.”
     James shouted, “Don’t,” and bent his knees slightly and leaned one way and then the other which make the turntable wobble slightly.
     “Fire.”
     James winced, and a barrage of banana cream pies pounded his body from head to toe. James licked some of the cream from his mouth and quivered. “What…,” he said.
     Libikzi said, “Re-load, aim, fire.”
     More pies came flying through the air. One hit James straight on his face as he gasped. He inhaled a piece of it and choked and coughed. He made a gagging sound and spit some out. “Wait,” he said.
     Libikzi said, “Re-load, aim, fire.”
     James closed his mouth. He was totally covered in cream pie. He was rotated and they fired again. His back was covered. He was rotated again to face front.
     “Cease fire,” Libikzi shouted. “Clean-up squad, attack!”
     Five Yacmyeep ran onto the platform. Two licked cream off his shins and worked their way up his thighs. One squeezed in between them and sucked on James. One ran behind him, scraped some cream off his back, reached around and stuffed it in his mouth. A fifth Yacmyeep picked up a hose and sprayed him with water.
     James said, “Uh aah uh. Stop. Uh, the FBI will hear about this, uh…”
     Libikzi said, “This is your last meal, James.”
     “What?” said James.
     “Maybe, we’ll let you spin again. But for now I think you’ve had enough of a meal.” Libikzi commanded, “Clean-up squad withdraw.”
     They left James standing there alone, quivering, while we all went to lunch. Yenkoi and I strolled towards my kngacev, and we had a pleasant conversation.

ENTRY 113

     This time, we had gone back to the mevltikacle after lunch. James was still standing, tethered on the agroape. He was shivering. The Yacmyeep had left, and Gacplk and his thugs had returned. Fifteen of Gacplk’s men assembled on the eksikmazm. Gacplk turned his attention toward James.
     “Well, James,” said Gacplk, “you’ve had your last meal. I think this time I’ll spin the wheel for you — you have a tendency to wander off.”
     “Uh, wait,” said James, “release me from the platform, and I promise not to run, um, and…”
     “No, shut up,” said Gacplk. He walked to the pedal of the tikwitipj and stepped on it hard. The wheel spun like a blur of fate. “Rotate James,” commanded Gacplk, “and let him look at the spinning wheel.” While James was looking at the wheel, the firing squad was preparing their weapons.
     As the wheel slowed down, James could read the dire choices. He tried to pull his wrists free from the wooden beam. He shouted, “Wait, don’t I get to choose door number two…”
     “No, James,” said Gacplk, “not this time. And what makes you think that would have been a better choice?”
     James tried to lift his feet up, but the shackles kept his ankles tied to the turntable. James said, “Um, door number three?”
     “No, James,” Gacplk growled as the wheel slowed down.
     James leaned to one side and then to the other, but this time the turntable didn’t even wobble. “Uh,” he said, “it’s been a long time — a friend of mine will be wondering where I am and will have reported me missing and …”
     “Oh, how interesting,” Gacplk said in his sweet insidious voice, “and what is this so-called friend’s name?”
     “Um, no, it’s a real person, uh…,” said James almost blurting out a name.
     “Perhaps, James, we have this person’s name on our list,” Gacplk suggested, “and if this person is already on the way there’d be no harm in giving us the name. Right? Or is this just an imaginary person?”
     James turned his head as much as he could and shouted, “Oh Jack Chelka so glad you came with the National Guard and the police… Jack take cover…”
     Gacplk laughed. “James, you can’t even turn your head far enough to see anyone at the entrance…”
     “I heard his voice… Jack, watch out…”
     “Yes,” said Gacplk, “I suppose you could hear an echo.” The wheel slowed down more.
     James pursed his lips and tried to make a sound into a wall like a ventriloquist. His echo said, “Don’t worry James, we have them surrounded…”
     “Wow,” said Gacplk, “good attempt, but I think you’re more like the ventriloquist’s dummy. And by the way, Jack Chelka is in Australia at the moment.”
     “No,” said James, “the friends of Jack are here. He missed my usual phone call…”
     Gacplk said, “Alright, shall we see: the wheel is about to come to a stop…”
     “No,” said James as he saw that the section of the wheel that was coming into view had only horrendous names. “I’ve decided now: I’ll take what’s behind door number two…”
     Gacplk laughed. “A little late for that fine choice. But now, you don’t get to choose.”
     James said, “Door number four.”
     “Ah,” said Gacplk. “We have a winner: ‘arrows’.” Gacplk commanded, “Rotate him towards the eksikmazm.”
     “Wait. I see Jack’s men now…”
     No one even turned to look. The firing squad was getting restless. Gacplk said, “Mount crossbows.”
     James said, “Door number one, door number one…”
     “Load arrows into crossbows.”
     “I didn’t do anything, I was just exploring. I have top secrets I could give you. I have…”
     “Aim…”
     There was a real sound at the entrance to the mevltikacle. Libikzi and the Yacmyeep came running in. Libikzi shouted, “Stop, I have a message.”
     “Stand down weapons,” Gacplk commanded. Libikzi approached him with a letter. They met in front of the agroape, looked up at James, and began whispering.
     After a few minutes, they both turned and looked at me. Libikzi said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, may we approach?”
     “Yes, “ I said and nodded to the security detail. Libikzi and Gacplk came through, bowed, and stood in front of Yenkoi and me.
     Libikzi said, “May I?” and handed the letter to me.
     I glanced at it and turned to Yenkoi. “Gavicte Yenkoi, would you read this over for me.”
     Yenkoi said, “May I take a few moments?”
     “Yes,” I said. Yenkoi turned and walked a few steps away. Libikzi and Gacplk came closer.
     Libikzi said, “Fevepo, the village of Uzpu has a work training program that may be appropriate for James.”
     Gacplk said, “Fevepo, James is a dangerous person and he tried to escape. He’s impulsive, and judging by his lies is not very intelligent, liable to do rash and desperate things. He’s probably uncontrollable.”
     “Fevepo,” said Libikzi, “he’s easily intimidated and eager to make bargains. Actually, he’s very intelligent but not very clever in negotiations. We can condition him with double-bind dilemmas and simple rewards.”
     Gacplk retorted, “May I say, respectfully, Fevepo, I disagree with Libikzi. Given any freedom, he’ll turn violent and cause havoc. There would be less harm if we execute him now rather than later. Or I could propose a compromise: we could try to extract whatever useful information he would seem to have, try to confirm it and then execute him after — but so far he doesn’t seem to know anything useful…”
     “I agree,” said Libikzi, “that he doesn’t have useful information, but a well-conditioned slave can be useful if fully re-programmed.”
     Gacplk said, “Do you really think you can make him behave? You already had one escape into the up-top world of an incompletely trained agent…”
     “We corrected that error,” said Libikzi.
     “Thank you both,” I said, “I will consult with Gavicte Yenkoi.” They both bowed and withdrew.
     Gacplk gave a signal and the turntable began to slowly spin James. They both walked over to the agroape and stared at James. Gacplk gave another signal and a soapy foam sprayed out from nozzles around the platform, covering James with soap. I overheard Gacplk say to Libikzi, “And his sweat is dangerous with toxins.” Gacplk gave a signal and James was sprayed with rinse water. The water stopped, but they kept him spinning while they argued.
     Yenkoi came back. I said to him, “Did you read it, Gavicte Yenkoi?”
     He said, “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee. I’m familiar with Uzpu and their programs. They’ve produced some good workers and some good spies.”
     “Gavicte Yenkoi, may I have your opinion on James’ disposition.”
     “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee,” said Yenkoi tentatively. “May I ask that we discuss this in the presence of the wipzib leaders, Libikzi and Gacplk, if it would please you to do so?”
     “Yes, Gavicte Yenkoi,” I said, and we walked over to Libikzi and Gacplk who were still talking in front of the agroape. James was still spinning. They turned and bowed as we approached.
     I looked up at James and watched him turn once around. I said, “Gavicte Yenkoi has a recommendation.” Libikzi and Gacplk turned toward him and bowed. I said, “Gavicte Yenkoi, proceed please.”
     Yenkoi said, “I think James would be of marginal value in the proposed program and would not adjust properly to the training. His immediate execution would have the least risk, and if I may say, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, a word about your good friend Doug?”
     I was stunned. “Yes, Gavicte, what about Doug?” Gacplk and Libikzi looked at each other.
     Yenkoi said, “James is an old friend of Doug’s, and if James escapes to the up-top world he could be a bad influence on Doug.”
     Gacplk said, “Hmm. Shouldn’t we take Doug in for questioning? Did he mention to James Ziohat anything about a secret cave?”
     “No,” I said. I turned towards Libikzi. “Can you guarantee that James will safely behave and you will keep him under control?”
     “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee. We will give him careful attention.”
     I spoke, “I hereby give custody and supervision of James Ziohat to the Yacmyeep under the command of Pevfexo Libikzi. Thank you and proceed as required.”
     Gavicte Yenkoi looked disturbed. Libikzi and Gacplk bowed. Yenkoi and I walked back to our observation area. I said to Yenkoi, “Are we needed here for the transfer of command ceremony?”
     Yenkoi said, “No, Fevepo Zawmb’yee.”
     I said, “I will take a half-hour break.” I nodded at Libikzi. “You may proceed.”
     Yenkoi and I walked out. We had a pleasant conversation about a dinner proposed for the coming evening.

ENTRY 114

     After the half-hour break for the changing of the guard, Yenkoi and I had returned to the mevltikacle to find the Yacmyeep busy unpacking boxes along the catwalks that surround the turntable of the agroape. They had stopped spinning James, and he had dried off.
     Libikzi walked onto the now motionless turntable, and walked clockwise around James to inspect him, but very slowly the turntable began moving again in the opposite direction so that we could observe Libikzi as she traveled. She touched his back, shoulder blades, and buttocks, letting her hands slide along his body as she sauntered. Continuing around to the side, she placed the fingertips of her right hand on his left hip and her left hand on his lower abdomen. She let her hands travel as she made her way to the front saying to James, “Relax, I’ve gotten you a reprieve,” and she placed her hand on his scrotum. She turned towards the Yacmyeep and said, “Someone hand me a catheter.” She put it on him and let the tubing fall.
     James was still in the tilneskoyg and could not look down. He said, “What are you doing?”
     Libikzi said, “I see that you’ve risen to the occasion and there’s no need to worry. We don’t want a mess if we put some clothing on you, and you don’t want to wear a diaper, do you?”
     “Uh no,” said James, “and what do you mean by reprieve?”
     Libikzi felt his chest, walked to one side, turned, and nodded at Yenkoi and me. Libikzi looked back towards James and said, “Well, James, you will not be executed if you cooperate, behave, and do as you’re told. Pevfexo Gacplk and Gavicte Yenkoi wanted you executed immediately, but I, Pevfexo Libikzi, argued for you to be spared a horrible death. It is only through the good graces and magnanimity of Her Majesty High Priestess Fevepo Zawmb’yee that you were allowed to live.”
     James said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee?”
     I looked at James and gleefully waved my hand from side to side. Yenkoi frowned.
     Libikzi stifled a laugh, and slapped James across the face. “You will not,” she said to James, “address the Fevepo directly. You will speak to me only, and from now on address me as Pevfexo Libikzi. If you fail to obey any of my directives, you can be given back into the custody of Pevfexo Gacplk. Understand?”
     “Yeah,” said James.
     “You’re off to a bad start already. We can re-load the crossbows now. The correct response is ‘Yes Pevfexo Libikzi’. Understand?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James.
     “Good, but you still get one demerit and we’ll see if any punishment will be needed. You will be well-treated if you behave, and you may receive rewards and inducements if things go well…” A few of the Yacmyeep giggled. Libikzi, finishing, barked, “Understand?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James.
     “Fine. You may relax now James. You’ll learn and everything will work out alright. Just a few guidelines here and there. If I’m speaking to you directly, you may call me ‘Pevfexo’ for short. Enough protocol for now. Just relax James — you’ll get through the initial indoctrination in an easy way if you simple obey the instructions and directives you’re given.” Libikzi gave a signal. One of the Yacmyeep carrying a glass of rye whiskey stroked James’ face. Libikzi said, “This is Aipnica Naytuci. You may address her by her title: Aipnica.”
     Naytuci said, “Would you like a sip of whiskey James?”
     “Yes, please, Aipnica Naytuci,” said James timidly.
     Libikzi nodded and Naytuci brought the glass to his lips and tilted it. He drank a little. Naytuci departed.
     “Feel better, James?” said Libikzi.
     “Yes, Pevfexo, ” said James.
     “Well, then,” said Libikzi, “I know that you’re very cold, so let’s get some clothes on you. Can we count on you to be cooperative, James?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo,” said James.
     “Alright then,” said Libikzi, “no kicking.” She gave a signal.
     Naytuci returned. She removed the shackles from his ankles, stroked his ankles, and massaged his calves. Naytuci departed.
     “Good,” said Libikzi, “and you’re still cold, so let’s get on with this. We’ll start with some underwear.” Libikzi pointed to some Yacmyeep. Two began walking around the catwalk towards James. Libikzi said to James, “Alright, I see you didn’t choose to kick, jump, or fidget. Would you like another sip of whiskey?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo.”
     Libikzi gave a signal. Naytuci returned with the glass of whiskey and raised the glass near James’ lips. Two new Yacmyeep appeared on each side of James. He could not see them, his head restrained by the tilneskoyg. One touched James’ right thigh. Libikzi said, “This is Aipnica Hshwigi. The other touched his left thigh. “This is Aipnica Baynibi,” said Libikzi. “Would you like that drink now, James?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo.”
     “Aipnica Naytuci,” said Libikzi, “give him what he wants.” She brought the glass to his lips and tilted it. He drank heartily. She tipped it more. She handed off the empty glass.
     Hshwigi said, “James, I have your underpants. Lift your right leg and I’ll help you put your foot through the leg hole. OK?”
     “Yes, Aipnica Hshwigi,” said James.
     Hshwigi took out a pair of pink panties with a hole for tubing. “Lift your leg…OK, now put your foot through here…there it goes.”
     Baynibi said, “Lift your other leg…foot through here. There, OK.”
     Naytuci threaded the end of the tubing through the hole. Hshwigi and Baynibi lifted the panties all the way up as Naytuci guided the tubing through.
     Naytuci said, “James, I’ll be right back. I have to get something for you.”
     “Fine, fi’, Aipnica Naytuci,” said James slurring his words.
     Hshwigi and Baynibi massaged James’ legs all around. They massaged his chest up to his underarms.
     Libikzi said, “James, your first work assignment is in the village of Uzpu. If you do well there, you might even be able to appear on a new television show they’re producing for the Inner Village Network. It’s new. It’s a quiz show called ‘The Elusive Truth’, but first you have to do some manual labor for the village. For your first assignment you will be pulling a wagon. Being a ‘horse’ is not a glamorous assignment, but you have to start at the bottom and work your way up. You could do this. Right James?”
     “Sure, shuh, fi’, fine, your Pevfexo majesty, uh Miss Commander, um, Pevfexo Libikzi. Fi’, fine,” James slurred.
     “Just a few more things,” said Libikzi, “and we’ll let you sit down.” Hshwigi and Baynibi went around and gave him a back massage, and when they finished returned to the front. “We’re almost done, James.”
     “Fi’, fi’, Pevfee x oh,” said James.
     “James,” said Libikzi, “as a horse we need to fit you with a harness to pull the wagon. It’s padded so it won’t cut into you when you pull a heavy load. The straps go around your chest and over your shoulders. If you’re willing to cooperate we can remove the tilneskoyg, but you must follow directions carefully. Are you willing to do this James?”
     “Fi’, fi’, Pevee x oh,” said James.
     A group of Yacmyeep gathered around James. Hshwigi and Baynibi unlocked the wrist shackles and neck yoke and the rest of the Yacmyeep lifted the tilneskoyg off James. James’ arms fell to his sides. The Yacmyeep carried the tilneskoyg away.
     Hshwigi and Baynibi massaged his shoulder, arms, and fingers. Baynibi went round and massaged the back of his neck.
     “Feel better James?” asked Libikzi.
     “Perfecto Pevfexo Libi X Zee,” said James.
     “Alright now, James,” said Libikzi, “a little game. Everybody hold hands and swing your arms.”
     James took the hands of Hshwigi and Baynibi and they swung their arms back and forth. They took him for a little walk along the catwalk and back onto the same spot on the turntable.
     Libikzi said, “Did we have a nice walk James?”
     “Fun, fun, fun, Pevee x oh,” said James.
     Naytuci returned with the harness. Hshwigi and Baynibi grabbed the ends. Naytuci went around to the back.
     Libikzi said, “James, put your hands through the loops.” Hshwigi and Baynibi passed the ends to Naytuci. They lifted the shoulder straps into place, and Naytuci fastened it in the back.
     “Almost done, James,” said Libikzi, “give Naytuci your hands.”
     Naytuci handcuffed his hands behind his back. Yacmyeep brought him a chair. James sat down and fell asleep.
     Naytuci came around to the front with the others. Naytuci said, “Doesn’t James look pretty in his bra and panties.” Someone said, “pretty filly”, and they all laughed.

ENTRY 115

     I’m still reading the Ofuye. There is a disturbing question that comes to mind. Everything is based on the assumption that the gods were benevolent. The elite in the palace, and those in the inner villages are portrayed as descendants of those given special tools and knowledge by the gods. Some are assumed to be descendants of the prophets. They make no claims any more extraordinary than any other religion, and they have as many purported miracles and saints as any other culture, and have as much or more documentation and literature. There are convoluted explications on why bad things happen to good people. There’s a master plan never explained but constantly alluded to whenever a painful lesson is learned (could you teach me about fire without burning me — a good teacher would bring the child to the mountain cliff, but would be sure to hold his hand and not let him fall over the edge before he’s been given wings. Why would any god not have sense enough to do this? Why would any god be such a degenerate parent? If a god won’t teach, won’t help, won’t stop the children from fighting(even letting siblings kill each other, without even a stern and timely warning, ‘now children play nice — don’t hit your sister, don’t hit your brother’), if all of these are refused, no god is a benevolent supervisor, a god is at best indifferent, and at worst…
     What if the gods were not benevolent. Then the elite of the book would be descendants of collaborators with tyranny, fooled by magicians.
     And as in the up-top world, who is to say that we don’t suffer under the yoke of the descendants of an elite who were the greatest superstitious storytellers of all time, be it from one or many sources — talent of persuasion does not guarantee truth. Do not the innocent suffer under the unintended consequences of every exuberance foisted by the day’s extant ecstatics. Every epoch has had it’s absolute ‘Certainty of Faith’ in its primitive writing, and has had the blasphemies of the others, some of whom had noble lives off in some distant corner with compassion and kindness toward their own children.
     What if a benevolent god spoke to me. Would what he said be untrue if my rhetorical skills were lacking, and no one would believe me? What if an evil god spoke to me and my rhetorical skills were great. Haven’t the Machiavellian ones always dominated with rhetoric and armies. The pacifists and idealists don’t lead armies. Don’t the greatest soldier orators steal the revolutions from the idealists?
     Oh Kievifkwa! I’ve done a polemic and I’m not very convincing. What if a god told me something true — how would I convince anyone, and how would I explain its authenticity? Can I say to anyone, when I love you, I give you truth, for who am I to be a god even for a moment.
     But then, there are the duties of the leader. If our enemies destroy us, how will we speak, be it even the voice of a god. Many a shaman have died when their warriors were weak, and their knowledge was lost, not for any lack of authenticity, but for a lack of weapons of war. No culture who let their warriors become weak were defended by their God. Were they? No, they were demonized by their conquerors whose weapons allowed them to claim a greater God.
     And so what do I do about James who would be blabbermouth, or jester but would not be King. What do we do with clowns? Well, actually, it’s already too late. I just didn’t finish telling you about his destruction. Philosophy is so much more high-minded and pleasant. There can always be found a more intricate logic that can justify anything(oh if we only knew the premises). But anyway, the gods made me do it.
     Stall, stall, stall. Wait until you hear how James got into the trotter’s race. Tragedy had become so funny, and that’s what worries me. I must not be myself if I find my growing powers amusing. I’m losing something… but the High Priestess is amused. Ha! I have spoken. Bring in the clowns.
     Poor James. He must be one of many who have endured the damihaiz.
     I wonder how many others have wandered into any part of the secret city, or been dragged there. Poor other Jameses.
     At least, last time, James got to sleep one night. We had returned to the mevltikacle in the morning after.
     By the time we got there, the Yacmyeep had already washed and shaved James, and they had removed the agroape and the eksikmazm from the floor of the mevltikacle. Most of the Yacmyeep were busy setting up equipment, but Hshwigi, Baynibi, and Naytuci were chatting. Naytuci ran her fingers through her purple hair and said, “Isn’t the filly pretty. She could be a good trotter. She needs a better name than James.” They all laughed.
     “Yeah, whatever name they choose, bet on that one,” said Hshwigi pointing her index finger with the red nail polish. “You’ll probably get good odds.”
     James was pacing up and back trying to get out of his handcuffs and trying to reach around to the front of his body. He walked to the end of his leash that was chained to a post, pulling until he choked and then he stopped.
     James shouted, “Libikzi, let me the hell out of here now. This is ridiculous, this is insane, and they will…”
     “Oh James,” said Libikzi, “You were doing so well. That’s another demerit: you address me as Pevfexo Libikzi.”
     “Oh hell, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James, “what are you doing to me? Let me go.”
     James paced up and back, and coming to the end of his leash, tripped on his own feet and fell to the floor. All the Yacmyeep were there in their short yellow dresses with purple sun symbols shining on each breast and blue triangles under their immodest cleavages. One remarked, “Isn’t she a wild filly — she’ll probably win the race…”
     Hshwigi and Baynibi came over and lifted him to his feet. Naytuci grabbed the chain of his handcuffs and pulled him backward toward the center of the floor where there was a small trotter racing cart with room for one jockey.
     Libikzi, fingering her sapphire pendant, said, “James, why all the fuss? I have good news for you.”
     “Pevfexo Libikzi, may I ask, um…” said James with insincere respect, stalling for time, probably trying to think of an escape plan, “may I ask what is the good news?”
     Libikzi raised an eyebrow and played with one of her gold bracelets. “I’m glad you asked,” said Libikzi. “There’s a trotter’s race for novice horses. The winning prize is a full course dinner in the main dining room without restraints, and a guided tour of the Inner Cities. Seems perfect for you, seeing as you wanted to explore. No?”
     “Well, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James tentatively, “may I ask the bad news?”
     “Hmm,” said Libikzi, “you could put it that way, but it’s just part of your training program, and as you advance, you will receive more privileges and freedoms. You must first train to be a good trotter. Shall we proceed?”
     James was afraid to say no. He said, “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi.”
     “To qualify for the race, you must learn to trot. If you break into a gallop you will be disqualified and ineligible for a prize. But don’t worry, we can guarantee that you can’t spread your legs too far. Shall we show you?”
     “Um,” said James, “uh, Pevfexo Libikzi, I guess you could tell me about this, um…”
     “No, James,” said Libikzi, “we will instruct and you will comply.”
     The Yacmyeep brought a chair. Naytuci pushed him and he sat down.
     Libikzi said, “We will put on you a tight and narrow trotter’s skirt that will limit how far apart your legs can stretch. This will prevent a gallop and limit steps to the correct length apart.”
     Aipnica Naytuci said, “Lift your legs so we can put on your skirt.”
     “What?” said James.
     “Another demerit,” said Aipnica Naytuci. “Shall we move to the punishments?”
     “Uh, no,” said James, “Aipnica Naytuci.”
     Hshwigi and Baynibi helped Naytuci pull a trotter’s skirt part way up, pushing James’ legs together. “Stand up James,” said Naytuci, and they pulled the skirt up and locked the waist belt.
     James tried to run with tiny small steps, but couldn’t get far before Naytuci stopped him.
     Libikzi said, “Open you mouth wide — we want to see your teeth. Now!”
     James opened his mouth wide and then said, “Pevfexo Libikzi, why am I doing this?”
     “Every horse must be steered, “ said Libikzi. “We must determine what kind of bit to use. We need to attach some pieces to your teeth, and perhaps an automatic tongue depressor so we can train you not to talk inappropriately — it’s usually more comfortable than a gag. When the reins are attached to a good bridle you’ll know exactly where we want you to go, and when to speak.”
     James trotted out to the end of his leash, sat down, and tried to get his fingers under the belt in the back where he could reach. He stood up, trotted back to the post, turned backward and tried to push the post down.
     Libikzi said, “Hmm, I think maybe we’ll have to drill your teeth a little to make a good fit. Maybe pull a couple.”
     “No,” said James, “you can’t do that. It’s ridiculous, it’s…”
     “Another demerit,” said Libikzi, “but then there’s an alternative…”
     “Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James, “what’s the alternative?”
     “Well, you do have large fleshy earlobes. We could steer you by your ears,” said Libikzi.
     “Are you nuts?” said James. “What are you doing…you’re all crazy. Let me go. You’re going to pay for this, you lunatics.” James trotted out to the end of his leash and pulled. Then he trotted up and back looking for something he could use as a tool or weapon. There was nothing within reach.
     “Two demerits, James,” said Libikzi. “So, shall we fit you for a bridle now?”
     “No, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James.
     “Very well then,” said Libikzi. She gave a signal. Two Yacmyeep swabbed his ear lobes with antiseptic and anesthetic. “Hold still. We don’t want to rip your lobes.” The Yacmyeep punched out large holes in the center of each lobe, removing a chunk of flesh. They cleaned it and then used a rivet gun to install large earrings. They walked away admiring their work.
     James trotted out to the end of his leash, shaking his head. He trotted back.
     Libikzi said, “You are wild. You’ll make a good filly. I think you’ll win the race, but we don’t want to put the cart before horse. We’ll see how well you can pull the cart later.”
     Libikzi turned to the Yacmyeep, “That’s enough for now. Let’s all go to lunch.” They left James alone to trot about. Yenkoi and I and our entourage went to lunch.

ENTRY 116

     Before the lunch break, James hadn’t been fully dressed in his trotter’s uniform, but he needed to be hitched to the trotter’s cart soon to begin his breaking in before his rebellious tendencies could become habitual and chronic. The time had approached to apply a more comprehensive discipline and ensure obedience. I’ve read that once a new trotter accepts the role assigned, it no longer suffers the pain of futile escape attempts, and injuries from reckless flailing about. They say that once the horse’s identity and role are firmly inculcated, the new trotter is comforted by the certainty of its obedience to a proscribed routine. Thus fear is removed. But first the wild horse must be broken.
     James had not been looking well when we had returned to the mevltikacle after our lunch break. He had not eaten and had had limited drinks. His weakness had to be carefully calculated to limit his strength to resist, but not allow his death as long as he appeared to be a useful commodity, but from the way he trotted about, pulling on the post, rolling on the floor, yanking at his clothes, he seemed strong enough to survive a little longer.
     The Yacmyeep milled about in excited anticipation. Hshwigi, Baynibi, and Naytuci, gossiped, not overly concerned with who would overhear them while the rest of the Yacmyeep prepared for the afternoon’s activity. Hshwigi wiggled her fingers to show her rainbow-colored fingernails. “Look,” she said to the others, “aren’t these great shades of nail polish: passionate red on my index finger, citrus orange for my middle finger, sun-bright yellow on my ring finger, and bright green for my pinkie. Aren’t these gorgeous?”
     The others agreed. Baynibi said, “You know, we could paint James’ fingernails these colors. Don’t you think it would be pretty?”
     Naytuci said, “Well, maybe but right now, James’ hands have to stay handcuffed behind his back.”
     “Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Baynibi.
     Hshwigi fluttered her eyes. “See my blue eye shadow…”
     “Oh yeah,” said Naytuci, “we could do his eyes, and paint his toes.”
     Baynibi said, “Yeah, that would be fun.”
     “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Hshwigi, “I can see it: this will be a pretty filly. Look at the decorative ancient engraving on James’ hilukwili, and doesn’t it look gorgeous: James does have pretty armlets, and if you look closely you can see there are nice frilly, leafy designs on James’ bra. Don’t you think?”
     “Just one thing,” said Naytuci, “those dry chapped and cracked lips are not attractive.”
     Libikzi shouted, “Quiet everyone. We have work to do… Someone bring the horse over to the cart between the pull poles.” James was lifted, pushed, and dragged.
     James said, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough fun. I could go and I won’t say anything — I mean, who would believe me anyway?”
     “Another demerit. You address me as Pevfexo Libikzi. Understand?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James.
     “James,” said Libikzi. “We can’t take any chances. Calm down, and you’ll be fine. Wouldn’t you like a nice full course dinner of your choice, and all you can drink of any beverage?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James.
     “Well then, you have to win the race. We will prepare you to be a good filly. We’re going to hitch you to the cart. Don’t fidget because we want to properly distribute the load that you’re going to pull among the attachment points and lines. Just stand calmly, and we’ll take good care of you. Alright, James?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said James.
     Libikzi instructed the Yacmyeep. “First attach the chains from the poles to the rings of the hilukwili. Leave some slack, and we’ll adjust it later — it’s not going to take much of the load…”
     Hshwigi and Baynibi locked the chains onto the rings. Hshwigi wiggled her fingers in front of James’ face. “Do you like my nails, James?”
     James said, “Uh, yes Aipnica Hshwigi. Very nice.”
     “Alright, now just for a margin of safety,” said Libikzi, “attach the chain from the center bottom of the cart to the handcuff chain and the extension pole to the neck collar.”
     James tried to trot away. Five Yacmyeep rushed in to hold James, and five to hold the cart.
     “Whoa, James,” said Libikzi, “you don’t want to hurt yourself.”
     James said, “Never mind the race. Get me out of this.” James tried to turn the cart around, but the Yacmyeep already had a hold on everything.
     “Ten demerits,” said Libikzi. “If you damage yourself, we’ll have to execute you. And you will address me as Pevfexo. Perhaps we should redeem all your demerits with a suitable punishment now. Or will you stand still and be calm?”
     James shifted around to try to get comfortable. “Alright, Pevfexo. I’m OK now.”
     “Good James,” said Libikzi. “Now we move on to the main load bearing item.” Libikzi gave a signal. More Yacmyeep came in and grabbed hold of every inch of James’ body. Libikzi commanded them, “From now on, I want no movement at all.”
     James couldn’t budge in any way. James screamed, “Let go of me.”
     “Two demerits,” said Libikzi. “James, if you stay calm, you’ll be fine.”
     Libikzi pointed at Hshwigi and Baynibi. They attached chains from the main structure of the cart to rings on James’ bra.
     Naytuci sat in the jockey’s chair of the cart. Hshwigi and Baynibi attached the reins to James’ earrings.
     “Now that was easy. Wasn’t it James,” said Libikzi.
     James jumped up and down and shook his head.
     Libikzi directed the Yacmyeep. “Hold James still. Don’t allow any movement.”
     Baynibi was all excited. “Pevfexo, can we decorate our filly now?”
     “Sure,” said Libikzi. “The lips are chapped. Choose a lipstick.”
     Baynibi said, “Let’s see how bright orange looks.” She applied an orange lipstick to James’ lips. “Doesn’t that feel better,” she said to James.
     “Yes, Aipnica Baynibi,” said James.
     Libikzi turned and looked over towards Yenkoi and me. “High Priestess, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, if it would please you to do so, would you be inclined to name the new filly?”
     “Yes, thank you, Pevfexo Libikzi,” I said, “I like Camille.”
     “Very well, thank you, Fevepo Zawmb’yee,” said Libikzi, “we are honored.”
     Hshwigi brought supplies from her equipment bag. She said, “Camille, close your eyes, I want to paint your eyelids blue.”
     The filly looked around, hitched firmly to the cart.
     Hshwigi grabbed the horse’s face. “That’s you Camille; I’m speaking to you,” said Hshwigi.
     “I’m James,” said the filly.
     “Two demerits,” said Libikzi, “This is your new name. You will answer to it when addressed. Understand Camille?”
     “I’m James,” the horse hitched to the cart said.
     “Ten demerits,” said Libikzi. “You will address me as Pevfexo Libikzi, and I will address you as Camille. Understand Camille?”
     “I’m James.”
     Libikzi said to Naytuci who was in the jockey’s chair, “Drive Camille to the treadmill in the punishment cell, after you establish control.”
     The Yacmyeep still held the horse in place. Naytuci pulled all the chains tight until the horse screamed. Naytuci reached to one side and found a whip. She lashed the horse twenty times. She said, “When I pull on your left ear, you will turn left.” Naytuci nodded to the Yacmyeep. They withdrew away from the cart. The horse pulled forward with its head turned to the left. Naytuci said, “Turn left, turn left.” The head was turned left but the cart went straight. Some Yacmyeep in a forward position blocked the path with a ramp that they unfolded from the back of a truck. The cart went straight up the ramp onto the platform of the truck. The Yacmyeep climbed up the ramp, threw lines out and anchored the cart to the platform. Naytuci put on a brake, and got out of the driver’s seat. Naytuci and the Yacmyeep walked down the ramp back onto the floor of the mevltikacle. The ramp folded up. The whole cart with the horse still attached was driven to a huge domed area that was carved out of the rock between the entrance and the pond. An enormous garage door opened slowly in the back. The truck disappeared into a tunnel, and the door closed.
     Libikzi said to Naytuci, “Wasn’t that exciting? It’s just a minor setback. This sort of thing often happens. We have other strategies. We’ll see.”
     I said to Yenkoi, “Does this mean the conditioning has failed?”
     Yenkoi said, “No, Fevepo. It’s just one of the variations. They’ve handled it before. It’s never predicable which variation will work best in each case. It’s just going to take a little longer.”
     “Well, in any case, Gavicte Yenkoi, the Yacmyeep seem to enjoy their work.”
     “Yes Fevepo,” said Yenkoi, “they will get the job done eventually. There’s plenty of time, and I predict that Camille will win the race. It should be interesting. Shall we go to dinner?”
     “Yes, fine, Gavicte.”
     An exciting day. Better than reading the Ofuye.

ENTRY 117

     Today, Gavicte Yenkoi has said that a group of Drofluo want to meet with me. They are a black ops division of the Wipzib. He has said that if I choose to meet with them I can’t consult with him or anyone else, and that I must keep to myself whatever secrets they tell me, unless I write a formal decree explaining my reasons for wanting to share this information with any persons, and explaining these persons’ need-to-know. Gavicte Yenkoi says, I may reveal those secrets to those designated in the decree only if the full Council ratifies the decree. I can refuse to see the Drofluo if I wish. I don’t know if I want to know this ultra-super-top secret stuff. But if I don’t even hear it, how would I condemn any abuse of power I know nothing about. I suppose the idea of refusal is to be able to have plausible deniability for the approval by default of a necessary evil, because conditions are so dire as to require drastic measures.
     I’m feeling more weird all the time. Because of this, I’ve scheduled an automatic sending of Doug’s email at the up-top network service provider. It’s already safely stored by them. This way, whatever happens here to me or to my up-top-type computer in the kngacev, the ISP will send the special email to Doug and will take care of my accounts. At his point, I’d better not say anything further here about that.
     Well, then, perhaps, while I’m still somewhat lucid (although, I don’t know if anything has ever been clear to me), I’ll talk about the last session I observed at the mevltikacle. After that one, I just told Libikzi to send me written reports and that if any more authorizations were needed that I’d let Gavicte Yenkoi make the decisions for me.
     After the cart pulling incident, they had returned James to Gacplk. We had arrived at the mevltikacle for a morning session. The tikwitipj and the eksikmazm were laid out on the floor of the mevltikacle again. James a.k.a. Camille was naked except for his hilukwili, earrings, neck collar, and handcuffs.
     James stood, hands behind his back, in front of the pedal of the tikwitipj. Gacplk, growling behind him, said, “Spin the wheel.”
     “I can’t,” said James.
     Gacplk let go of the chain of the handcuffs. He said, “Move forward and step hard with your foot on the pedal. The harder you step, the faster and the longer the wheel will spin… you might need time to think about something.”
     “Is this good news or bad news?” asked James.
     “Shut up. Just step on the damn pedal,” said Gacplk pushing James who then fell onto the pedal on his knees. The wheel spun furiously.
     “Can I win a prize?” asked James.
     “No. But you can take the consequences of the wheel, or you can have what’s behind door number one, door number two, or door number three. What do you want to do?” said Gacplk.
     “I want to go to Disneyland.”
     Gacplk looked toward the firing squad. “Load crossbows.” He said to James, “Decide soon, and this time, if you try to escape, the archers will get you in a painful way.”
     James said, “Um, uh, door number one.”
     Gacplk waved over two guards. Gacplk said, “Remove his handcuffs.”
     James said, “Does this mean I can go to Disneyland?”
     “No James,” said Gacplk, “you’ve chosen door number one. Walk over to the door, and you’ll see that there’s a sword on the floor right in front of it. Go pick it up.”
     “Does this mean,” said James, “that I get to fight my way out of the mevltikacle?”
     Gacplk used his sweet insidious voice, “No, James, not that you’d be any match against crossbows and guns. Just go while the wheel is still spinning and you don’t have to forfeit your chance.”
     As James walked towards the door, Gacplk and his men all moved back about fifty feet away from the door. Yenkoi and I also moved back to a safe distance. The men up on the eksikmazm with their crossbows were already in a secure position.
     Arriving at the door, James picked up the sword and said, “Oh, I could throw this like a spear.”
     “No James,” shouted Gacplk, “hold the sword straight out in front of you.”
     “Like this?”
     “Good enough,” said Gacplk. He gave a signal and the door began to open. Gacplk’s men spread out into defensive positions and drew their guns.
     A lion lunged at James going for his throat and was just barely diverted as part of its body fell onto the sword that James didn’t even have time to move.
     The lion roared and while stumbling, mauled James with its claws. It turned itself around.
     “No, James,” shouted Gacplk, “stab it in the throat.”
     James plunged the sword into its throat as it lunged again.
     Gacplk shouted, “Stab it again. Cut its head off.”
     James pulled out the sword and plunged it repeatedly all over the lion’s body, and hacked at the neck. He turned, screamed a war cry and ran towards Gacplk with the sword outstretched. Gacplk’s men backed up and aimed their guns at James.
     Gacplk shouted, “Stop James, now.”
     Two arrows flew near James’ ears, the feathers of one brushing him. James slowed somewhat. He let out a bellowing shriek, waving the sword wildly while blood sprayed into the wind of his wake.
     “Stop James,” Gacplk said, calmly stepping back a few steps and drawing his gun.
     James lowered the sword and walked towards Gacplk.
     “Drop the sword.”
     James picked up speed again, made the sound of a moose, and raised his sword back like an antler.
     “Stop. Drop the sword.” Gacplk ran back, stopped, turned, aimed his gun and shouted, “Aim crossbows.”
     James ran faster, aiming the sword at Gacplk.
     Gacplk braced himself. “Steady, fire at my signal.”
     A chorus of screeches came from the entrance of the mevltikacle and James stopped and looked up.
     Hshwigi, Baynibi, and Naytuci screamed, “Camille! Whoa!”
     The wild creature wearing the hilukwili and earrings, stopped in its tracks, dropped the sword like a molting, and began shaking uncontrollably, falling to the ground.
     “Pevfexo Gacplk!” shouted Pevfexo Libikzi.
     Gacplk looked at Libikzi and back at the creature on the ground. “Stand down weapons,” said Gacplk.
     Pevfexo Libikzi said, “May I, Pevfexo Gacplk?”
     “Yes, alright, Pevfexo Libikzi, if you wish,” said Gacplk. “Come retrieve it.”
     Libikzi, Hshwigi, Baynibi, and Naytuci had come with an entire team of Yacmyeep who waited at the entrance. Libikzi waved them in. They carried all kinds of baskets and bags, and they looked like they came for a picnic.
     Hshwigi, Baynibi, and Naytuci rushed over to Camille who was still shaking on the ground. Hshwigi said, “Take it easy Camille. We’ve brought you a cheeseburger, and a gin and tonic.”
     The filly Camille sat up. She took a sip of the gin and tonic from a straw, and had a bite of the cheeseburger.
     Baynibi said, “We’ve brought your clothes. Do you want to put them on?”
     Camille said, “Yes, Aipnica Baynibi.” Camille put on her trotter skirt and Baynibi and Hshwigi helped her put on her harness bra.
     Naytuci said, “Drink the rest of you gin and tonic.”
     Camille gulped it down.
     Libikzi came around. “Is everything under control?”
     Hshwigi said, “Yes, our filly is fine.”
     Libikzi said to Camille, “Feel better?”
     The filly said, “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi.”
     Libikzi said, “Finish your Cheeseburger.”
     Camille grabbed it with both hands and gobbled it up.
     Libikzi offered a swig of whiskey from a bottle. “Want to have a jolt?”
     “Yes, please, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said Camille and she took the bottle to her mouth and swung it back.
     Hshwigi and Baynibi took Camille’s hands and led her away from Gacplk’s sight.
     Libikzi said, “Don’t worry Camille. We’ll take care of you. Feel better?”
     “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi,” said Camille.
     Libikzi signaled Naytuci. Naytuci walked behind Camille.
     Libikzi said, “Give Naytuci your hands.”
     Camille said, “Yes, Pevfexo Libikzi.”
     Naytuci handcuffed Camille’s hands behind her back. “Secure,” said Naytuci to Libikzi.
     Libikzi shouted to Gacplk, “Thank you, Pevfexo Gacplk. Everything’s under control now.”
     The Yacmyeep took Camille away, and Naytuci said, “Can we put on her blue eye shadow and her mascara?”
     Libikzi said, “Sure, why not. It’s your filly, and she has pretty eyes and nice eyelashes.”
     Hshwigi said, “Um, Pevfexo Libikzi, if I may make a formal request?”
     Libikzi said, “Yes, Aipnica Hshwigi, dear. Speak your mind.”
     “High Pevfexo, if it pleases you, may I um, uh…”
     “Go right ahead Dear. I give my permission for you to speak freely,” Libikzi said.
     “Thank you, Pevfexo. After proper training, may I use Camille as my yleueox?”
     Libikzi said, “I am inclined to approve, but wait Dear… I have one formality to do.”
     “Yes, Pevfexo.”
     Libikzi turned towards me. “High Priestess, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, if it would please you to do so, would you allow Aipnica Hshwigi to use Camille as her yleueox, and may I also ask if the Yacmyeep may have Camille available as aucocne?”
     Baynibi and Naytuci giggled. They whispered to Hshwigi.
     I said, “Pevfexo Libikzi, thank you for your request. Please give me one moment.”
     “Yes, Fevepo.”
     I whispered to Yenkoi, “Gavicte, what the Kievifkwa is she asking me?”
     “Well, Fevepo, yleueox means um…”
     “Oh hell, oh Kievifkwa, never mind. Gavicte, can you decide and speak for me?”
     “Yes, of course, Fevepo.”
     I said to Libikzi, “I will allow Gavicte Yenkoi to make the decision and speak for me.”
     “Yes, High Priestess, Fevepo Zawmb’yee.” Libikzi bowed toward Yenkoi.
     Yenkoi smiled and whispered to me, “Fevepo, may I proceed?”
     “Yes, Yenkoi,” I said.
     Yenkoi turned toward Libikzi. “Pevfexo Libikzi, I hereby grant both requests, and if you would convey to Aipnica Hshwigi in advance, our congratulations and best wishes. May you succeed as fortune will have it in service to the gods.”
     Libikzi bowed. “Thank you Gavicte Yenkoi. Thank you, High Priestess, Fevepo Zawmb’yee.”
     I whispered to Yenkoi, “Now what the Kievifkwa, what Kievifkwa-ing thing did I agree to?”
     “High Priestess, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, if it pleases you to do so, may I request that you not curse so much?”
     “Oh never mind Gavicte. Can you tell me what it means later?”
     “Yes, of course, Fevepo. You are so kind.”
     “Oh… I mean, yes, fine, very good, my dear Gavicte.”

*******
CHAPTER 10

SECRETS AND DISASTER

ENTRY 118

     As you could have guessed, I’ve procrastinated as much as I could, but I do have an appointment set with the Drofluo. This I did after I finally asked Yenkoi for an explanation of the last session at the mevltikacle, and asked for a clarification of my options for a meeting with the Drofluo. After a few days when I had caught up on my Ofuye studies, I called in Yenkoi for a consultation.
     I had said, “Gavicte Yenkoi, I think I’m ready now for you to update me on everything I’ve postponed.”
     “Yes, of course, Fevepo. You had asked me after the last session at the mevltikacle to explain my decisions on your behalf. I think that you needed a definition of yleueox, and aucocne, in the context of Aipnica Hshwigi’s request?”
     “Yes, Gavicte Yenkoi.”
     “Um, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, as you may know, I find it difficult speaking about vulgar and indelicate matters. If you would please pardon me if I stumble about in my explanation with too many euphemisms or with an obfuscation. Perhaps, after you’ve finished your studies with Apacevj, I’ll be able to explain this and other things more precisely in Upper Utd’mbts. Shall I proceed?”
     “Sure, Gavicte Yenkoi — let it all hang out.”
     “Excuse me, Fevepo? I don’t understand.”
     “Sorry, that’s an up-top expression. Um, I mean, yes, of course, proceed.”
     “Thank you, Fevepo. Aipnica Hshwigi wishes to become pregnant. She wants it to be by a supervised mounting of her by the horse Camille alias James. The process of lowering an erect horse onto her, and allowing for a careful thrusting process that results in an ejaculation within her, is called ‘yleueox’, and ‘aucocne’ simply means ‘sperm donor.’ When I say ‘horse’ I mean liaoc or a person such as James.”
     “Um, well, Gavicte Yenkoi, I think I understand. If I may be indelicate for a moment: Hshwigi wants to have sex with James, and have his baby…”    
     “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, that would be a succinct way to describe the essential elements without the social-milieu context. Is this sufficient for now?”
     “Yes, thank you, Gavicte Yenkoi. I’m sorry you had to suffer through that explication, but I enjoy a good ramble. Well, OK, whenever I learn Utd’mbts more thoroughly, you’ll tell me more.”
     “Yes, Fevepo.”
     “Which reminds me: I think it best that when I have the meeting with the Drofluo, that I insist that they NOT speak in Upper Utd’mbts, since I don’t know it that well. Will this be acceptable?”
     “Yes, of course, Fevepo. The briefing can contain as much or as little detail as you want to hear. The decision is yours, and as I’ve said before, whatever you do agree to hear must be kept secret.”
     “Yes, Gavicte Yenkoi, I understand,” I had said, but as I’ve hinted at: there is a problem which I won’t dare discuss with Yenkoi.
     Now as the meeting approaches, I’m getting more and more nervous. And I hope I’m correct that none of the elite here in the Palace and in the inner villages read this blog, because I do plan to describe a little bit about the meeting.
     I think it’s treason, but I’m thinking that if I’m the High Priestess, I could pardon myself or… I’m not going to think about it anymore. Yeah, I’m pretty sure they don’t read blogs on the up-top Internet.

ENTRY 119

     I had my meeting with a representative of the Drofluo. If it’s even possible, I feel even more weird than before. Because I said I just wanted a general briefing, they sent just one representative who I suppose was sort of like a public relations spokesperson, although she had the high rank of Kfuaihicoo in the Drofluo. Perhaps it’s like the games in the up-top world where a person of ostensibly high rank like the Secretary of State can be out of the loop and ignored by the President and given only ceremonial duties, or in a different administration given real powers. It depends on a whim, or I suppose in this case I’m the whim and the wind. But since I’m supposed to be the ultimate power, and since if I knew anything, I could use rogue bureaucrats to drill down to the real deep secrets, I needed to make strategic friends. My feeling had been to play coy and see if I could develop an ally for myself deep within a disgruntled core. I know an entrenched elite leadership will always lie.
     Kfuaihicoo Yimiecei had arrived with a large entourage, but she made a strange request: she asked to meet in the kngacev. I would have thought she’d ask to meet in one of the royal conference rooms with the elaborate media displays and security equipment. The kngacev is a simple library with a royal meditation room or bedroom. I’ve been so busy studying that I’ve never actually slept yet in any of the official royal bedrooms. I haven’t even had time to explore all the rooms of the palace. But anyway…
     I had welcomed Kfuaihicoo Yimiecei into the kngacev with as much formal protocol as I could muster with the help of Yenkoi.
     Yimiecei had curly blond hair and blue eyes. She was fiercely beautiful and ferocious in a leather vest over a blue mesh tank top, a green shredded silk skirt, and orange running shoes with rubies over steel toes and with purple ankle bracelets. She left her weapons belt with her entourage who waited outside. She was so powerful looking and sexy that even Yenkoi almost kissed her when he, entranced, almost drifted into her lips, but stirred to composed himself for a formal introduction.
     She had said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, may we proceed to the back of the kngacev?”
     I was puzzled, but I said, “Yes, of course, if you wish.” We walked to the back, to the far most corner.
     She said, “If it would please you, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, may I climb the ladder to the top shelf of the book case?”
     I had no clue, but I said, “Yes, of course, proceed.”
     Yimiecei climbed to the top shelf, pulled a purple book part way out, and scrambled down the ladder . At the bottom she extended her arm in a downward arc and bowed. The shelf slid to the side revealing a room with huge screens, computer consoles, and a large conference table. She escorted me in, and we walked to the table as the shelf closed behind us. She pulled out a plush chair for me and said, “For your comfort, Fevepo Zawmb’yee. I am honored to brief you in the manner of your choosing.”
     I sat down. “Yes, thank you, Kfuaihicoo Yimiecei, proceed.”
     Sauntering around to the front of the table with her curly blond hair doing spring dances, she began, “I will start with the state of the Inner Villages. If at any time you want more detail, you may ask for it under the confidentiality agreement that Gavicte Yenkoi informed you of. Is this acceptable Fevepo Zawmb’yee?”
     “Yes, continue,” I had said. It was eerie like when Doug and I entered Zusoiti’s lair except that Yimiecei had a benign presence. She updated me on all the mundane affairs of state and I nearly fell asleep until she almost casually lapsed into extraordinary intrigue… I’ll tell you all about it, but I have to rest now before Yenkoi brings me more papers to sign and I have some grand decisions to make. I am exhausted. I have to rest before I present my treasonous revelations here on this blog. Good night and sweet dreams before I rule the day, or is that rue the day…

ENTRY 120

     So it is true that at every level the apocalypses approached — the bursting of every cherished bubble, large and small, where balloons of false belief and of the deception of comfortable certainty drift. The Drofluo are everywhere that pin pricks will lead to domination.
     Kfuaihicoo Yimiecei had finished her agriculture report for the inner villages when she said, “Our stockpile of food in the Dakalzca is nearing full capacity and we’re ready to begin the inducement of the Wicsmi when the gods will return.”
     “Dakalzca? Wicsmi?”
     “Oh, yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, I beg your pardon, I should have defined the jargon. Dakalzca are giant “caves of Stillness” where frozen food is kept like an elegant cuisine reserved in time for our epoch chefs by mammoth refrigerators, and Wicsmi means an Ice Age.”
     “So you’re able to do what Kragzluk, the god of preservation and death, did in ancient times?”
     “Well, yes. We have the pfayohiqusi and our psomuce, um, lava tube network can disperse the heat from the Dakalzca to deep ocean vents and when we’re ready for the Wicsmi, can be sent to active volcanoes.”
     “How much food is that?”
     “It’s enough for the half of the population of Earth that will obey us and …”
     I was stunned at how calmly she spoke while playing with her blond curls. I said, “Wait, this sounds like Zusoiti’s plan, and didn’t Utcoozhoo lead the Grand Council to stop her and…”
     “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, Zusoiti’s ideas were basically correct. It’s just that in implementation she failed to consult with the Drofluo, and became reckless in relying on the teigdain.”
     “teigdain?”
     “It’s a hybrid science: it assumes that certain things will forever be unknowable to science, only comprehended by the gods, and should not even be explored by experiment or study. It combines the science from our many Renaissances with the magic, or casmivi of the pfayohiqusi. But relying on the pfayohiqusi has actually held us back. Our scientists have moved in fits and starts to and beyond quantum physics. But the executions for sypmauiyig, blasphemy, have always been somewhat inhibiting.”
     “Hmm, somewhat inhibiting?”
     Kfuaihicoo Yimiecei suddenly had a look of terror on her face as she seemed to realize that I could read between the lines. I said, “Then, what you are saying is that the Drofluo have deliberately committed sypmauiyig in order to reverse-engineer the pfayohiqusi to learn the science of it?”
     Yimiecei grimaced and shuttered for a moment before regaining composure and standing up straight. “Yes,” she said.
     “Then the law would have you executed?”
     “Yes.”
     I waited a moment to try to discern by her reaction if I still had absolute power. She started to shake. I said, “but I don’t have to, I suppose.”
     “Yes.”
     I laughed. “I like the sciences.”

ENTRY 121

     Hmm. So Yimiecei told me that the plan was basically the same except that we were not expecting the return of the gods but the return of the beings who were perceived as gods. She had said, “We are perfecting our knowledge of the science of the gods; we are beginning to understand the apparatus of the gods, the pfayohiqusi, infinitely better than ever before. With this knowledge, our benign rule of the Earth can begin, and we will purge all evil and any imperfection that would continue the troublesome inefficiencies.”
     I had said, “Yes, it’s a messy, wasteful world.”
     “Um, Fevepo, your Majesty and divine chosen leader of the realm, High Priestess, keeper of the faith, if I may discuss a delicate matter that may be personal to you?”
     I was stunned and not sure what to say. I was thinking that theoretically I could have said that no, you may not, but then how would I know what was going on, and I would be worried and anxious continuously if I said something like tell me next week because I’m busy. So I said, “Yes, you may proceed.”
     “We have discovered that it was Doug who revealed the existence of the caves to Ziohat. The damihaiz extracted the information from Ziohat. We believe Doug has been revealing too much information to the up-top world, and because of his eokxavexa, his genes obviously are of no value to us. Therefore, he should be executed.”
     My impulse was to strangle her to death, but I felt sick, vomiting in a waste paper basket. Then, I cried, knocking over a chair and falling to the floor. I had to scream and the Kutibea appeared.
     “Are you alright?” one of the Kutibea asked.
     “Yes,” I said, “Call Apacevj and Yenkoi for a formal meeting. Go now.”
     “Fevepo, may we help you up?”
     “No, Jevkwyi, go!” The crowd departed. Yimiecei lifted me up and I struck her across the face with a backstroke of my fist.
     Yimiecei wiped the blood off her face. She said, “Perhaps we should discuss this in more detail in Upper Utd’mbts, if it pleases you Fevepo.”
     I sat down at the table and sobbed into my hands. I whispered, “Yes, after I consult with Apacevj.”
     The book shelf door slid open and I ran out. Yimiecei followed behind and I stood in front of the books. I turned and screamed, “Get out, get out, get out, get out.”
     Her entourage came. They gave her, carefully, her weapons belt back and they all left quietly.

ENTRY 122

     This could be my last entry as myself, Zawmb’yee Nuje, interim High Priestess, Fevepo — Her Majesty, lover of Doug, student of Utcoozhoo, because I find myself doing dreadful things and I must lock myself out of control of this blog. I’ve alluded to this before, but I think now I will have to trigger the emergency protocol.
     I am so foolish. Just when I needed friends in high places, or under places, needed some allies, I went berserk and showed my volatility and untrustworthiness. I could have been real cool and just listened to say tell me more and I’ll take it under advisement. But now I’ve gained nothing. The fact that Kfuaihicoo Yimiecei was stoic and took my abuse to show loyalty doesn’t actually mean she is loyal, and doesn’t mean she’s going to give me the true inside information. I’m such a novice. Yimiecei taking a punch is nothing — she could still stab me in the back at the right time.
     What am I saying. This is all irrelevant. Already I am pushing to forget the evil I’ve done. But should I not flush the tokens of my good deeds away and be left with the labels of my malefactions for display in hell. What have I done. I’m an idiot to have let myself drift. I could have resisted but look what has happened:
     I had called an emergency meeting with Apacevj. Apacevj rushed into the kngacev as if he already knew something. We sat on opposing couches in the reference section.
     Apacevj said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, how may I help you?”
     “Mieta Apacevj, I had what was to be an informal meeting with Kfuaihicoo Yimiecei conducted in English, but she brought up vital subjects that I think I need to hear in Upper Utd’mbts.”
     “Uayi?”
     “Yes,” I said and deeply meditated to feel and be with his message. After a few minutes, feeling his Upper Utd’mbts communication, he abruptly stopped making contact.
     “Stop,” he said, “Speak in English only please.”
     “What’s wrong? Am I not expressing myself correctly?”
     “No, it’s not that your Upper Utd’mbts isn’t well done. It’s, um, uh …”
     “What? Is it clumsy or something?”
     “No, it’s magnificent and nuanced but…”
     “But what?”
     “I feel the presence of a different personality. This is the voice of someone else.”
     And then at that moment I felt incredibly weird and I heard myself say, “So little Apacevj, you have heard me. I will take my rightful place as High Priestess even in this body.”
     I heard Apacevj screaming, “Zawmb’yee Nuje! Zawmb’yee, Zawmb’yee, Zawmb’yee. Are you there?”
     “No,” I heard myself say, “I am Zusoiti.”
     “What?”
     “Kutibea!” I heard myself say, and they ran in.
     “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, how may we help?” I heard from the Kutibea.
     I heard myself say, “Pirgrikwa! Apacevj has attacked me and will imminently seize control of my mind. Execute him immediately.”
     The Kutibea drew their acacizg and fired. There was a flash of light and Apacevj vanished. All that was left was a pile of ash.
     I stared at the ash and was confused. “What happened?”
     “You were attacked and we destroyed him. Are you alright?”
     “Um, well, yes, I’m fine. Thank you and could you send in Gavicte Yenkoi,” I said.
     I’m an idiot. I was so confused that I just somehow assumed that Apacevj had attacked me while speaking Upper Utd’mbts and all the strange events had been due to him. I preferred to think that I was perfectly fine after he was dead. But nothing had been his doing.
     Oh, I see, I can probably stay lucid a while longer. I could do one more entry as my final confession. I am so sad, so sorry.

ENTRY 123

     Oh Kievifkwa, I don’t know if I’m unraveling in madness, or doing what is necessary. Our secrets must be protected at all costs, and there is a higher calling of patriotism for our culture, for our people. No, no, no. This can not be — I feel it. To betray my only love is infinitely more evil than to betray the State. Those grand plans of State are Machiavellian and I have fallen, have let them offer slow poisons to me like a Juliet, but worse, I have betrayed Doug, and it might be too late. You would have thought I would have delayed speaking to Gavicte Yenkoi, but I had ordered the Kutibea to ask him to come in to hear my treachery.
     Silly me, a child in borrowed robes, I had said to send in Gavicte Yenkoi. Foolish me. Treacherous me.
     “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, you wished to see me?” Yenkoi had said.
     “Gavicte Yenkoi, please prepare for me to sign, a death warrant for um…”
     “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee?”
     So many sobs escaped from me and I sat down at a table near the reference section in the kngacev. So many tears dripped on my notes that the ink blurred on the paper buckled with evil dimples. Yenkoi stood in front of the books that were laid out like tombstones. But he merely lifted an eyebrow.
     Yenkoi began again, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, your Majesty, High Priestess, how may I serve you?”
     “Gavicte Yenkoi, please prepare for me to sign, a death warrant for Doug…” and a full-throated cry broke out that echoed across the walls that mocked me.
     “Is it…”
     “You know who,” I screamed.
     “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, if I may, I will look up his full formal name and prepare the formal documents with orders to the security forces as needed for you to approve. Is this acceptable?”
     I got up from the table and turned my back on Yenkoi. I pulled books from the shelves and flung them across the room. I said, “Is this civilization? Does knowledge become weapon become death, become ignorance from compassion, rip out hearts, beat us down without a rhythm of love for filthy secrets, dirt. I am a filthy wretch…” I picked up a heavy book and tore out a page. “For this secret a life? For this I am powerful? This Fevepo, this Queen, who plays in mud, embraces this dirt, this warrant…” And I dripped on the table again.
     “My condolences, Fevepo Zawmb’yee. If I may inquire, respectfully, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, do you wish to proceed?”
     “Yes, Gavicte Yenkoi.”
     “May I …”
     “Just go. Go now. Go quickly. Jevkwyi! ”
     “Yes, Fevepo Zawmb’yee, as you wish, as you order.” He turned officiously and left.
     Thus the world will be rendered cold. It is in this Ice Age that with my unearthly weapons, I will rule. For those loyal, I will provide food, provide warmth. And yet, though ruler of hell, I am so cold, so bereft and lonely among both the nobles and the hordes, above and beneath them.
     So let it be that I’d be seized by…~ post terminated ~
[post terminated]
[access denied]
[wrong user name]
[wrong password]
[bye]

END OF BOOK 1

THE FOG OF THE CAVEMAN’S BLOG

Chapter One

ENTRY ZERO

THE BLOGGY DIARY OF A CAVEMAN

     I’ve heard I should do something bloggy on the Internet if I’m going to fit into the up-top world. Therefore, consider this my entry zero. But if I’m really eokxavexa as Utcoozhoo thinks, it does seem pointless. I was going to just post poetry here like Utcoozhoo wanted me to do to establish a footprint on the beachhead of humanity, not revealing the secrets of our Neanderthal culture, but that wouldn’t be very satisfying to me. He always says:
     “First, one must practice English, a subset of thought, until that is as familiar as walking in the dark to pet the lion. To turn on the light too soon can arouse the appetites in the wrong order. Utd’mbts, a thunderous whisper, is the poetry of the gods no one shall utter lightly.”
     Huh? Yeah, yeah, whatever. My father was ashamed to teach me Utd’mbts, so I don’t know it that well. I don’t think that any translations I could ever learn to do would ever bring any lightning bolts, even if I could ever understand the ancient knowledge. This modern era is very uncomfortable for me, so I’ll just throw in a few gratuitous poems in English for my own diversionary comfort, but I promise to fade into standard prose very soon as my adventures unfold. Zawmb’yee says she sees interesting turmoil in the future — that sounds like that ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” Please, forgive a shy caveman his tentative introduction to the modern world.
     I’m an outcast from many worlds (or is that renegade on a multiplex). My father was a Neanderthal and my mother was French. When I write in standard English without any allusions to caveman culture, no one knows my hairy dispositions and Neanderthal prides. I’ve seen that no one really pays attention to nom de plumes and all that, so I could be Caveman Doug or Henry Le Châtelier, I suppose, as neither is very notable or notorious, and I can always claim to be French. Obscurity allows for much anonymous practice, unseen in a crowd of chatter, for falling on one’s face into only a small puddle, not into the mud of a rock concert whose milieu only a few perceive as the muse’s musical rain, but most suffer as a drunken Zeitgeist without the gravitas that they are to claim years later. Maybe I should just do short poems like “Cirrus”:

Deep is the puff of your word
the tuft of wispy breathless love
a dear cloud for my sky I use
as pillow to sleep in
your fluff without rain
enveloped;
cirrus-ly
could we be cumulus

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

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

     There is some disturbing news on American television. What a cruel twist of fate that just when we cavemen have decided to emerge from the caves and other secret places, a company has made commercials mocking us. We had been keeping a low profile, but some Neanderthal decided to join the upper classes and began calling themselves neo-sapiens or cavemen and flaunting their money. I don’t know how they expected to walk amongst men without problems; they have neither boyish charm, nor savage enchantment.
     I would have preferred to remain in the cave and woods, but with modern media, there’s no more hiding, and I probably should establish myself outside the cave where the Grand Council has no jurisdiction — Utcoozhoo seems to think their benevolent dictatorship is about to transform itself into a malignant evil that might even threaten the up-top world, but politics doesn’t interest me. I’ve been to the city, and I can see why they call the city a “concrete jungle”. But the women are beautiful and graceful like deer…

On forest’s edge
my spear seems not steady
stone’s throw away
from missing red deer
gone with cattle, fenced
by plank woods, tame

Still frozen out
on edge
I’ve lost my
säng-froid
beyond the Ice Age

She is like a red deer, but
she will not stray
stays deep in the jungle; it’s

hard to ambush her heart
when I am edgy
my spear heavy

Supercilious
she will not touch
the edge of my brow
the forest of my desire
unless
I meet her for coffee
at the Antelope Hotel
mind my manners –
small spoon on cantaloupe

I’ve made a date with her. I guess I should keep her anonymous, otherwise she’ll be a laughingstock. I’m not quite comfortable yet doing a full diary. Starting with another poem might work for me with the caveat that I’ll promise to knock-off the poetry and do real writing soon. I’ll work into it. I’m not sure about the protocols for a Blog, but I suppose I could number the entries. Let this be:

ENTRY 1 — Good News Going To Dinner

Her roundness astounded me
glorious ballet danced her
to our table
ecstasy tableau

The mâitre d’ hôtel
knows her kindness
smiles at us,
will serve
mixed pleasures
without a raised eyebrow –
he is a fine shaman
uncorks champagne
and venison.

Gorgeous is the evening
when she speaks to me
as hunter of love
knows my appetite profoundly

She stroked
the hair of my back
my buttocks,
raised me right
with sheep skin
on my rod
to save my genes
for a future
cherished child
when glory would be our name,
dancers of wealth
secretly sharing
with every child who cries
as have we

Never have I seen
such a feast

She is a smile, and
I am a sigh,
my hug accepted.

I am we,
we sing

Ring me forever

ENTRY 2

Y’know, despite their claimed sophistication, some of the neo-sapiens don’t want to scientifically examine some of our traditions. They think it is mere superstition and would embarrass them if held up to scrutiny. Utcoozhoo, especially, knows that the neo’s are ashamed of our traditions and secrets. So the neo’s are not as modern as they think they are — not open minded, not willing to examine all possibilities in an objective way….But I’m annoyed that Utcoozhoo allows their ridicule and doesn’t debate with them, and will not reveal the secret of the gods that would astound them. They, in their way are backward and stubborn in spiritual matters, but so too Utcoozhoo is stubborn and backward in not embracing the best of the modern age — I don’t think he realizes that the gods might not have been gods.
     I have a computer in an apartment outside the cave. A word processor helps with the writing. I’ve tried to save my thoughts in rhyme, to be the Neanderthal poet laureate, but it’s so tedious coming out of the cave, though I know the maze of passages, just to post at a computer, so far, so foreign to me, an artist not a hunter, perhaps a proto-shaman who still can not do routine traipsing like a meditation, who feels no ontology snaking around stalagmites as a native not a tourist, bored. Maybe I should run cables into the caves, pirouette a line around lime and trouvère. I’ve heard the ancients say there are silken spider ropes below the floor. Now that sounds like cables from the gods, but the ancient technology doesn’t seem likely to be compatible – doesn’t seem wise to ask the Cableman to hook up to “this” and not ask any questions, and I’m not even sure if it’s output or input. I’ll have to come out of the cave to post.

ENTRY 3

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

Entry 4
DRILLING THROUGH ROCK

She
beseeches me e-mail
be phone touching
encore calling,
would lend me
a cellphone
an earful

But I
haven’t told her
the cave is too deep
for signal

Let the gods
lay me a cable
I say

Might I
lay aside
the ancient
prohibitions
with a toast to modernity
if the Lady
needs a cable
in the cave

“Secrets are sacred.
Don’t approach the Sun Fire
nor the growling spears
of the sacred spider
’til gods return to sear
the rock with silk”

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

ENTRY 5
     Utcoozhoo has been cranky lately. You’d think he’d be happy, because he finally got an apprentice to pass on the oral history – they do a lot of chanting and humming. I said to Utcoozhoo, wouldn’t it be easier to just write it all down. He said, the language of the gods can’t be written – only seen. The only thing that interests me is that odd saying, “The wearer of the hat can stab through rock with an endless spear.” Oh hell, I think I’m just going to explore the chambers beyond the dome of the endless light. I can’t see what these superstitious curmudgeons are afraid of. They’re waiting for the gods to return. I can’t wait for that – it could be a thousand years from now or never. If there is some kind of drilling machine, I could use it to finally hook up my computer in the cave.

ENTRY 6
     I finally got Zawmb’yee, Utcoozhoo’s apprentice, to open up a little. She says she finds the exercises exciting but tedious. Utcoozhoo doesn’t think she’s ready for any ancient secrets. She’s been practicing the “seeing of knowledge”.
     “Huh?” I said. “Exactly what are you doing?”
     “We walk past the glass wall, around the sword of the silver-red stalagmite. I turn my back while Utcoozhoo opens the ngtqua entrance…”
     “He has a key?”
     “I don’t know. I don’t look. Sometimes it takes too long. He tells me to be quiet so he can concentrate. It’s so boring — I sit down with my back to him, put on my headphones and listen to music. That annoys him sometimes — says how can you get into a mystical mood listening to rock music. I laugh — he says no pun with “rock”. But anyway, when he’s finished yelling at me, I sit down with my back to him again and he does whatever…”
     “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and then what?”
     “We go down the golden steps into the darkness to the floating bed…then there’s meditation…”
     “Yeah?”
     “I can’t tell you anymore. You know, ‘secrets are sacred’ and all that. Bring me a gift and maybe I’ll tell you.”
She’s a tease.

ENTRY 7
     Hmm, Zawmb’yee, wants a gift. I don’t know, I don’t have any money right now. I spent all my money on Chloë, the lady at the Antelope Hotel(I know I said I’d keep her name anonymous because she’d be the goat of a joke if it were known she goes out with the Caveman, but I don’t think just a first name will do any harm.). I could write a poem for Zawmb’yee. I don’t know if she’d accept that as a gift, I think it depends on whether when she says, “gift” she means gift or bribe. There’s good news and bad news, I think. If she wants a bribe, then I can easily find out stuff, but then she’s really not trustworthy to receive the wisdom of the ages. On the other hand, if she really wants, umm, me as gift then… oh, God, she is beautiful… I must compose a poem for her, but she is too spiritual for my crude verse. I mean, Chloë, I think, is easily impressed by my poems of green pastures, but I don’t think Zawmb’yee will fall for me that easily.

ENTRY 8
     I could hear my phone ringing all the way down the hall as I came in this morning. By the time I got in the door it must have been ringing more than 10 times. Chloë was mad. She says you’re never home. Well, actually, I would say (but never tell her) that the cave is more like my home than is my apartment.
     Yeah, I know I promised to install a cable in the cave so I’d have an Internet link there, but I think it’s probably much too complicated and expensive.
     I had a dream about Zawmb’yee. She was teaching me meditation, but it was weird like a loss of identity — some sort of blending process. She opened the ngtqua by herself and we floated in. I’ve been thinking about that gift for her. I did write a poem about “gifts.” Maybe it’ll do:

Carving

She stared at her childhood tree
with the missing swing
where her sister once played in life

Behind the branch cracked window
of the house inherited from her mother,
she meditated on her husband’s gift
conjuring up a spectacular notion
though she starved but for love
with money from his carvings

Someday the perfect wood
he would carve with love

For now, an odd job here
and there could be no
saving his carving tools

He sold them to buy a swing of memories,
so she could finish grieving

She cut down the tree she knew
was the perfect block of wood

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

ENTRY 9
     Zawmb’yee is more of a tease than I thought. I wrote the poem out for her with a brush on a canvas. She sat by the underground-river Zhushcratylm, gently rested the tips of her fingers on the canvas with her eyes closed. “Yes, ” she said, “it demonstrates the devotional stage, but there is no sharing of thoughts.” She took my hands, made a gentle humming sound like a ferocious purr, said: thank you and next week I’ll show you a vision in the fifth passage. Then she said, your phone is ringing — don’t you think you should leave the cave. A quick kiss and I found myself leaving…

ENTRY 10
     I find myself thinking about Zawmb’yee everywhere I go. I wonder how she is able to navigate in the mainstream world above ground. I know she lives in the sacred quarters in the cave but is also expected to mingle in the city and across the world. It’s hard for me to imagine such a spiritual person riding on a common bus to meet me for lunch or come to my lonely apartment, see me type a poem into my computer, pull me away for more embraceable things:

     Riding

I imagine you drifting
in thoughts on the bus
by the window with
a mystery package

Hear me honk
see me as the bird
that flaps a clap
applauding your reverie

On your way, squealing
with the wheeling of the bus
I am the squeaky brakes
squawking to see you; I am
the roar of the engine

Wake up. Don’t
miss your stop
don’t drop your
precious package

Arrive soon, because
I can’t wait to
open you up
to ride with me

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

You In Me

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

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

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

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

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

ENTRY 11
     I was thinking the other day, sitting under the Dome of the Endless Light by the K’ut’mbletaw’i River, that Utcoozhoo promises many spectacular things to Zawmb’yee, but it’s always in the future. When she wonders if anything he says is true, he always tells her the story of Tpiqlat’ng who was everywhere, nearby, and beneath all things at the same time. Nobody believed Tpiqlat’ng either. The day Tpiqlat’ng returned with great treasures for everyone, rather than be grateful, they demanded to know where he got it. He was nearly beaten to death when he told what they thought was a grandiose lie:
     “I rode the river to the place of the gods where I was given the honor to ride with them on a flying mole in a fire tube under a great ocean to the Rocky Mountains.”
     He begged for one last chance to prove it to them. He said, “Whoever is as brave as they are angry, come meet the gods.” The few volunteers he took to the K’ut’mbletaw’i (means, “They say it speaks to wash away false beliefs”). All but the meanest one came back with great wonders. The gods left him behind — they say by his choice.
               And then after all that babble, Utcoozhoo won’t even tell her what treasures and who was left behind for what purpose. Now doesn’t that just become another spectacular story promised for the future?
     She says she wants to talk to me about one of her homework assignments. Gee, I don’t know that I can be of any help….

ENTRY 12
     Zawmb’yee always seems to come out of nowhere when I’m writing by the K’ut’mbletaw’i. Poor Zawmb’yee — another disappointment, or delay. She broke into my musing with “I saw the pfambuuwisen, the blue dream-stars shining on glistening water like crystal and all that, but now Utcoozhoo gives me a puzzle: ‘How are we like blue sheep?’ He says you know.”
     “I know? How do I know…?”
     I’m working on it. OK, I see I’m not really doing this diary thing very well, because some days I don’t write very much. I’m just not that talkative, and I never did this before. Some people kept diaries since they were kids. I never did that sort of thing. I didn’t even like reading much, though strangely I wanted to write a novel(I guess everyone does). Quite a contradiction: to want to do something I have no skill or talent to do. Zawmb’yee seems more like the type who could do it quite easily… ah, phooey, I’m getting tired now and I haven’t really said anything. I’m supposed to write down all my thoughts, I suppose, but they fly by too quickly(most of the significant ones, even the ones not ineffable–{hmm, double negative — is there “effable”}. What was I going to say — I forgot….

ENTRY 13
     I can see why Zawmb’yee is in turmoil. Everything is a contradiction. Utcoozhoo wants her to learn the dominant culture to blend in. If she does that, isn’t she assimilating into the mainstream, and adopting their ways. I would think she’ll just become another sap (as Utcoozhoo calls them). But yet he wants to teach her the traditional ways. He’s trying to get her to see the pfambuuisen, yet Zawmb’yee just seems to have the blues nowadays. Another contradiction: blue in a vision — a spiritual light, brimstone burning blue — a devilish thing. (The devil is in the details.)
     Exposure to the modern world could destroy the ancient culture. Hmm, I was reading about the last Buddhist Kingdom of Bhutan. They just introduced satellite TV because they believe the young people must know about the outside world. But some elders worry that their culture will be corrupted and lost.
     Bhutan’s an interesting place with diverse climates and habitats. Aha, I think I have it — blue things in Bhutan. They have the same dilemma as we do: to assimilate, accommodate, or stay isolated.
     Zawmb’yee needs 12 ways to answer the question, “why are we blue.” Well, I think I have one:

     Blue Sheep In Bhutan

Have I sinned
to love snow leopards

I have heard
rock-and-roll
and blues too

Scampering up cliffs
blue sheep make me cry
freezing to hide

Snow leopards
must eat –
I will not look

Kayaking down the Mochhu
I see only splash
only sky

Blue is clean
red I deny

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

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

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

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

ENTRY 14
     Lately I’ve just been staring at the rippling waters of the K’ut’mbletaw’i. It is said that the gods left behind many pfayohoqwaahujpi (lightning boxes for guardian spirits to dwell in) that power the Endless Light and purify the river. The river is always pure even after many reckless picnickers have frolicked with abandon.
     I look into the beautiful blue ripples hoping for a splash of inspiration to lift my writer’s block.
     Zawmb’yee says I should look over my old poems to see if there is one in my trash heap that could be revised and purified. But I don’t have the power of even the smallest pfayohoqwaahujpi. I found an old poem, but it’s too weird to use I think, and I don’t think it is worth reading again:

Enchantment

In warmth
you’ve already read this
but I made you forget it
many spells ago
down the path
you’re on now falling
down the mountainside
to lush green sleepy
pleasant grass under
picnics’ bliss wine
soothing solitude like
a bath, bubbles a
swarming essence
perfumed with
perfect memories cherished
idealized
realized
in sleepy fantasy
that counts to five
enchantments
you’ve read
in many spells
down steeped tea
paths pleasing

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

ENTRY 15
     Yesterday, I don’t know when (I forgot my watch again, and in the endless light of the cave, there’s no way to know the day or time), I was startled by a surprise visitor.
     I don’t think I’ve ever seen Utcoozhoo swim. Somehow I couldn’t picture the scene of a wise old Guru, who might sit by a jagged rock face like his own face, impenetrable, not likely to float, swimming, but it is true that this wise one could chuckle like the water splashes.
     Thus, sitting at the Nipeiskwari (Place of Meandering Thought), by the granite intrusion where the K’ut’mbletaw’i twists, I was surprised to look up from my notes to see Utcoozhoo leap out of the water like a dolphin with gray hair.
     “You look surprised,” he said. “Anyone who can hold his breath for a couple of minutes can reach the Akwangtqua, enter the Tzvaleubhoi, cave of the third sun, rest by the Tree of Many Fruits and … but, of course, if you don’t know where the entrance is, you won’t have enough breath to return.”
     Actually, I was more scared than surprised to see anything leap out of the water, and nearly dropped my notes in the water. I thought to ask, “Well, then can you show me the entrance?”
     “I’ll think about it … but I wanted to thank you for helping Zawmb’yee — she’s a bit young for the Utd’mbts. I had thought to teach you, Doug, but you were too cynical at the time of the Maghuogke. Sorry.”
     “That’s alright. I was in a crisis and would have thought the idea ridiculous back then…”
     “Yes, I know. You hold your breath too much without going anywhere … always seeming to drown in sorrow.”
     I was embarrassed to have too much dust in my eyes to answer…I changed the subject. “So, are you revealing the oral history of our people to Zawmb’yee? I don’t know what’s so secret. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal. I mean, if I want to know American History or Ancient Roman or Greek History, I just go to the library and get myself some text books.”
“The key here is you say ‘many books’. Each is a distortion of a different kind, a glorified hearsay — the gossip of the conquerors, the elites, the propagandists, ravings of madmen with charisma and minor magic. It is the written word of major and minor egomaniacs, words from scribes of the dominate class driven mad by their self-importance; words from scribes of minorities driven mad by their oppression waiting for their revenge and reversal of role when they will rule and write with a new kind of madness. All of these are the scribbles that blot the world with cycles of boom and bust of ever larger magnitude, notation for melodies symphonic and chaotic, with a tone of hope in overture, an interlude of cacophony, percussion like tornadoes. History of clash. Not enlightening…”
     Utcoozhoo was making it clear to me that the oral history was much more than oral. “When will you tell her?”
     “It’s not a telling as much as a transference. But I have to be careful how I say this to you. Skeptics can be blinded by their anger when it comes to mysticism. There is such a flood of pretenders that usually it is justified to call most crackpots, charlatans, or superstitious fools, but not all. I must tell you to be very careful with ‘Enchantments’…. I’ve heard that Ngheufel has been stumbling into some dangerous states-of-mind without knowing what he’s doing. He’s a very stubborn fellow who I fear is on the edge of mischief. ”
     With that, Utcoozhoo did some odd breathing exercises and dived into the water, swimming underwater to the Cave of the Third Sun.
***
CHAPTER TWO

TRAPPING ORAL HISTORY

ENTRY 16
     It was really weird early today when I got a phone call from Zawmb’yee. I mean, I see her in the cave all the time and I didn’t think she even uses a phone. She would seem to pop out of nowhere whenever I wrote at the Nipeiskwari. I guess I’ve always thought of her as a cave person even though Utcoozhoo makes her mingle in the up-top world quite often — it’s just that I’ve never seen her there. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised because she can pass quite well as an ordinary, run-of-the-mill, common gorgeous model. It’s odd though because in the cave world she used to be teased all the time: they used to call her the hairless albino. But that was so ridiculous. She has blond hair, but she’s not albino. Her eyes are blue like the color of the pfambuuisen.
     She called to say she wanted to meet me. Zawmb’yee is going to show me a meditation exercise she’s been learning and maybe she’ll reveal some “oral history.” She said to meet her past the glass wall, around the sword of the silver-red stalagmite to the left of the pothole marker, and up the narrow ledge to the ngtqua.
     An odd thing though. Before hanging up she said, “I want you to gargle with salt water, and then gargle without water to just make the sound. Then make the ‘ka’ sound first in the back of the throat and then like you’re scraping the roof of your mouth, purse your lips, and add the gargle sound until you sound like a motor forcing air out hard until your whole face, sinuses, and head vibrate. It’ll feel like a face massage.”
     She hung up before I could ask a question.

ENTRY 17
     Ever since I almost dropped my notes in the river, I’ve been carrying all my writing paraphernalia with my camera in a waterproof case. Hmm, protecting the notes for this diary — that sort of assumes they might have some importance. I’m not sure I’m even finding this cathartic. It’s only slightly amusing to me when I can imagine a future audience. (I suppose if I were to be writing in the cave and died, someone would take these notes and transcribe them for me, enter them in the computer and
continue…I guess they’d be like a ghost writer.) But I can’t see a diary of a boring person as a stage play. I could see Zawmb’yee on the stage or maybe Chloë. I’m probably more like an adequate ‘extra’ who’ll never be an actor.

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

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

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

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

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

ENTRY 18
     There was no comfort in a familiar scene. Many times I had traipsed past every limestone drip in time, every ancient erosion, but as I traversed this common maze to reach my appointed meeting with Zawmb’yee, making my way past familiar speleothems, some loomed like broken talismans. An ominous insight seemed to trickle into my consciousness that some of these formations were not natural. It is said that the Qukwerpfm, the glass wall, once was double silvered to hold the lightning of the gods. The sword of the silver-red stalagmite spoke to the gods in heaven, the legend said, and I walked past to the left, up the narrow ledge.
     On edge, I hummed a few umm’s as I put foot to each stone, trying to remember the sound I was supposed to make for Zawmb’yee’s incantation.
     She waved as I approached the Ngtqua….

ENTRY 19
     She was standing with a Gnolum that she had evidently removed from a wall. I didn’t even know you could do that. I had always just taken the gnolums for granted — common glowing crystal lights that have always been. They were just like streetlights of the cave. Most people don’t ever question how streetlights work — they’re just there.
     Zawmb’yee said, “Doug, I’m so excited. But I forgot to tell you, you have to add a deep voicing, like a bass hum, to the ‘ka’ and the gargle, like this…” The whole cave vibrated, a small stalactite fell out of the ceiling, and a stone fell off the ledge. “Except a little deeper … you try…”
     I made my whole face vibrate and my eyes shook like little REM’s from a dream. No stones fell.
     She said, “Good, perfect. Now we just have to harmonize. OK, now, we stand by the entrance to the Ngtqua. We do the ‘ka’ together, but when I point up, I want you to raise the tone of your voice, and when I point down, I want you to lower the tone with more bass. When we get the beats right, you’ll hear a ‘wah-oh-wah-oh’ sound, but think that you’re focusing your energy at the entrance…”
     Somehow, her giddiness just didn’t seem to match the occasion. I said, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Um, well, let’s just do this.”
     When we did the sound together the wah-oh was intense. The large square stone pivoted on one edge, opened like a door, but smoothly without creaks. The inner surface of the door was smooth and polished, not at all like a rock, but more like the vault door of a bank.
     She said with confidence, “Now, we go in.” We walked into the Ngtqua. The door slammed behind us with the sound of locking bolts. The inner surface glowed red hot for a moment and a frost of rock formed, making the door indistinguishable from the surrounding rock of the chamber. There was a trickle of water on the floor.
     Zawmb’yee covered her gnolum with her back pack until it was totally dark. She
took my hands in the dark, said, “We are of the universe, the distant stars, we diffuse into a unity of chaos, a smear of light, the glow of love; we are the moment. See the pfambuuwisen, and choose the one that glows the most. Let it expand. Dive into the blue light, and let it expand into a dream. What do you see?”
     “I see a woman in a helmet with a spear.”
     Zawmb’yee laughed. “Oh sorry, I lost my focus. That’s an opera that I went to. Actually, I should tell you that I saw Chloë at the opera…”
     “You know Chloë?”
     “Well, yes.”
     The trickle of water was increasing and I found myself standing in ankle deep water. “Don’t you think we should go?…”

ENTRY 20
     The water is rising more rapidly by the second. We’re doing the ka wah-oh up and down the scale.
     It’s not working — the door is not opening. Zawmb’yee is screaming. I’m telling her that screaming is not the right chant. She’s looking around. She’s running to the back of the chamber where the golden steps are. She’s taking a deep breath, diving underwater, swimming down the stairs.
     Returning, gasping, Zawmb’yee says she doesn’t see an exit. She’s screaming at me to stop taking notes. The water is up to my neck. Seems like a rainy day today. I’m putting this in the waterproof case but I’m not going to be able to fix the spelling, and this doesn’t seem complete enough, but I think incoherence is acceptable under these…
     We’re floating towards the ceiling. Zawmb’yee has put a sheet of paper on top of her floating backpack, and she’s making notes.
     I feel a buzzing panic … thought I’d have a traditional birthday cake this year — maybe this time really have a wish come true when I would blow out the forest of candles. It never seemed to work before. I think I had my first cake with candles when I was three…

ENTRY 21
     The water is still rising. I smile at Zawmb’yee. She is praying. I wonder about the golden steps we were to step down, each one more relaxing, more soothing. We were to reach a plateau, make a bubble of protection, be bathed in white light. I see a glowing blue globe. I remember when I was three. “Uncle Coozie, Uncle Coozie, I’m fwee today.”
     “You’re three?”
     “I’m fwee-years-old and I can sing: ‘Haffy Birffy to me/Haffy Birffy to me/Haffy Birffy dear Dougy, haffy birffy to me.’ Uncle Coozie, Mommy chased the angel away — she says ’cause it’s jimagery. Daddy said to hurry up and blow out the damn candles and I forgot to make a wish. Can I still make a wish after everybody’s gone? I made a wish on a teddy bear…”. Zawmb’yee is asking me what we do now. I am saying, “Utcoozhoo says to feel along the beam in the ceiling for a lever.” I am reaching up. There is a beam. The water is only an inch from the ceiling. There is a piece of metal sticking out. I’m pulling it. The water is draining.

ENTRY 22
     The water drained slowly. Treading water wasn’t much fun. My backpack was too heavy — I had brought a picnic blanket, a bottle of that two dollar wine that won a prize from the blindfolded snobs, and blue cheese. I tried to arch my head back to float, but having to do the elementary backstroke to stay afloat, made me crash into a wall. I switched to breaststroke, swimming around Zawmb’yee who was holding onto her floating backpack.
     Slowly, as the water drained, we floated down to the floor. Little rivers gurgled down the stairs. The water was gone.
     Zawmb’yee was shivering. I took the blanket out — good that it was old, because I could easily tear it in half. I said, “You can use this as a towel to dry off.”
     We were soaked and there were breezes leaking in from somewhere. I was getting cold too. I took my wet shirt off.
     Zawmb’yee stroked my chest hair, pressed the water out, combed it with her fingers, and handed me the blanket. She tilted her head down, unbuttoned her shirt, said, “Dry me off.”
     I took off her wet shirt. The towel carried me into her cleavage, and I wiped her stomach, stroked her face. Her arms were still cold. I massaged away the goose bumps and the water, pulled down her bra straps. She lifted her arms, unbuckled my belt. I felt much warmer. It was to be a fine picnic after-all, as I looked into the blue of her eyes and dried the crest of her globes. In the joy of my breathing, my pants fell off. Floods can be fun when not alone.
     “You look cold,” she said, and dried my legs with the tickle of the towel. She saw me bulging. Her fingers pushed under the elastic band, pulled down the briefs, teased the towel around. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold,” she said.

ENTRY 23
     “The heat is on,” I said. “You’ve…” — kissed her lips — “taught me … a lot … today” — caressed — “Can you feel my … thank you?”
     “Uh huh…”
     Softly a fine slide, a rocking in her spirit, her cuteness, her day this day, her pulse, my heart, a throb, a bob, her joy is my joy. Releasing …
     We cuddled and I looked at the wine — we hadn’t needed it. But a little dessert didn’t seem like a bad idea. I opened a plastic bag, took out two cups, poured the wine, put cheese on a cracker.
     “I love the salty blue,” she said.
     “Yes, the Danish blue cheese is best.”
     “Mmm.”
     “Umm. could I ask, where did you learn to open the Ngtqua? I thought Utcoozhoo made you turn your back when he did it.”
     “Funny thing: When I went to the opera, it was a horrible performance. I thought if it had been Italy, they would have thrown tomatoes, and …”
     “I meant to ask you — you said you saw Chloë at the opera?”
     “Yeah. She was with Ngheufel. They couldn’t get over the incredible faux pas: one passage was supposed to be a simple running up the classical scale by a soprano, but Ngheufel said there was a flat 3 and a flat 7; 2 and 6 were missing. He said that’s obvious — they lapsed into a pentatonic blues scale. The singers themselves were stunned as if they didn’t know why they did that. During intermission, somehow, I got into a discussion with Ngheufel about tones and codes.”
     “Ngheufel was with Chloë?”
     “Yeah. He was with Chloë. Chloë sends her regards. She knows you don’t like the opera,” said Zawmb’yee.
     I was feeling odd, maybe a little jealous. Chloë did ask me to go to the opera — maybe I should have gone; she said it’s more casual nowadays, but I don’t think I would have fit in. “Ngheufel told you … ”
     “We got into talking about harmony and we did the sound … that was embarrassing … ”
     “What do you mean?”
     “We put a crack in a wall and security escorted us out. They were going to call the police, but Ngheufel did a weird thing … ”
     “What?”
     “Well, I don’t know how to explain it exactly … he did a weird humming thing and said ‘don’t you think it’s too nice a day to do that’ or some such, and the staff all started humming and went off into the park. We went back inside. Chloë was upset — she wanted to know why I ran off with Ngheufel. I just told her we were discussing harmony. She was real angry, but the second act of the opera went well.”

ENTRY 24
     “This is incredible, ” I said, “Utcoozhoo was worried about Ngheufel making mischief, and this trouble seems deliberate…”
Zawmb’yee turned pale. She said, “He’s always been a prankster — he once tried to tell Utcoozhoo he knew the peace symbol in common vogue, but instead of showing two fingers, he told him that raising the middle finger was a sign of respect. Utcoozhoo gave him the middle finger but in proper context … We could be in trouble, but never mind. Have some more wine.”
     We both didn’t want to even contemplate what conspiracy might really be going on. I drifted into something more neutral, “I don’t like opera very much. When it comes to music, I like the blues and improvisation. Utcoozhoo said to do something with that. He wanted me to write something casual in idiomatic English. He’s always saying to master simple poetry before attempting the poetry of the gods.”
     “Yeah. He always makes strange demands. Well, I don’t know, but I thought the poem you wrote on the canvas was pretty good. Are you still keeping your poem diary? ”
     “Uh yeah … ”
     “Um, and so, you brought wine and cheese for a surprise seduction, and then maybe, I’m thinking you brought your poem book. No?”
     “ … uh, how do you know these things … Well, I’ve got a pretty long one that rambles all over the place. I’m sort of wondering if it’ll pass in the up-top culture. It’s maybe too quirky and … ”
     “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re dying to read it. Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to practice meshing with the mainstream culture. I can take it. You’ve got something better to do? … Have some wine and let’s hear it.”
     Our clothes were still too wet to put back on, and needing a diversion from arousal, I thought reading might be a good idea (I vowed never to go to a nudist colony because I’m easily distracted, and I could imagine having a problem constantly being seen…). I fumbled through the plastic bags, opened the book. “OK. Here goes: uh, this is called ‘Sax Piano Bird’ –
If you will play
I will kiss your tune lips
’cause anything goes when
slinking down your keyboard
tickling doleful note doodles
plinking your chords
caressing pianissimo
bopping forte, top a’ ya board,
chording love accolades
staying for improvisations
when cool mistys get hot. I shall be cool

when you transpose the glory
keys to high toned harmony
that sees me exposed
with whistling kisses blown
all sax-ified, but that’ll
be after a race. Y’ know

it was a mystery that
birds of a feather could
get the winner’s name
from the horse’s
mouthwash, but
I heard them say

she plays with her pet cockatoo
at the piano bar
down by the racetrack
at the end of the race, and
I saw you

The bird said, “Leave a tip”
I said, “Baby Needs Shoes to win,
place, or show me a new tune”

You nagged the feathers off it
to snatch bills
out of patrons’ hands

After you played with your pet cockatoo
I tipped it into a snifter
hoping you’d play with me
’cause I bet on the nag, then
I said
to the showers

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

then I, with fragrant soap,
will wash in tribute
the toe that tested my waters,
cleansing the foot feats that two-stepped
when I was a mere calf
and you were knee high
to a love
like a soap opera. Sing

in the shower from your diaphragm
where no melting soap is barred
while I swoosh below your breasts
with swirling helicopter hands
taking off with haste
as whirlybirds land
on nipple pads. When you say

taxi to the terminal
the refueling hose can dock
and the passengers can be served
hot blessings, but remember
the fifth race is soon,
time to place bets
by the river
on the sailboats, although
we could check out
the entries
swimming in the
racing waters

where in trepidation
you can put a toe
in the water of my soul
as I kiss it as
I would a child’s boo-boo

offering you
a future, a splash
of my essence; I
breathe your perfume
a cherry-flavored love

You undress in my river
and I kiss your thigh
in baptism before lips

Like a mallard
I swim aside,
a breast in hand
and hand in bush

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

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

ENTRY 25
     I was still gathering up our stuff when Zawmb’yee came running back up the stairs.
     “It’s a miracle,” she said.
     “What’s a miracle?”
     “The pfayohoqwaahujpi sealed all the doors downstairs during the flood, and … ”
     “Yes?”
     “And the bidet is working!”
     “Doors? There are rooms?”
     “Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? Oh, well … A lot of akwaki are just plain cisterns, but some are qwuakwaki even all the way down here. The gods were remarkable; weren’t they?”
     “Um, isn’t that a little vulgar for ‘gods’: that they needed flush toilets … ”
     “Well, maybe, they just built it for us … I mean, they did save all the ice for us when the ice age ended and … ”
     “I didn’t know about that … is this part of the history Utcoozhoo is teaching you?”
     “Yeah. Um, OK, let’s get organized here. I’ll finish cleaning up here … OK, all the doors are open and the lights are on. I think we’re safe for now, but I don’t think we’re going out the front door … ”
     “Is there a … ”
     “Go take a shower. I’ll be there in a minute — I have to get my stuff together.”
     With all the commotion, I hadn’t even looked at the back of the ngtqua. Maybe if we had gone to the back in the first place, we would have escaped.
     Towards the back began a marble floor, a sudden intrusion in the irregular limestone floor that led to the stairs …

ENTRY 26
     I stepped onto the marble floor, and peered down the stairs. The first seven steps were glowing with the colors of the rainbow. An intense red glistened almost like a traffic light, but it was a go signal, a beckoning, not a stopping. My left foot plunged onto the red step. An orange shimmered on the second one. My right was pulled onto the orange slab, and a bright yellow beam forced me to squint. Intense yellow light made me wonder if the third would be hot like the sun. Looking down at the step, I was blinded and couldn’t see the rest of the stairs. I squatted down on the orange slab and reached out with my hand to see if there was any heat coming up from the yellow. Then I reached down, touching the third step with my finger. It was cool.
     I stood up. There was a pull like an invisible tide. I was drawn onto a wide green landing with both feet, my legs feeling heavy, wanting to lie down, but I looked carefully, picked up the pace, got into a rhythm: left on blue, right on indigo, left on violet. The slabs became more regular, but now with colors in reverse order.
     Running down the stairs, resisting the invisible tide wasn’t possible. Violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red, and again. Thirty-five steps. Arriving where?

ENTRY 27
     I went in the first open door. The gods, I think, have good taste in the design of a bathroom. There was a dry marble basin thirty feet long, ten feet across. At the far end was a waterfall pouring into a drain. Along the near tile wall was a towel rack, and shelves with bars of soap.
     Zawmb’yee came running in, dropped all her stuff on the floor and took my hand. “Shall we be clean now?” she said. “You know, Utcoozhoo says, ‘when lust is exhausted by overindulgence, the subtleties of love can be appreciated,’ ”
     “That doesn’t sound like something Utcoozhoo would say…”
     “OK. Yeah. He didn’t say that, but I say that. How about that expression, ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’ What was that … Benjamin Franklin or something — I don’t know. So let’s be clean. Take a bar of soap.”
     Zawmb’yee ran under the waterfall, and came out saying, “Swoosh me with the soap.”
     I am always inclined to be indulgent under such circumstances, and enjoyed the cleansing of the savage breast, while she endeavored to exhaust my lust as in her own prophesy, and I was not one to deny her. As they say, ‘one good poem deserves another’. She is like the rainbow under a waterfall.

ENTRY 28
     When Zawmb’yee came out of the waterfall, I had noticed what looked like a metal dress and a suit of armor. Now I asked, “What are those?”
     “Those are used to let us be washed by the gods. It’s sort of like a washing spacesuit.”
     “How do you mean?”
     “Here let me show you.” Zawmb’yee picked up the dress. It had hoses coming out the back of the waistband, and from there up to the wrists. She said, “Help me put this on. Now these cups with the clear hoses go over the breasts — see. Fasten it in the back for me … and these are washing panties … . Now you. Here … get into these metal briefs and … ”
     “What are all the hoses for?”
     “That’s for the washing fluids … Here let me do this for you. Now this hose goes on like a condom, see … and we lock on the metal shorts — There, that snaps shut. ”
     “Wait a minute … I don’t think I like wearing solid steel underwear. This is like a chastity belt or something and I can’t touch anything. How do I get this off … ”
     “Well, you don’t. It unlocks automatically when the wash is over. Don’t worry. Now we put on the rest of the suit. These armlets go on here.”
     She looked very strange standing there in her dress with hoses extending from her wrists to her back. Another hose came out of her back and was anchored in the floor. She said it seals like a spacesuit. She told me to fasten her neck collar and wrist cuffs firmly so there’d be no leaks. She tightened her waist belt.
     She said, “OK. As soon as I tighten up your suit, the wash of the gods will start.”
     As soon as the suit was sealed, our back hoses were pulled into the floor and we fell to the ground. Water sprayed in from the wrist hoses and they were drawn short into the back of the belt. I felt a lotion ooze into my briefs and then a massage and a vibration began. I felt an armlet tighten and then a needle prick. I looked at Zawmb’yee who was struggling, trying to get up. Her hands were pulled tightly behind her back.
     I said to her, “I don’t think this is a ‘wash of the gods’. This thing is collecting semen and blood.”
     “What?” said Zawmb’yee. “Get up, get up — get this off me.”
     The harder I tried to get up the shorter the hoses were pulled until my wrists were clamped together in the back of the belt. Then, we heard footsteps behind us, but we were pinned to the floor and couldn’t turn around to look.
     Zawmb’yee shouted, “Help! We need some help here … ”
     I began to yell, “Yeah, we could use suh … ” Suddenly, Zusoiti, the high priestess jammed a ball into my mouth.
     Zawmb’yee screamed, “What are you doing?”     Zusoiti said, “I’m gagging him because he’s going to be here for a day or two, depending on how long it takes for the gods to get enough samples, and we don’t need all the yelling.”
     Zawmb’yee screamed, “Unlock me, unlock me … ”
     The high priestess shouted back, “Shut-up, or I’ll gag you too. This is sacrilege. Where’s your supervisor? You don’t belong here … ”
     “Get me out of this,” Zawmb’yee whispered.
     “Well, it’s too late now in any case. Only the gods can release you.”
     “When will they do that?”
     “It depends on your hormone levels. They have to analyze that and your DNA. Probably in a few hours.”
     “What about him. What did you mean a day or two?”
     “Well, that’s more complicated.”
     Zawmb’yee started screaming again, “The armlets are stabbing me … unlock me, unlock me … ”
     “I told you I can’t.” Zusoiti gagged her. “Now, calm down, you’ll get through this. You weren’t supposed to just wander in here on your own. Don’t tell me — Ngheufel got you to do this.”

ENTRY 29
     Zusoiti had always seemed comic and bizarre. She claimed to have naturally purple hair meant to complement her green eyes, but she was too tall to be a cat, too attractive to be a witch. It’s a wonder that anyone took her seriously, or ever gave her any authority. Now she was just very dangerous. Zusoiti seemed to have second thoughts about Zawmb’yee. She patted Zawmb’yee on the head, turned toward me, “You like blondes?” She laughed.
     Zusoiti shook her purple hair like a wet dog. She walked over to me, sat on my legs, looked around for something. I was lying too flat to see what she was doing. She tied my ankles to the floor. “I like to help the gods. This helps complete the process.”
     I made a noise. Struggled again.
     Zusoiti barked, “Easy does it,” and giggled like a hyena. “Prepare yourself. I suggest that you relax as much as you can. Remember, the gods brought us out of the Kingdom of Ice to the Inner Gardens.”
     I shook my head. Trying to get my hands loose, I moaned.
     “It’s best that you rest because in a few hours, the gods will be expecting a sizable semen sample. If that doesn’t happen, the gods will hold you for another day and try again.”
     The gag was too hard to chew on. I tried to blow it out.
     Zusoiti kept talking. “If you prepare yourself for a respectful donation, the gods will be pleased.”

ENTRY 30
     I thought, perhaps, that if I pulled rhythmically, very hard, that everything would start to loosen.
     Zusoiti said, “It’s foolish for you to indulge your fears when that will inhibit your performance. Listen to me. I will soothe you if you will embrace the glory of the gods, for I am the guardian of the purple light, messenger of the gods. It is only I who knows the names of the gods. I am the keeper of the faith. The names are to be spoken only by me.”
     I was beginning to fall into a panic. Zusoiti was sounding more and more irrational. I never realized until now what a religious fanatic she was. I had thought the traditionalists were just harmless rustic rabble, irrational bumpkins, like
discredited Shakespearean witches of only metaphorical value.
     I never thought such persons would gain any political power or status in the community. I always thought growing up that ‘high priestess’ was a quaint ceremonial title — I never took it seriously. I could only moan.
     “I will remove your gag. I hope you will be reasonable.” She removed it.
     “You psychopath,” I said. “What you call the gods are not what you think. You’re delusional. You must … ”
     She pushed the gag back in. “Paradise can be yours,” she said, “if the gods choose you.” She seemed to want to go well beyond what the gods had already done. “It would be best that you rest and regenerate,” she reiterated. “They can keep you alive with intravenous nourishment only for a limited amount of time.”

ENTRY 31
     Leaning over me, Zusoiti brushed my face with her purple hair. A purple medallion was swinging from her neck. She said, “I must attend to Zawmb’yee. If you cooperate, things might be better for her. She did violate the rules, y’know, and the Grand Council has given me the authority to take custody of her after the gods release her. I might be persuaded to be lenient.”
     I made a noise. Tried to kick.
     “Yes, well, I suppose there is value in struggle. Go ahead and exhaust yourself. I’ll be back.”
     Swinging her medallion, Zusoiti sauntered over to Zawmb’yee, carrying a large purple bag with odd emblems on it. The medallion glowed, then beamed like a search light. Zawmb’yee tried to kick her, but was out of range. Zusoiti circled around her, came up behind her, and shined the beam in her face. “Hmm, I think the gods are finished with you,” she said. She removed the gag.
     Zawmb’yee said, “What do you mean? Ouch. I got jabbed again. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
     “I’m not doing that. The gods have completed their work. You will soon lose consciousness for half an hour as is proscribed in the visions of the gods. The Grand Council has authorized me to take custody of you thereafter to determine your punishment.”
     “Are you nuts? … I will … ”
     “So you are sleepy now, and I will do my duty. Have a nice nap.” Zusoiti laughed.
Zawmb’yee stopped moving. All the hoses unlocked and fell off. Zusoiti stripped the dress off her, removed the armlets, and turned her over. Zusoiti gleefully unzipped her equipment bag to pull out purple things. She handcuffed Zawmb’yee’s hands behind her back, and put a purple leash around her neck.
     “There!” she shouted across at me. “What shall I do with her?”

ENTRY 32
     Zusoiti looked back at me like she was stalking prey. She returned to hover over me. “Shall we try this again? I’m removing your gag, but if you’re disrespectful I’ll put it back.” She took it out. “Understand?”
     “Yes,” I said.
     “Wouldn’t you agree that the struggle has gotten you nowhere, and that you’re quite exhausted?”
     “Yes.”
     “Remember the stairs you came down to get here”
     “Very colorful…”
     “Indeed! While you’re waiting for the gods, we can do an exercise about mountain stairs. Close your eyes. Imagine you’re standing on a grassy plateau. There are beautiful violets. You are stepping through the violets to a ledge where the stairs begin with a wide blue step … How are you feeling now?”
     “I’m tired … ”
     “Yes your are. Aren’t the mountain stairs beautiful in the warm sun?”
     “I think I remember mountain stairs like this in a dream.”
     “Yes, dream stairs can be wonderful — can’t they?”
     “Uh huh.”
     “Well, imagine you step through violets down a blue sorrow step. Crying, you descend onto a green envy path. Downward onto an inevitable orange step that falls into a red one. A step down into violets … and you see my favorite color. Do you see it?”
     “Yes.”
     “And the violets make you sleepy … ”
     “Uh huh.”
     “Where are you going now?”
     “I’m going down to the blue step, but I’m so tired … ”
     “You must continue. They are spiraling mountain stairs now with grassy ledges. You are spiraling down from the blue to a grassy green landing, tumbling into orange, falling into red passion, taking another step down into violets where you hear me welcome you into gentle blue sleep on the grassy meadow you have reached by the orange rock, and the violets of my authority … ”
     I faded off to sleep. Zusoiti didn’t seem like such a bad person after all.

ENTRY 33
     I woke up at the top of the stairs where Zawmb’yee and I first entered the ngtqua and got caught in the flood. Zawmb’yee was standing to the side of the front door that was now open, but Zusoiti was holding her by her leash. Zawmb’yee yelled, “Run.”
     I started to get up and found that my hands were cuffed behind my back. I walked towards the door.
     Zusoiti pulled on a chain and I was yanked back by a leash that was around my neck. Zusoiti flashed her medallion at me and said, “Do you have something to say to me?”
     I said, “Zusoiti is the only true prophet and I will do as she wishes.”
Zawmb’yee gasped. She tried to pull towards the door.
     Zusoiti said, “Good. I am the only true prophet. I will reward you. Zawmb’yee will be your slave for six months.” Zusoiti unlocked my hands and removed my leash. She put Zawmb’yee’s chain in my hand and said, “Take her and go.”
     I pulled Zawmb’yee out the door. I said, “Come quickly and don’t talk.”

     I yanked her by her leash, pulled her along the narrow ledge, made her jump down. She was resisting, but I pushed her to the right of the Sword of the Silver-red Stalagmite, past the Qukwerpfm.
     She screamed, “What happened to you. What are you doing. Let go of me.”
     I put my finger to my lips, pointed at the walls and then to my ear. I yanked her severely along.
     I said, “I’m taking you to my quarters, slave. This is your just punishment. Be admonished that Zusoiti is the only true prophet.”
     I hurried her along and made her run. I told her there would be further punishments if she didn’t cooperate.
     We reached the exit of the caves. I threw her down on the ground and unlocked her handcuffs and leash.
     I said, “I had to pretend to believe in Zusoiti as prophet so we could get out of there. Zusoiti is a lunatic, and she had microphones in the cave.”

ENTRY 34
     Zawmb’yee was angry. She thought I should have told her not to play with the equipment left by the gods, and I should have known that it was dangerous. I said, “You’re the one who’s studying our culture. You’re supposed to know what all the artifacts are. Didn’t Utcoozhoo warn you about these devices?”
     “Yeah well. Utcoozhoo is too slow to show me anything, and Ngheufel told me…”
     “Damn. Ngheufel could’ve gotten us killed and … ”
     There was rustling and noise coming out of the forest. Utcoozhoo was waving and shouting, “Come quickly. Get over here now.”
     The layers of camouflage made it impossible to move quickly. Pushing through the thicket of artificial metal leaves and brambles was an art form of choreography, difficult under stress, almost impossible for exhausted casualties of the gods. We had been through this maze many times before, and we tried as best we could to fall into our trained routine for secret exit.
Utcoozhoo said, “Come on. There’s a satellite mapping this area — we don’t want them to identify an entrance to the caves. Ugh. You kids are gonna blow our cover. Let’s go!”
     Zawmb’yee and I stumbled into a clearing. I said, “Uncle Utcoozhoo, I thought we were dead. We almost drowned and then Zusoiti. … ”
     “Yes, I know,” Utcoozhoo said. “Zusoiti is a nut, but most of the Neanderthals who have moved out of the caves are not using their voting rights. It is going to be difficult to impeach her, or vote her out of office. I haven’t seen either you, Doug, or Zawmb’yee on the voter list. This is a bad situation: if we can’t get her off the Grand Council … well … um … it might take extralegal means to do it. This is serious. If she gets control of the apparatus of the gods, it could affect us and the up-top world … — they might even overreact and think there’s an alien invasion. It could get ugly.”
     Zawmb’yee was indignant. “Who the hell does she think she is. She was going to make me a slave and … ”
     “She might have done much worse,” said Utcoozhoo. “I think you should hide in Doug’s apartment until I can negotiate a commutation of your sentence. She’s one of the hermits who’s never been to the up-top world. I think you’ll be safe if you stay out of the caves for a while.”
     I said, “I can’t believe all this. Are there ‘gods’ or not?”
     “There are the gods of material things and there are the spirits who infuse all dimensions … ”
     “Huh? What?”
     “It just means I’m avoiding your question for now. You’ve had enough adventure. Your questions can wait … But , by the way, I did hear your crisis communication during the flood. You do have the potential to develop that skill. You did find the lever to open the flood gates — right?”
     “Uh yeah.”
     “Well, in that flash message, you said a lot. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner — I was away. That moment of fusion allowed me to see that you’re very impatient. I can see you’re a bit reckless and impulsive like Zawmb’yee — you were thinking of trying to operate the Drilling Machine of the gods. That would have been exceedingly dangerous. Look here — I’ll get you a cable hookup in your quarters when this brouhaha quiets down, if you promise not to tamper with any of the machines of the gods. Drilling through rock is a simple operation when you know how.”
     Zawmb’yee was crying, “Utcoozhoo, how can you be talking about computer hookups when I was violated. I can’t even be sure what was done to me … ” Sobbing, Zawmb’yee reached for Utcoozhoo. When he put out his arms to hug her, she ran to him, and knocked him over. He turned her on her side and stroked her hair.
     “It’ll be all right,” he said. And he cried. “My poor Zawmb’yee, I’m so sorry. I should have warned you. Please forgive me.”
***
CHAPTER THREE

MOVING DAYS

ENTRY 35
     I was all excited — Zawmb’yee was going to hang-out with me in my apartment. I thought we could do a project together. I had some canvases and paint and I thought that Zawmb’yee, who is great at sketching, could do a pencil sketch and then I could paint over it. I like taking realistic sketches of photos and turning them into surrealistic pictures in intense colors with complementary vibrations on the edges of bright colors. But before I could suggest all this, Zawmb’yee says, you need a dust ruffle and bed spread, dishes, a better lamp, a decent writing table and curtains, and, and, and … I asked her where I was going to get all this stuff. She said not to worry — I’m going shopping with Chloë. When she saw that I was exasperated, she took a short pause from her extensive inventory, and asked, incidentally, if while she was doing the important things, if there was anything I wanted. I was trying to be flippant, and just tossed out a non sequitur: well, I’ve always wanted an ice cream maker. She gleefully said OK, and rushed out the door.
     So much for my fantasy. It was a chaotic moving day.

ENTRY 36
     Well, Zawmb’yee tidied up the bed spread, and got me to hang up the curtains. She plopped the ice cream maker on the kitchen counter. I asked Zawmb’yee what she wanted for dinner. She said, let’s just have the usual venison and buffalo fried in duck fat with truffles.
     I thought sure. But then I realized, being out of the cave, we didn’t have access to the glacier anymore. “I don’t know where we would buy that. But now that we’re stranded here outside of the cave, I’m wondering how exactly is it that there is a limitless supply of frozen game in the cave? I’ve always just taken it for granted.”
Zawmb’yee said, “Well, legend has it that the gods … ”
     “Uh, could we stop with the ‘gods’ already — who in particular. I mean, I know that Zusoiti said that only she can speak the names of the gods, but this is getting to be ridiculous … ”
     “Alright. In the legend, Kragzluk, the god of preservation and death, struck down many deer with lightning. He called forth his brothers from the sky and they built a moving river of skins that transported the deer into the Cave of Stillness. It is said that the cave was filled with a great mist … ”
     “Where did you read this? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this before.”
     “Oh, it’s not in a book. Utcoozhoo has been showing me the visions of history and … ”

     “Wait … You’re giving me a narrative interpretation, but you’ve seen this as a movie in your mind?”
     “Well, yeah, sort of. I’m learning a vision and a narrative. I mean, I can’t present the vision that easily to anyone, so I have to start somewhere. This is like a summary in narrative form. OK? Can I just continue with the story form — it’s a lot easier?”
     “Uh, yeah, OK”
     “The hidden fire was drawn out from the mist, to the back of the cave, melting rock. A great glacier was formed around the deer. In a fury, the deer were engulfed in a snow storm while lava flowed deeply into the earth and under the ocean. With all heat gone from the deer, they became rocks.”
     “Is this like a super-duper refrigerator?”
     “I guess so … and so what Do we have?”
     “Uh, well. We have strawberries, sugar, honey, cream, bananas, potato chips, and wine … ”
     “Well, OK, then, we’re having banana ice cream, potato chips, and wine for dinner … ”

ENTRY 37
     Zawmb’yee is hardly ever around. She’s been going to art galleries and museums with Chloë. Apparently, they’ve gotten over their jealousies, and are now like sisters. Zawmb’yee has been teasing me by asking if I know if Chloë really has natural red hair. Zawmb’yee says, y’know, Chloë misses you and she thinks your quirkiness is cute. Zawmb’yee is getting to be a very warm person, but I don’t think I want her to start thinking about me like a brother — I mean, I don’t want to be best friends, unless, during a tête-à-tête, I can suddenly see those hungry eyes, the devouring look, the pull of the moon lust, the tides on finger ripples, stroking waves, gorgeous tumescence.
     I don’t know — I watch her greet everyone with such kindness, and when I see her go, I am so proud of her like a Father who sees his daughter go into the world, more magnificent than any princess he thought he could raise, he, being mere serf, wishing his daughter an education in the palace of fulfillment. Oh daughter of my humble teachings, go beyond me to play in the boomerangs of your innocent love that swoons on every lonely creature redeemed with a smile, a sparkle.
     Such beauty I must share with everyone — you are so happy when you laugh in the public square. Can you see me clapping in the crowd that I love you in tears I’ve been hiding. No, no, you are not of family. No, you are of family. Please tell me: where shall I kiss you?

ENTRY 38
     Zawmb’yee is sleeping over at Chloë’s house so she can go with Chloë in the morning to a Yoga class. Chloë’s been taking Zawmb’yee everywhere. She’s going to be totally immersed in the très chic cultural things and I suppose Utcoozhoo will be pleased that she’s learning the skills of assimilation.
     Chloë’s been telling Zawmb’yee all about the Blue Attic Club. I had thought that it was closed down by the city building department years ago. As I remember it, it was quite controversial because their gimmicky building design violated all the safety codes. The avant-garde owners buried a house except for the attic in a mound of concrete. To enter, you had to walk up a hill and climb through a window in the attic. There were no doors. The whole site was condemned but forgotten. In winter, at the first snow storm, kids would scale a fence, climb up the hill with their sleds and slide down. I guess someone bribed the right official to get the building permit and certificate of occupancy, because from what I’m hearing, it’s thriving.
     Zawmb’yee says that by day it’s an art gallery, and at night they have disco and lectures. She wants me to come with her and Chloë to a lecture called “Introduction to Mystical Quirks.” I guess I should go — it’ll be great to see Chloë strut her stuff, giggling and dancing, flinging her red hair in a freckled frenzy and … oh, yeah, it’s just a lecture. Well, anyway, it could be fun — they’ll have wine and cheese and whatever.

ENTRY 39

     OK, I think I see why Zawmb’yee is so excited. Chloë got the main contract to do the interior decoration of the Blue Attic Club, and she’s letting Zawmb’yee be a subcontractor, so to speak — I don’t know what the official terminology is. But anyway, this is great: Zawmb’yee is really taking off in business — she’s got her public relations projects too. She’s really learning how to be a multidisciplinary entrepreneur. I’m so proud of her.
     I’ve gotten a little bit more organized. I’ve stocked the refrigerator with some decent food, gotten my cooking equipment in order. Next time, I’m going to make a decent diner for us. I was embarrassed that we had potato chips and ice cream for dinner the last time. I do know how to make lasagna and that’ll be easy enough, or the garlic bottle has a recipe for “garlic lime chicken” that I could try — I put a little cilantro on my tongue and it seems like it’ll be OK.
     Yes, I’ve got to see the Blue Attic Club. Chloë really gets around. I have to hear more. This will be a challenge: I really want to hear about her design work, but when she speaks I watch her lips, and the way she moves her hair off her forehead, the way she interjects little colloquialisms into her formal speech like “that’ll be cool”. It’s so hard to listen when she says “oh wow” and her breasts are smiling at me.

ENTRY 40
     I came early and waited at the bottom of the hill, surprised to see a crowd milling around, looking at posters for the Blue Attic Club. Only a few people, not shy to be officially early, walked up the hill, and climbed in the attic window. Some who had difficulty were helped by the security guard to sit on the sill and be guided in by hands in the interior. One guy, wanting to be a bigshot, vaulted in, probably gracefully, but I liked to imagine that he flew in with too much speed and fell on his face, although, I couldn’t actually see that.
     I was feeling a bit out of place when I heard a voice behind me.
     “Doug!” said Chloë, and she pressed her lips on mine so hard that my toes urged my arms into an overdrive of exploration until she laughed, “Not here.”
     Damn, I thought, that is natural red hair, and the legs of a gazelle, the grace of a dancer, an actress in the play of ecstasy, a leap in my elevation …
     “Oh hi,” I said to Zawmb’yee who had arrived behind me. She kissed me with a quick tongue brush.
     Zawmb’yee said, “You’re really going to like this place. I have our tickets — let’s go in.”
     We began up the hill. I said, “Zawmbee Warmbee, you’ll never guess…”
     “Guess what?” she said.
     “I’m making us garlic lime chicken for dinner tonight.”
     “Hmm, that sounds good. It’s like marinated or something?”
     “Yeah, you’re really going to like it. Marinating things seems to soften and entice the hunger, don’t you think?
     Chloë said, “Cumin in the cilantro with red pepper?”
     “Um, yes,” I said.
     Zawmb’yee started singing the folk song, “She’ll be comin’ around the mountains/when she comes/when she comes…”
     We joined in, dancing up the hill, singing, “She’ll be cumin around the cilantro when she comes, when she comes. She’ll be drivin’ around the hilly when she comes, when she comes.”

We continued singing at the top of the hill:
     “ ‘She’ll be driving six red buffalo
     When she comes
     (When she comes)
    
          She’ll be driving six red buffalo
          When she comes
          (When she comes)

          She’ll be driving six red buffalo
          Driving six red buffalo
          She’ll be driving six red buffalo
          When she comes
          (When she comes)’ ”

     Chloë’s friend, Susan, who was a helper at the window and the doorman/windowman began singing,
          “ ‘She’ll be climbing in the window
          When she comes
          When she comes,’ ” then Chloë –
     “‘Chloë’s climbing in the window as I come, as I come.’ ”
     “ ‘Zawmb’yee’s sailing through the window, sailing through the window and … ’ ”
     “ ‘Doug is climbing in the window, as I come, as I come.’ ”
     The grand entrance made us all laugh. I think, we three made for the best arrival performance of any attendee. It was certainly an odd venue for a club. In the middle of the floor was a trap door with a folded wooden ladder mounted on top of it. In one corner was a round cutout in the floor with a fireman’s pole in the center.
     Chloë said, “Isn’t this great? Geez, it was such a challenge to balance out the ladder in the middle of the floor. It serves now as a kind of central sculpture until its utility is demonstrated. But Zawmb’yee is the one who made the perfect placement for the couches and added her spectacular ironwork, ‘Spiral Staircase to the Stars’. It reaches up like a tree that never quite touches the moon, though the birds are quite happy to rest on a branch that is somewhat lower than heaven.”
     “Um, Chloë,” said Zawmb’yee, “does anyone really believe this drivel. I mean, it is just a hunk of metal.”
     “Yeah, I know, but you have to let the nouveau riche enjoy their elitist status. How else can you keep the price of abstract junk up high. Remember the slogan of design: ‘Abstraction above meaning will analyze emptiness into a feeling of fulfillment. Let a dolt be happy and the universe is yours.’ ”
     Zawmb’yee said, “You’re so cynical Chloë. Y’know, even if I do say so myself, I think my sculpture in a weird way is kind of beautiful … ”
     “Well, yeah,” said Chloë, “you’re an exception to every rule — you do add a je ne sais quoi to everything you do. ”
     “Thanks, you’re quite skillful hiding in French phrases, but I guess ‘I don’t know what’ does it, huh.”
     “Gads,” I said, “you two are both grand sculptures of joy, however you want to define it. I think you both did a great job with a difficult space!”

ENTRY 41

     Susan unlatched the trap door and pushed it down. Someone from below reached up to pull down and unfold the ladder. Climbing up the ladder, a line of people marched straight for the window, and ran down the hill.
     “What happened to them,” I asked.
     “Oh, the early advanced lecture,” said Susan, “creates that reaction. They’re purging their emotions and releasing some energy … but, anyway, don’t worry about that — you’ll enjoy the introductory experiential. When the crowd clears, you can go down.”
     Zawmb’yee said, “You really ought to fix that so you don’t have to keep the door latched up. I mean, it only happened once that someone walking around the floor up here accidentally stepped on the folded-up ladder and fell through … ”
     “We’re working on a plan for a regular staircase, Zawmb’yee.” Susan shouted down, “Is everyone out?”
     A voice shouted up, “We’re ready for the next group.”
     Susan said, “OK, Chloë, lead the way.”
     Chloë took off her high-healed shoes and threw them down to the floor below. She faced the ladder barefoot and reaching up with her hand said, “Doug … ”
     I thought it was some sort of ‘temple’ ritual, so I removed my shoes and threw them down the stairs.
     “No, no, no,” said Chloë, “you don’t have to remove your shoes — I just did that because heels are hard on ladders.”
     Zawmb’yee laughed so hard that she crashed into me, and fell to the floor. She took off her sneakers, and threw them down the opening.
     Somebody down below said, “What are you people doing? Just come down.”
We all came barefoot down the ladder.
     “Welcome,” said Carl, the group leader. “Please sit anywhere in the circle of chairs.”
     We sat together in three chairs. Poor Carl stayed at the bottom of the ladder while people threw shoes at him. He finally had to climb up the ladder and tell Susan to please tell everyone that they don’t have to take off their shoes.
     An odd bunch of people filled up the chairs. It was an even mix of men and women. Some of the women were really hot and … oh, never mind, Chloë and Zawmb’yee were plenty hot for me. But a few strangers were quite peculiar as Chloë and Zawmb’yee pointed out. A little too much everything: height, weight, jaw shape, and various things busting out.

ENTRY 42

     Carl, a tall thin man with a gray beard, strolled into the circle of chairs, a center of the wheel, gazing on the spokes that emanated from the seated. “Welcome to ‘Introduction to Mystical Quirks’. I will demonstrate to you today that thoughts penetrate into surprising places. We will learn a little bit of ‘psychometry’. From the Greek ‘psyche’ this means we will endeavor to measure and interpret the ‘soul of objects.’ The theory of operation is unknown, but thoughts and emotions seem to embed themselves at some level into material objects. Is it at some Quantum level ? — I don’t know. By what principle of action does it occur — I don’t know. Psychics get into a lot of trouble by proposing speculative and flawed theories about what they do which are easily shot down and ridiculed by physicists. However, psychometry works, and has been demonstrated to work, although the mode of operation is unknown.
     Before we begin, let me emphasize that the reception of information comes through the subconscious. We will do a meditation to quiet the ego.
     Yes, a question?”
     A man of great stature who threw out his chest like a pregnant woman trying to get her stomach into a comfortable position, who would knock over anyone who would disagree with him, stood and said, “Don’t we have to think rationally at all times to overcome the meanderings of our emotions which wander into unsubstantiated feelings about what is true? There has to be a rational explanation for everything. Doesn’t there?”
     Carl said, “Sir, may I borrow your ring for a minute. I’m just going to hold it in my hand, and then I’ll give it right back to you.”
     “Well, if you like.” He pulled it off his ring finger, and brought it to Carl.
     “Let’s see … give me a minute. You and your wife are still arguing about a divorce. She wants to know why you first even considered having an affair with Emily. She thinks you never cared about the children, and you’ve destroyed Thomas at a vulnerable age and … ”
     “Stop, stop,” the ringless man shouted. “I get it, I get it, but it’s a lucky guess … Can I have my ring back, please?”
     Carl returned the ring. He said, “OK, we’ll just proceed without any further explanation. Just relax and have fun — believe whatever you want … ”

ENTRY 43
     Carl pushed a button on a remote control. Baroque music began to play. There was a throbbing bass, the sound of an undulating whale, and an overhead strobe light flashed slowly like a slow-motion disco.
     Carl said, “Everyone stand and hold hands. Let go of your ego chatter, and meld into the relaxing music. Some of you are thinking, ‘what the hell is this crazy person doing, and why did I come here, because he’s nuts, and I feel silly — I wonder if I should leave now…’. Please put this ego chatter aside, have an open mind, think about nothing. Just allow the music to flow over you like a wave of bliss, warmth on the beach of paradise, the vacation you’ve always imagined, lying in the sun, knowing you have everything you’ve always wanted. The warmth of the sun relaxes you. You are one with the universe, and feel the kind essence of every human being. You are at one … Open to the all — the matrix of knowledge. Be a visitor to every atom. Extend yourself into the flow of energy … listen, see … ”
     Someone said, “I’m spinning … ”
     Carl said, “Don’t worry. Just focus on a star that is still. Rest there and enjoy.
     “You are now receptive to the ineffables of connectedness. Let the music be mystery, a tide of being.
     “We will continue, but hold onto your receptivity. Those of you who need to, please open your eyes. I am going to pass around a hat. I want you to remove something that you wear often — a watch, a ring, or something else and place it in the hat. Alright, pass the hat along and put something in it.”

ENTRY 44

     The hat was passed around. I took off my watch, and put it in. The hat completed the circle, and reached Carl’s hand again.
     Carl said, “I’m going to mix this up and pass this around again. I want you to select an item at random, take it in your hand, and infuse yourself into every atom of its being.”
     The hat was passed around again. I pulled out a ring. I didn’t see what Zawmb’yee took. Chloë took out a purple bracelet.
     When everyone had taken something, Carl continued, “Hold the object in your hand, close your eyes, and allow an image or a dream to appear … at this moment, don’t try to interpret it — just observe. OK, let’s take a few moments for this …”
     After what seemed like a long while, Carl said, “Would anyone like to describe what they’ve seen?”
     I raised my hand.
     “OK, you can be first. What is your first name?”
     “Doug.”
     “OK, Doug, tell us about your vision, or experience.”
     I said, “I saw a dining room table that was not being used for its intended purpose. There was a draw in the table, and in the draw were needles, sewing equipment, scissors, leather — some sort of arts and crafts materials — but nothing that would be used for eating or dining. I saw a wrecking ball come through the wall and destroy the dining room…”
     “Can anybody,” said Carl, “relate to this?”
     A woman in pink said, “Well, I’ve been trying to run an arts and crafts business out of the dining room. I do all my work in the dining room, all my tools are in the draw, and we never get to eat in there anymore. I want to open up a shop and we’ve been thinking of moving … ”
     “Interesting,” said Carl. “Yes, you’ll definitely be moving. Good. Doug hold up the object.”
     I took the ring out of my palm and held it up.
     “Is this your ring?”
     “Yes,” she said.
     Carl said, “Good. You can give the ring back, Doug.”
     I brought the ring over to her. Hmm, I’m thinking, I didn’t pick up much, but maybe it worked a little.
     “OK,”     said Carl, “anybody else?”
     There was silence. Carl said, “Are we having a problem? I see a hand — yes, and you are?”
     “Chloë. I’m holding this purple bracelet in my palm, but no images seemed to form. There was just blackness. ”
     “OK. Try putting it on. Close your eyes and try again … Everyone quiet — let’s give Chloë a few moments to meditate.”    
     About fifteen minutes went by and then Chloë spoke up. “I see great sheets of ice coming down from the North, covering all the major cities. There is great suffering and chaos. There are spontaneous rebellions all across the world and all the major powers collapse. In the midst of a famine, a great Queen appears who brings endless supplies of food. Seeming to be wise and benevolent, she is not challenged as she seizes all the reins of power. Slowly the people are enslaved and her secret police become apparent to everyone … and um … ”
“Yes?”
     “I can’t continue … I’m overwhelmed with her hatred and seething anger and … ”
     “Well, take a rest for a moment.” said Carl. “This sounds fascinating … Whose bracelet is this?”
     A large woman in a purple and green dress raised her hand. An armful of bracelets clanged as she signaled. She was wearing big gold earrings and a purple choker.
     Zawmb’yee stood up immediately, glanced at Chloë, and said, “Excuse me, I’m feeling sick. I have to use the Ladies’ room.” Chloë stood and they both left the room quickly.
     Carl said, “Well, OK, this might be a good time for an intermission. We’ll come back to this.”
     After twenty minutes Zawmb’yee tapped me on the shoulder. “We have to go now,” she said.
     It seemed urgent. Chloë was upset. Zawmb’yee ran to the corner of the room to pick up a broom. She used the broom handle to tap on the ceiling. The trapdoor came down, and she pulled the ladder out. Chloë stumbled up the ladder in her heels. I followed Zawmb’yee up.
     Chloë called to Susan, “Call us a cab. We have to go right away.” She followed Susan to the phone.
     I asked Zawmb’yee, “What’s the matter?”
     She said, “That lady was Ngheufel in drag. Chloë is sick — she’s sorry she ever dated him, but there’s more to it. I saw something too, but I can’t tell you now … Um, do you have enough chicken for Chloë?”
     “Sure,” I said.
     “OK, we’ll go to your place.”
     Chloë came back. “The cab is on its way,” she said. “Let’s go down the hill now.”
     We scrambled out the window. The summer air seemed much too warm for snow.

ENTRY 45
     We arrived at my apartment, a trio of evangelists without a cause, nude of belief, looking for shelter and the loincloth of minimalist humility or an orgy. Zawmb’yee unlocked the door, and Chloë charged in.
     Chloë, picking up a chair and throwing it across the room, screamed, “I run the council!”
     Zawmb’yee whispered in my ear to put on some music. “Chloë,” said Zawmb’yee, “you’re still wearing the purple bracelet … ”
     Chloë said, “It’s mine now. I’m keeping it … ”
     “Chloë, you’re such a great dancer. Go ahead. Get into it … Doug, you know this one — sing it … ”
     Chloë picked up a lamp and smashed it on the floor.
     “OK, OK,” I said, “I’ll try — uh, well, let me rewind to the beginning … ”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Rock ‘n Roll! Shake it Chloë. Dance, dance, dance … ”
     I sang, trying to let the music drown me out,

“Up Chloë
     hey
     get on up

     Thunder in your true light
     Raise that thunder white

     Hey flash me
     dance me
     be just right

     Stamp, stamp, stamp, stamp

     Gone are
     false friends
     when dancing feet
     are up

     Your lover calls you
     up the hill
     to squeeze you
     like a grape

     to ferment you some
     palpable love
     chewy
     luscious

     I call you sunshine
     my rainbow love;
     you make my rain, darling
     tears of glory

     Cry me happy
     Cry me true –
     Can you love me
     like a raindrop
     ’cause I will be your downpour
     flooding you with love. ”

     When I stopped mangling the lyrics and was silent for a moment, the rhythm got to me and I got up and danced with Chloë’s gyrating cheeks and soulful thrusts, voluptuous spins, syncopated with bends of sorrow and leaps of ecstasy, the anguish and the hope.
     Zawmb’yee joined us. They are such great dancers. Never stop, never stop. I don’t want to die in my sleep. I want to die dancing. Move me into heaven.

ENTRY 46
     Zawmb’yee clapped for Chloë and I joined her. “Chloë,” I said, “you are the hip of curvaceous beats. You lifted me into jumping so high I thought I could dance like a plane down a runway and take off. I am surprised I did not hit the ceiling.”
     Chloë said, “You are not a bird, and cannot fly. I am a bird.”
     “Yes, you are a pretty bird. We love you pretty bird. Awaken into us.”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Wake up Chloë. You are with friends.”
     “I think,” said Chloë, “I’m done with Ngheufel. Let’s have some garlic lime chicken.” She took off the purple bracelet. “You can have this Zawmb’yee.”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Thanks Chloë. Doug, let’s eat.”
     Zawmb’yee finally got to set the elegant table that she bought for special guests. She was in her glory, bringing out the good dishes, and the silverware. The candle that she lit made the blue of her eyes sparkle, and she smiled like a duchess in a time of peace, no enemies at the castle gate.
     Somehow, I managed not to burn the chicken, and the sugar snap peas, broccoli, red peppers, and cauliflower combo from the supermarket with olive oil and balsamic vinegar wasn’t bad. Zawmb’yee loved the colors of the fruit cup too; I threw slices of everything in there: kiwi, strawberry, white grapes, blueberries, cherries, plums, peaches, a little lemon and orange juices.
     I loved watching them enjoy their meal. When they savored a morsel with the contemplation of the tongue, the pause in the chew to purr in satiation, I could gaze upon them to taste their beauty with my eyes. Gusto was mine, theirs, and ours. My sugar passes me the salt and I am spiced.

ENTRY 47
     I was so turned on to lust by the dance of Chloë and Zawmb’yee that I struggled to remember the cliché, ‘look up here, and love me for my mind — not every breast has milk’. But Chloë was sick over Ngheufel. Zawmb’yee decided to get us a bottle of champagne.
     My cork screw had a gentle lift, and nothing was spilled. I’m glad I bought the deluxe version that lifts the cork gracefully, allowing celebrants to do their own popping, and own bubbling.
     Zawmb’yee said, “My Mother said that wine made her sleepy, but she was a liar: she got silly; she got high; she denied she had inhibitions (she denied she had ambitions). I toast in praise of intoxication when a shy one can say, ‘I love you’, without a blush or a stutter, and the foolishness is harmless poetic exuberance. Gee, I always wanted to use ‘exuberance’ in a sentence — I think I’ve done it.”
     “Oh Zawmb’yee,” said Chloë, raising her glass, “you can be so elegant, and um, I’ll drink to that.”
     We clinked our glasses together, and we all sparkled. I almost said it, but I didn’t know how to express the nuance of it — I knew I felt to say, ‘I love you both,’ and yearned to know them completely, but how could such an aroused creature as I admit that I wanted them to love me for my mind as dessert or is it as main course — I don’t know: metaphors confuse me. I must rise to the occasion (ha).
     Zawmb’yee said, “Well, we don’t have a drawing room, so for dessert, Doug, why don’t you read us a poem.”
     “Um,” I said, “I was hoping for ice cream.”
     “Yeah,” said Chloë, “go get your book and pick something.”
     I walked slowly to the book shelf trying to compose myself. Maybe I could do a handstand instead — they might like that.
     Zawmb’yee yelled, “Anything. Come on.”
     “OK,” I said, “here’s one called ‘Blubber’:

The psychic woman
had showed her
rough seas ahead,
said beware the tides
and flowing kisses,
but that seemed like
shallow waters to her

She had a fifth
her thick handkerchief
mopping up her eyes
highly high on her trumpeted mope
slipped on her poor spilled
cocktail of his love kisses
lost crawling
across the stage
where she was to sing beige
before a sea of mahogany tables
over drunks and hecklers
sticky stinky beckoning
bass strings plucking her heart
blubbering
woe tale wagging about him
the bragging whale
who blew his spout
and left her high and dry.

Seeing her collapsing,
I could not bear her despair,
rose to say,
“I have always loved you,”
and we all stood,
hecklers and all,
to beg the last song

She knew me at last–
kissed me, the little one

Turning from beige to blue
caressing the mike,
she rasped in weeping harmonies
     ‘Stand for me
     the stood-up one;
     harpoon my love and
     sail me to the Port,
     wine me down mellow,
     me, a cello solo
     singing this tale of prophecy:
     the big ones get away, and
     the little ones stay.’     ”

     Chloë said, “Yeah, Ngheufel is big enough to be a whale.”
     We all laughed.
     Zawmb’yee said, “About intoxication and the toast … Did you want to say something, Doug?”
     I said, “Well, um … Are we all shy?”
     “I am,” said Chloë and Zawmb’yee in unison.
     I took a breath in and out. I said, “I love you too.”

ENTRY 48
     Zawmb’yee said to Chloë, “You should crash here. I’ve got a baby doll nightgown you can wear. I’ll show you.”
     “Yeah,” said Chloë, “good idea. I’m exhausted.”
     “Doug,” said Zawmb’yee, “can you clear the table. Thanks, and can you find us some cheese and crackers and some wine on a tray?”
     “Sure,” I said. I piled everything up and dumped it in the kitchen sink. Tray, tray, tray — where was the tray? I found it. I put some crackers on a dish, smeared a cheese spread over them with something that looked like a palette knife. Can opener? I found it. I opened a can of anchovies, and put a few on some of the crackers. What else? Olives looked nice and … I took all the cheeses we had, dumped them into a corner of the tray, plopped down the box of crackers, threw down a bunch of napkins and utensils, put a bottle of wine under my arm, and grabbed onto the tray. “I’m coming,” I yelled out.
     I carried everything into the bedroom. Chloë and Zawmb’yee were sitting on the bed in some frilly things.
     Zawmb’yee said, “Put the tray down over here, and take off your shirt and jeans. I think it’s bedtime and you don’t need any pajamas.”
     I put my jeans on a chair and sat between them. They did something with the crackers, and I drank some wine.
     Chloë said, “You have the anchovies, Doug — I know you like them.”
     “Pass the wine,” said Zawmb’yee. “I think I’ll wait until tomorrow to tell you what I think I saw, and … ”
     “Let’s not,” said Chloë, “think about all that right now. Let’s just relax. Sweet dreams, and … ” Chloë yawned.
     Zawmb’yee yawned. “I’m so tired.”
     I thought I would say something clever, but my eyes were drooping. I blinked, and my eyes closed. I forced them open, and went to the bathroom where I splashed water on my face. I wanted to stay awake a little longer. Coming back into bed, the fatigue was overtaking me, and I yawned again. Chloë’s eyes were closed. Zawmb’yee kissed me and turned the light off. My thoughts were fading into nothingness, a gentle buzz hushed me, and my body felt heavy. I fell asleep.

ENTRY 49
     Oh the joy and hazard of falling asleep with Chloë and Zawmb’yee in the bed with me. I dreamed I was on the railroad in a center seat. Chloë was sitting to my left, and Zawmb’yee was sitting to my right. Unbuttoning her blouse, Chloë took my left hand, guided it under her bra onto her left breast. Zawmb’yee took my right hand and guided it over her right breast. The rising of the nipples and me was exquisite as Chloë reached into my pants with her right hand to raise my monument even higher, and Zawmb’yee with her left hand cupped my base of swimming ecstasy.
     As Chloë and Zawmb’yee held my hands to their breasts, a female conductor with purple hair came down the aisle. She said, “Tickets please, all tickets please.”
     I said, “I can’t reach my ticket … ”
     She bent down and kissed me on the lips. “You don’t need a ticket,” she said.
     Chloë and Zawmb’yee held my hands while the conductor sat on my lap. Stroking my face and head, and reaching into her pocket, she pulled out an electric razor. Quickly she shaved my head. I realized it was Zusoiti. She said, “The land will be nude like your head, and the ice will descend.”
     An announcement came over the public address system: “Please be advised that passengers are subject to random searches. Also, please take note: if you see a suspicious package, report it to a transit worker or the police — ‘if you see something, say something’ — and have a nice day.”
     Zusoiti said, “I must inspect this suspicious package,” and she pulled down my pants. “Aha,” she said, and touched my tip.
     Zawmb’yee and Chloë chanted, “Banana cream pie, banana cream pie.”
     Zusoiti caught my cream in a cup. She whipped it up with a whisk into a meringue.              
     I pulled my hands back as Zawmb’yee and Chloë stood up, took cans of whipped cream out of their bags and sprayed it into my mouth.
     Another conductor came by and said, “Tickets please, all tickets please.”
     I woke up. I’ve always liked real whipped cream. But now they only have the artificial stuff — no, no, no. I used to make it with heavy cream, but I don’t even think they sell that anymore.
     Waking up from such a dream is hard to do, but Zawmb’yee was kissing me, and she said, “I’m making breakfast.” Before I could say something, she was out of the room. I lay hungry, and laid my dream aside.
     After staring at my erection, Chloë got up and went to the bathroom. When she came out, I went in. I had to wait a long time before I could urinate. Finally I was soft enough to go.

ENTRY 50
     Chloë was asleep again. All of us were so tired we could have lain in bed all day. I touched down onto the bed, landing my behind in the slump of the mattress, sighing.
     An awakening. Caressing my face, sliding a leg over, and another, Chloë used her hands strategically to ready me for launch, and she lowered herself on my rocket. I fondled her
globes, and we rolled over. Massaging her legs with my feet, my fingers strolled along her pathways.
     Zawmb’yee came back into the room. She touched me on the behind. I said, “Oh, ah, oh, ah, oh ah, mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm.” I can be so articulate sometimes. Chloë hugged me, and Zawmb’yee stroked my legs. I made some noises.
     The phone rang. Zawmb’yee left to answer it. Chloë rolled us over again and with her cave she squeezed my overgrown soda-straw stalactite, nursing it with her inner lips.
     Zawmb’yee came back in the room. Chloë and I moaned. Zawmb’yee said, “Chloë, you have a phone call.”
     Chloë got up. The doorbell rang. Chloë and Zawmb’yee left the room. I could have lain in bed all day. But I rested for just a short while. I think I might have fallen asleep again.
     But I heard Chloë calling me from the living room. She’s been into satires of Shakespeare lately and had me read some.
     Chloë shouted, “Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
     I called back, “Because here I am an arrow in your bow that you fling like a beau in a sling, I am here, outrageous to think of joy, Juliet, when you are of class and I am pupil enlarged to see thee.”
     Zawmb’yee yelled, “Am I not the feathers on your arrow that makes your flight run true to rise as the Sun when I am the Moon?”
     The visitor, who was in the living room with them, spoke up. Utcoozhoo said, “Whoa young lovers; doth thou not trample on lines the planets forbid?”
     Cackles and guffaws galore, gorgeous was the laughter. I got dressed.

ENTRY 51
     I came into the living room. “Uncle Utcoozhoo,” I said, “this is a pleasant surprise. Would you like something to drink or a piece of garlic lime chicken?”
     “No thanks.”
     Chloë said, “Y’know, I think that ‘doth’ is third person, but ‘thou’ is second person.”
     “Argh,” said Utcoozhoo, “modern English is hard enough, and ancient English appears to be only for thee, Chloë, if you would be the objective case, but you are strong like a nominative, and as I understand it, ‘wherefore’ means ‘why’ not ‘where’. So thou art not an object, but the subject of admiration by some Romeo (oh, that makes it an object?), fixated on red hair and the art of the hunt. Feed him love and his growling will turn into ferocious purrs in basso profundo, the roar of gratitude when the bosom of welcome is safely calm, romantic but real, and fun.”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Oh yeah, and don’t blondes have more fun?”
     “Well,” said Utcoozhoo, “you are already a ferocious spirit who has learned every lullaby that calms every hurt. Who could resist your song and gentle touch?”
     “Huh, what?” said Zawmb’yee.
     Utcoozhoo said, “Could you just let me be diplomatic and vague, please. You both are so intense. Cool it … I have good news … ”
     “Yes,” I said, “good news?”
     “Zawmb’yee, I’ve gotten you and Doug a full pardon, so it’s safe for you to come back into the cave … ”
     “How,” said Zawmb’yee, “did you do that?”
     “Well, it’s a little complicated: I have agreed to give a substantial number of ingot bars of gold, platinum, and palladium to Zusoiti from the Tzalbihuki on condition that she, personally, come out of the cave and open up a bank account in her own name. She has agreed to sell the metals herself … ”
     I said, “Isn’t that worth a fortune, and won’t it make her more powerful?”
     “Well,” said Utcoozhoo, “it’s a gamble, but I’m counting on the fact that she knows nothing about the tax laws, and will be raising a lot of red flags — the more ostentatious she is in her spending the better. I’m pretty certain that the temptations of the up-top world will seduce her, considering how isolated she’s been as a dedicated hermit and cave person.”
     “Gold bars?” asked Chloë.
     “The gods left a stockpile of supplies — an endowment, you might say. As Varishynahuki, guardian of the endowment, I can distribute it as I see fit, but it is a tricky business. We’ve spent years setting up sham mining companies and businesses to hide our true source of income. One must not tell the IRS that one has obtained gold from the gods.”
     Chloë said, “You can use any amount? … How much is there and … ”
     “It’s vast, but there are quite a few restrictions. For example, we are forbidden to drink or touch the waktalbup … ”
     “Waktalbup?”
     “It means, ‘water with a heavy heart’.”
     “What’s that?”
     “Well … ”
     Zawmb’yee and I chanted a familiar tune, “Secrets are sacred.”
     Utcoozhoo laughed. “Chloë, Zusoiti is a dangerous person. I don’t think you want to know too much. It is she whose thoughts and feelings you picked up at the Blue Attic Club. Just her imprints nearly overwhelmed you … ”
     I said, “Is this really going to work?”
     “Probably not,” said Utcoozhoo, “but I have a Plan B … ”
     “What?”
          “Well, first I want to say, Zawmb’yee and Doug, that you must vote in the coming elections for the Parliament and for the Grand Council. I’ve brought you some political literature, and I’ve written out my opinions for you to consider … ”
     “OK, but,” I said, “what’s Plan B?”
     “We’ll vote her out of power if you can find a reliable source of scuba diving equipment. We’re going to need a lot of it, because a lot of the voters can’t hold their breath anymore.”
     “Huh?”    
     “Doug, I think you can figure it out. You know, the Tzvaleubhoi. There are a lot of elders there on our side, but they must appear in person to vote.”
     Chloë said, “I’m not following this … ”
     Zawmb’yee and I chanted, “Secrets are sacred.”

ENTRY 52
     Utcoozhoo said, “Well, it’s been charming to meet you Chloë … Doug, I have to get going. Just get me some scuba catalogs, and some books on how to scuba dive. OK?”
     “Yes, ” I said, “I will … um, Uncle Utcoozhoo, did you know that Chloë is my favorite interior decorator?”
     “Oh?” said Utcoozhoo. He gazed over at Chloë. “Have I seen your work, Chloë?”
     Chloë hesitated a moment. “Uh, well, I did the Blue Attic Club with Zawmb’yee.”
     “Hmm, I might have some work for you in the future. I’m going your way — can I give you a lift home?”
     “Sure, and tell me all about the caves. From what Zawmb’yee has been telling me, it sounds intriguing.”
     Utcoozhoo looked at his watch. He opened the door for Chloë. “Well, then, we’ll be going … Thanks Doug. Zawmb’yee, you look beautiful today … see ya in the cave. Bye.” They left.
     Zawmb’yee and I plopped down on the couch. She said, “All of this has been exhausting and I guess Utcoozhoo can handle everything, but …”
     “But? Don’t worry. It’ll all work out. I’ll find the equipment supplier and we’ll vote … ”
     “No, I don’t mean that. I think that Zusoiti really intends to trigger a new Ice Age.”
     “Can she do that?”
     “I think so. Utcoozhoo has told me a little about the pfayohiqusi. I’m not sure exactly how, but I think it’s powerful enough to trigger catastrophic climate change.”
     “Are you sure about that, or is it one of those exaggerated myths?”
     “No. I think it’s real. I’ve seen the pfayohiqusi do spectacular things, but special permission is needed to use it.”
     “What is pfayohiqusi?”
     “Oh, pfayohiqusi just means ‘apparatus of the gods’. It’s just another one of those vague words that doesn’t really tell you anything. Utcoozhoo throws these words at me, but I haven’t yet comprehended what it really means.”
     “Well, anyway, we now can go back to the cave if we want to, but we don’t have to right away. Right?”
     “It does seem urgent and I think Utcoozhoo needs me.”
     “Yeah, but, I have to get information for him and you could do things from here.”
     “Well, the sacred quarters has certain equipment that I need and…”
     “Never mind all that. Just stay because…”
***
CHAPTER FOUR

MOVING OUT

ENTRY 53
     I know it’s been a while since I’ve written in my Blog but we’ve both been very busy preparing for the impending crisis, and now something else… I didn’t want to write about waking up alone without her touching… She moved out…
     I had made lasagna. I finally got it right. It was perfect and Zawmb’yee loved it, but now she’s gone back to the cave, to the sacred quarters. I’ve eaten a little. I still have plenty of my five cheese masterpiece, but though I am hungry, I cannot eat another bite.
     In my messy sadness, tomato sauce drips from my lips, and I miss her already — could have fed her more. With her touch, this has been an intimate place, a sacred place. And now with her gone, my palace is a pumpkin I cannot decorate.
     Because I can not let sighs become sobs, hiccups overtake me. All these perturbations make me laugh at myself. I think my cold is worse because my eyes are leaking over the silence of my tomato lips. She chose the napkins. Maybe I’ll have another bite. I am so hungry.
     I’ll need all my strength, I suppose, when I go back to the cave. Utcoozhoo wants me to meet him at the Nipeiskwari. We’re going to swim to the Tzvaleubhoi.
     I think I do feel better gorging on what I do have for the moment. I was right to remember it being delicious, this lasagna, Zawmb’yee, and me in this place setting with sauces, a candle, and a napkin.

ENTRY 54
     Arriving early at the Nipeiskwari, swamped by uncertainty, by fear, excited for adventure and discovery, for success, and weighted down with anxiety and the scuba literature in a waterproof container, I waited for Utcoozhoo, eager to begin. To see the Tzvaleubhoi at last could only be entry into a Shangri-La or a disillusionment, though the task was to find the voters against Zusoiti. I stared at the blue waters.
     At the appointed time, Utcoozhoo leaped out of the water like a hairy gray dolphin. He said, “Doug, do you have the scuba brochures?”
     “Yes.”
     “OK, then, I want you to do some deep breathing, but be careful: only hyperventilate slightly, because if you faint underwater it would be tragic. When I raise my hand, we will both take our final breaths. Then, I will dive into the water, and you will follow me to the Akwangtqua and into the Tzvaleubhoi.”
     “What do you mean don’t hyperventilate?”
     “Well, I mean, you should be able to hold you breath in a natural way. Umm, OK, let’s do a practice run. Do some deep breathing and hold.”
     I breathed in and out as deep as I could for several minutes, and held my breath.
     Utcoozhoo said, “Now flap your arms like you’re swimming … ”
     I was feeling sick. I had to sit down.
     “Now breathe. How did you feel?”
     “I felt dizzy. I thought I was going to faint.”
     “That’s not good. You over did it. Next time, a little less. You’re going to have to depend on your natural lung capacity. OK, you’ll just do a few preparatory breaths and then one deep breath. OK, start and I’ll give you the signal when to dive.”
     When Utcoozhoo gave the signal, I followed him underwater. He dove to the bottom of the K’ut’mbletaw’i, swam along some corals, by some odd blue and orange stones in a mosaic, and for a long time in an unknown direction with few markers, an expanse of empty blue water, until we reached a tunnel opening. I already felt like I was running out of air. We entered the tunnel and I knew that I did not have enough air to turn around and go back.
     Several feet into the tunnel there were several branches. Utcoozhoo swam into the rightmost tunnel. I followed close behind until we reached another fork; he went left. Then right. Then right again. The urge to breathe was strong.
     He went left, then right, then right, then left. I was totally lost in this maze of tunnels, desperate to breathe, claustrophobic, praying, picturing my grand leap into the air. I couldn’t hold my breath much longer and couldn’t speak to Utcoozhoo. I just followed behind him as he swam rapidly. It did me no good to know that the order for the scuba gear was subject to 4-6 weeks delivery time with the notice that they were not responsible for unforeseen circumstances beyond their control that could delay fulfillment of the complete order. And yet, Utcoozhoo has done this for years without equipment.
     Utcoozhoo picked up speed and headed straight for a wall. When he got there, he stopped swimming, floated upward and disappeared.
     I swam as hard as I could into the wall, stopped and waited. I floated up and with a final push, burst out of the water into an enormous chamber, gasping for breath on a ledge with not even the energy of a flopping fish, exhausted.

ENTRY 55
     I crawled from the ledge onto what looked like a meadow. At the edge of the ledge and the grass, I saw an ant hill. Turning onto my back, I looked up to see a blue sky, a bright sun, a drifting cloud, and Utcoozhoo. I said, “Are we outside?”
     “No,” said Utcoozhoo, “this is the Tzvaleubhoi, the ‘Cave of the Third Sun’. ”
     “That’s a Sun?”
     “In a sense it is, but much cooler. It is much, much, cooler than the sun. It would have to be 93 million miles away if it were as hot as the sun, but this sun is very close to us.”
     Still recovering from the swim, I thought I must be dizzy and disoriented, because I felt like I was on a roller coaster, like a wave just passed under me. I said, “I feel like I’m floating on the ocean, and a wave just passed under me … I must be getting sick or something.”
     “No. I felt that too. That’s a small earthquake … ” Utcoozhoo was distracted, looked into the distance. Dodging a butterfly, a plump but frail man in a blue robe limped around a tree, sun-coated with enjoyment, lynx-eyed. Utcoozhoo ran the last few feet to embrace him. “Naztko, how are you? I want you to meet Doug.”
     I struggled to get up. I think I had a leg cramp.
     He said, “No need to get up. Just rest. Nice to meet you Doug, and now you see why we can’t swim out of here. I’m afraid I’ve become too fat and lazy to swim out of the tunnels.”    
     “It’s an honor to meet you, Sir,” I said.
     Utcoozhoo said to Naztko, “I just felt an earthquake.”
     “Yes. We’ve been feeling quite a few tremors, and something is very odd.”
     “What’s that?”
     “The far outer wall is very hot. We think someone has activated the pfayohiqusi of the third kind without permission.”
     “There is heat venting?”
     “Yes, I suspect a magma reservoir is forming. I could be mistaken — it may just be some natural process, but … ”
     “But?”
     “Some of the quakes seem consistent with unauthorized drilling.”
     “Give me all the reports you have, and I’ll look into it. You see, like I’ve been telling you (actually, Doug got me started on this), here’s an example of where modern technology can help us analyze a situation. The traditional ways are not always sufficient.”
     “I’ve been worried enough to think you might have a point. Something doesn’t feel right to me. I’ve a very bad feeling about Zusoiti. I don’t know how to explain this insight, but I think the way I could put it is that, somehow, Zusoiti is creating what perhaps I should call an interface between pfayohiqusi and modern technologies. I don’t know how to describe my vision because I’m not familiar with modern technology… Do you know what this might be?”
     “Well, if she could build a modern device that would simulate the steps that a person would apply to operate the pfayohiqusi, and then connected that modern device to the Internet, she could have a remote station anywhere … Does this make sense to you?”
     “Yes, I think I see where you’re going. That’s scary … ”
     “Well, anyway, that’s just speculation. In the meantime, we’re going to need your vote.”
     “This scuba gear that you want to order will let us swim out?”
     “Yes.”
     “Let me read about it … I’m not sure if I like this up-top technology.”
     We felt another earthquake, this one much stronger. Part of the ledge cracked off and fell into the entrance tunnel.
     I said, “Uncle Utcoozhoo, is this serious?”    
     “I don’t know. If the tunnels become blocked, there will be a dilemma.”
     Naztko said, “What dilemma? If the entrance tunnel collapses, you’ll just stay here forever. What’s the problem? We’re self-sufficient.”
     “You miss the point,” shouted Utcoozhoo, “a tyrant may seize absolute power, and even you will not be safe from her reach.”
     There was another small tremor. Utcoozhoo ran to the ledge, looked into the water. “That does it, I must go to the Forbidden Zone immediately.”
     I got up and peered into the entrance tunnel. It was still clear, but a few large boulders had fallen into it. “Maybe we should go now and get help,” I said.
     “Not yet,” said Utcoozhoo, “I must reactivate the dormant pfayohiqusi that serve the Tzvaleubhoi exclusively. Each of the pfayohoqwaahujpi must be brought on-line in sequence … ”
     Naztko said, “No, you must not. You cannot enter the Forbidden Zone until the gods return.”
     “I must. It is pcapdyntpa. As a member of the Grand Council, I hereby declare an emergency.”
     Naztko was stunned. He straightened his back, stood as tall as he could, said, “Do you swear by the sacred oath, by the Gydm, that this, in holy purpose, is pcapdyntpa?”
     Utcoozhoo said, “I do.”
     I said, “Wha…”
     “Doug, wait here,” said Utcoozhoo.
     Utcoozhoo ran across the meadow, past a willow tree, over a hill, around a steep cliff, and disappeared.
     Naztko said, “Doug, I’m sorry we have to meet under such strange circumstances, but I’ve heard some good things about you. How is Zawmb’yee?”
     “She’s fine.”
     We were both uncomfortable, but made a lot of small talk. We walked a short distance across the meadow where Naztko showed me his orchard.
     I said, “I can’t get over how it seems like I am outside. Is this a complete ecosystem?”
     “Well, mostly. It’s just that the gods have provided the energy source here to sustain all life, whereas, up-top the Sun is the source of life-sustaining energy. Well, I guess you could say that the main problem is expelling the heat that is generated by the pfayohiqusi. Up until now, it has seemed like the volcanos have done a good job managing the heat flow … ”

ENTRY 56
     The Tzvaleubhoi at first appearance did seem a complete paradise. Gazing upon the grass, green with chlorophyll, the energy sponge, upon all the green oxygen makers, the leaves of the peach tree, Naztko watched a cow approach, a leaf fall, as he ruminated something in the air. “Well,” he said, “it’s an ecology of convenience, a necessary delusion. I suppose it’s an unnatural environment, because we have no predators.”
     “Do you need them?”
     “I don’t know. Maybe imbalance is good.”
     “Predators kill the weak, and keep the gene pool strong?”
     “Well, we already have the perfect pedigree I think.” The cow mooed. “This one almost talks,” he said, shooing it away. Walking into the shade, reaching up with aplomb to a low hanging peach, he plucked the rosy one, ripe, and gave it to me. “Eat this for your trip back, a sample of paradise.”
     But before Naztko could digest his own thoughts, Utcoozhoo galloped into our sight, shouting from a distance, “Odd revelations.”
     “Whoa,” said Naztko, “come closer, catch your breath. We can’t hear the news if the messenger dies. Whatever the crisis, we can spare a few minutes.”
     Utcoozhoo sat down under the tree, sweating profusely. Naztko tried not to look worried. I didn’t try.
     Naztko said, “I imagine reactivating such ancient pfayohiqusi would bring some enigmas. We’ll deal with it.” Naztko reached into a pocket in his robe, and pulled out a thermos bottle. Removing the cup from the top, he poured Utcoozhoo some ice coffee with cream and sugar. “See,” said Naztko, “I got to use this bottle you gave me last year. How is it?”
     Utcoozhoo drank half. He said, “It’s good. I’m glad you’ve been using your gift … Um, I want you to call an emergency meeting, and bring as many elders as you can to the Forbidden Zone — preferably, everyone. I need help interpreting some ancient language I’m uncertain about. ”
     “We can’t … ”
     “Yes, yes, yes. Do I have to be so official? OK, it’s pcapdyntpa, I swear.”
     Naztko asked, “What’s it about?”
     “As best as I can figure out, it has something to do with Earth Wobble, eccentricity, and the blockage of equatorial ocean currents, but you have to see it for yourself. It’s better if you get the complete picture. I don’t think I can describe it properly here.”

ENTRY 57
     “Utcoozhoo,” I said, “does the revelation have something to do with Zusoiti?”
     “Yes, I think she’s tapping into the grzepepa looking for information.”
     Naztko asked, “Can she learn to control the pfayohoqwaahujpi?”
     “That’s,” said Utcoozhoo, “what worries me. She is trying … ”
     Naztko said, “you’re right — we had better call a meeting. We’d better go now.”
     Utcoozhoo said to me, “Doug, listen carefully. Do you know hexadecimal to binary conversion?”
     “Um, well, yes.”
     “Then what would nine be?”
     “You mean, 1001?”
     “Yes, and two?”
     “That would be 0010.”
     “OK. Now I want you to change each ‘one’ to an R, and each zero to an L. So now say, nine is R, L, L, R.”
     “Nine is R, L, L, R. ”
     “Now say two is L, L, R, L.”
     “Two is L, L, R, L. But what is this for?”
     “R means take a right turn in the tunnel. L means turn left. These are the directions you will need to leave through the tunnel maze. Naztko and I have to go to the Forbidden Zone and you have to go back to the Nipeiskwari by yourself. You’re going to have to hold your breath and swim out. If you get lost in the tunnel, you won’t have enough breath to get back home.”
     “Uh, oh, um, what is that again?”
     “Nine: go right, left, left, right. Two: go left, left, right, left. Just remember 92. OK?”
     “Uh, well, I … ”
     “We have no more time. Take care.”
     “Bye Doug,” said Naztko over his shoulder as Utcoozhoo and he broke into a run across the meadow, past the willow, and over the hill. Even Naztko with his frailties was able to put on a burst of speed, and they both vanished.
     I walked slowly to the ledge thinking 92, 92. Well, at least, this would be the beginning of my journey instead of the end as it was when I came here and was out of breath in an unknown place. This time I would be desperate for breath at the end of my journey in a familiar place — I think I’d rather die at home than here in a tunnel like I had thought I might when I came here. OK, I had to focus on 92.
     I dove into the water, thinking, OK, nine is: right, left, left, right. When I touched bottom from the force of my dive, I could feel a tremor. I swam forward towards the intersection as the shaking increased. Rocks started falling from the ceiling and I wondered if I should go back.
     A bright gnolum lit the first intersection and I could easily see the right and left branches ahead. OK, first is right.
     Before I could reach the right tunnel, I heard a rumble. An avalanche of rock and crushed gnolums filled the right tunnel, totally blocking it.

ENTRY 58
     What now? Well, I thought, I should at least see where the left tunnel goes and then I could always go back, rest, and then maybe think of a new strategy.
     I entered the left tunnel. It went leftward for a short while and than started into a clockwise curve. Maybe it was curving back toward the direction of the blocked pathways. In fear, the journey seemed endless, but eventually I came to a passage that seemed strangely familiar. There was a sharp jagged rock by a gnolum that reminded me of something that I had totally forgotten, because it was such a minor injury: coming in, I scraped myself on the rock, swimming swiftly in a panic behind Utcoozhoo. Yes, this was the rock. Now I had to think, how many more turns were there when I scraped myself? I had to try to bring the memory back in detail. There I was, annoyed by the scrape, ignoring the pain, focussing on where Utcoozhoo was swimming, and then we did, turn, turn, turn, turn — dum, da, dum, dum, or something. I thought, it doesn’t matter; it’s just that there were four turns, so I must be at the place for the last four turns. Yes, that has to be it: left, left, right, left. Was I right or did I have to go back?
     I couldn’t waste anymore air thinking about it. I turned left, then left, then right, then left.
     Hurray, I was out of the tunnels. I swam past the orange-blue mosaic and didn’t think I could make it.
     I floated upward, and gave one last kick. I burst out of the water like a flounder, falling onto the rock of the Nipeiskwari where Zawmb’yee was waiting for me.
     She was going to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but I put up my hand to stop her because I was gasping so hard I thought I would suck her lungs out. While I was breathing in and out, in and out, I pointed at my cheek and she kissed my cheek.
     She said, “Utcoozhoo is in the Forbidden Zone, and reactivated its pfayohiqusi. He used the grp’nl to send me a message in the sacred quarters. He said the tunnel collapsed, and I didn’t think you were going to make it.”
     “It was,” I said, “a close call and … ”
     Zawmb’yee burst into tears, and my tear suppression self was too overwhelmed by her love to stop my eyes from flooding. I couldn’t deserve all this when I had done little, and I hated to see her suffer. “I’m alright,” I said, but I felt so sad to be in a world of gloom.

ENTRY 59
     I stood up, and was surprised to see a crowd of people milling around in the cave. The cave had always been relatively empty which is what I liked about it. I said to Zawmb’yee, “Who are all these people?”
     “A lot of up-top people have returned to the cave to help during this crisis,” she said.
     Utcoozhoo’s assistant, Otuux, a tall man, square-jaw efficient but jocular, stumbled onto us out of the chaos. “Doug,” he said, “how are you? I heard you were the last person to make it out of the tunnel, and how is Naztko?”
     “I’m OK. I last saw him running to the Forbidden Zone with Utcoozhoo.”
     “He was running?”
     “Yes, he seemed rejuvenated by the emergency, but I really didn’t get a chance to talk to him much.”
     “Yes, well, he is a fine gentleman, and very wise. I think he and Utcoozhoo will find out what’s happening … I’ve got to go. Zawmb’yee, tell Doug everything. Be well, and don’t worry — we’ll find Zusoiti.” Otuux dashed off in a dignified trot.
     “What happened to Zusoiti?” I asked Zawmb’yee.
     “She left the cave for the up-top world. No one seems to know where she went, but she seems to have established herself, and set up a remote access station. She’s tapped into the grzepepa, the gods’ data base, looking for the protocols to launch the gst’fibiches.”
     “The what?”
     “The ‘arrows that reach the stars’. She wants to call back the gods. We think there may be a whole constellation of procedures and sequences that if wrongly applied by the pfayohoqwaahujpi might trigger an Ice Age which is what she wants.”
     “So you’re telling me Zusoiti is using her new found wealth to destroy us and trap Utcoozhoo? Are the tremors I felt the beginning?”
     “We don’t know yet about that, but there are indications of changes in the ocean currents, and we’re concerned about Earth Wobble … ”
     I was in a bit of a foul mood, and began to think time had run out. “Doesn’t it look like,” I moaned, “the ancient prophesy is true that the world will end in a frozen agony of death and suffering? I’ve accomplished nothing, and now the world ends. Isn’t this charming?”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Doug, don’t be so down. Let me tell you the story of Tpiqlat’ng that Utcoozhoo always tells me.”
     “I thought you told me that already.”
     “No, no, this is a different story,” she said.
     “Well, I’m sure it’s a charming story, but isn’t Tpiqlat’ng an ancient hero? If he’s a prototypical hero from mythology he would have greater courage and insight than any of us mere mortals could ever hope to have.”
     “I suppose that would be if he were a Myth, but he’s not, except to the extent that primitive people had trouble describing miraculous things they didn’t understand. So the description is a little ambiguous. But, anyway, I just want to tell you an inspirational story. Pretend it’s a bedtime story … And, anyway, you’re a contradiction, you know, because you choose to believe the worst — you’re willing to believe the ancient prophesy of doom. Right? So you want to believe the worst and I want to believe the best.”
     “Well, some of these ancient tales are very unlikely to have happened.”
     “Yes, that’s what Tpiqlat’ng said to the god Kragzluk … What?”
     I guess I must have looked exasperated, because Zawmb’yee paused in annoyance. I smiled. “Oh never mind. I’m tired enough for a bedtime story. What did Tpiqlat’ng say?”
     “Kragzluk told him he would bring all the deer to an inner garden. Tpiqlat’ng thought that was highly unlikely. Kragzluk told him he would create a Sun to place in the cave. Tpiqlat’ng broke into laughter, saying, ‘That’s as improbable as all the deer coming to be slaughtered’
          “ Kragzluk replied, ‘Intelligence applied can focus harmony into a certainty. Detail comes from focus.
          ‘The heavy-essence of the Sun can be brought to focussed resonance. When this is done, it tunnels into a crystal heart, fusing the heavy-essences with certainty.’ ”
     “What is ‘heavy-essense’ ? ”
     “Otuux thinks it means Deuterium or Hydrogen, you know, what makes the Sun shine.”
     “And what did Tpiqlat’ng say?”
     “He said, ‘Huh, what?’ ”
     “A sensible fellow, this Tpiqlat’ng.”
     “Yes, well, but he did memorize the words even though he didn’t understand it. So too, as Utcoozhoo says, we must hold all these mysteries in our minds without judgment until they coalesce into an understandable form, when the tiger only leaves his roar behind … ”
     “Huh, what?”
     “Ha, very Tpiqlat-ian of you.”

ENTRY 60
     Zawmb’yee is always such a supportive, encouraging person that I so much wanted to embrace her optimism, but this time I feared that events had overtaken any reasonable expectation of success. However, the blossoming of her enthusiasm is such an exuberant seeding of joy, even in desert sands, that I would endure a scorpion bite just to see her tickle the cactus into yielding water to drink.
     It was an odd mix of people in the cave: some were frantic, others seemed out for a picnic. I imagined those with the most information were frantic, and the others were there for a reunion atmosphere. There was our best sprinter, Ayomkst, across from the bacon-ribbon speleothems, who could zigzag around any cluster of stalagmites in record time like a slalom skier in a snow storm, graceful like a horse that all the women wanted to ride — I bet he has a stable up-top. He was unpacking a picnic basket with Efilioe, the beauty queen of the Neanderthals, a tastefully hairy situation, and they were oblivious to anything that was going on around them, each with a leg of lamb and a leg of each other.
     I think I knew too much to not be morose. “Disaster seems inevitable,” I said.
     “Yes, but even if everything were perfect all the time, all of us will eventually die.”    
     “Now who’s being morbid?”
     “I’m just following your logic, playing ‘Devil’s Advocate’. Is this world the only existence? Didn’t you hint at this question in you poetry?”
     “I guess, but that’s just crappy poetry — it doesn’t really mean anything, does it?”
     Zawmb’yee fumbled through her bag and pulled out my poetry book. She said, “And oh, would you autograph this damn thing already for me — I think I’m a friend of the author, you know.”
     “Yeah, OK, but no one is ever going to see it.” She gave me her lucky pen and I signed it.
     “Well, I don’t know about that, but you know what Utcoozhoo always says … ”
     “What?”
     “When a grasshopper has made a book from the leaves of a fallen tree, and no one has heard the tree fall, is the grasshopper literate, even if no one hears it sing?”
     “That doesn’t sound like something Utcoozhoo would say … ”
     “Yeah, OK, I say it.”
     “Um, I don’t think you’ve ever heard me sing.”
     “Yes I have, Sweet Lips. OK, I’ll indulge your dark mood with one of your ‘crappy’ poems. So, let’s see, here is ‘Dark Sun’:

          ‘Millions of years festering
          our Sun did die
          a ding in my
          youthful illusion
          of invulnerability
          just when
          we were to be married. I’d
          been born to a frozen death,
          missing you in an abyss:
          exploded gases tore us apart

          In my death,
          without body
          I searched for you
          alone in darkness
          oblivion foreplay.

          I thought you were a super nova
          an obscene sunrise. It seemed that

          only I, a dot, remained
          alone looking for the key
          to find the opening door
          to restless imaginary things
          dancing teasing lights that
          would swing open to a dream
          of glistening dots ordered
          in shooting streams of golden water
          like bubbles up the nose gently,
          dream bump ode to

          pretending again
          to sleep after playing
          that the afterplay was foreplay
          but thought dots seemed
          like black holes
          staying crushed,
          for I was a singularity
          waiting for grief
          to explode, but

          why am I looking to
          haunt an old house long gone
          and every material star

          Yes, I of soul, not flesh
          will look in the dark
          for the true light of heaven
          if you will only signal me

          If you would gather my love like kindle
          and light a campfire in heaven
          I know I could come with marshmallows’ ”

     “Egads, I’m darker than I thought … I’m sorry. You’re right: give me your beauty to gaze upon and I will conquer the world … ”
     “See that: you can sing, Sweet Lips.”
     “And as Utcoozhoo always says, ‘Zawmb’yee is so beautiful, so exquisite … ’ ”
     “Now that doesn’t sound like something Utcoozhoo would say … ”
     “Yeah, OK, I say it.”

ENTRY 61
     With Zawmb’yee stroking my face until I smiled, I briefly closed my eyes, and sighed, as Zawmb’yee took my hand. She guided me around the bend in the K’ut’mbletaw’i to the blue-tinged curtain formation, the Wejpob, a grand speleothem that many an artist has stained with rare mineral drippings, a now rarely performed technique, abandoned by the child who has become too mature to do drip castles in the sand, though here there are no ocean waves to wash a child-artist onto the dry sand of adulthood.
     Zawmb’yee slid a large boulder aside to reveal a staircase. She said, “Come to the sacred quarters. You can dry off.”
     We reached the bottom of the stairs, and the boulder slid back into place. I said, “OK, now, how can we help? I have no idea what’s going on.” We walked down a long corridor decorated with framed drawings by children — I thought, maybe, one of them might even be one of my childhood drawings (but mine I don’t think were this charming, just crude as I remember it). Zawmb’yee had mounted them herself below the gnolums, as carefully as a professional curator, making them seem as elegant as any museum display.
     Zawmb’yee said, “Utcoozhoo wants us to leave the cave again, mingle around in the up-top milieu, perhaps by the Blue Attic Club, but see if we can sniff out a trail that leads to Zusoiti.”
     “Well, I’m not exactly an expert on high society, you know, ” I said.
     “Yeah, but neither is Zusoiti.”
     “That may be, but she is quite clever, charismatic, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s found some supporters and sycophants to help her out even if she’s new to the up-top world — I’ll bet they find her oddness attractive and her obscure philosophies profound by default, when they are intrigued but puzzled, and of course, she is a champion at bluffing that she has an army behind her before she has assembled it. ” We turned a corner to Zawmb’yee’s apartment entrance hall.
     Her demeanor sagged in agreement as we approached her place. She turned to the upbeat, “Utcoozhoo says to just go with the flow — see what you see. He says we should leave the cave again, go to your place, just relax, and hang out, because serendipity belongs to us, and this is our role … ”
     “Geez, I’m glad Utcoozhoo has such confidence in us … to be cool — hang out. I think I could do that.”
     “Yes, let’s celebrate vagueness, and I have venison and buffalo fried in duck fat with truffles, just like you like it, and a little caponata, blue cheese, wine, and me … ”
     “Yes, I feel better already (and we don’t need to know what Utcoozhoo really means).” She led me to her quarters and I felt that in service to serendipity and duty to the clan, even lust was sacred if my serene mood and pleasure would massage my mind into solutions that I would find tomorrow, postscript to consummation.

ENTRY 62
     From the journey of a dream, I awoke happy, enveloped in warm morning confidence. The voice of Zawmb’yee was in my ears. She was singing, “Better Than A Dream”:
     “Enraptured in the blankets of home with you, of you,” she whispered. “Our embrace is the brightness of us, with us.” In glowing soprano, she sang, “We are the morning together, together: an awakening is here to be for real, at home — peaceful passion, satisfaction day — not dreaming, but being in the lightness of us, with us. We are warm, being the morning sun, better than a dream.”
     “You do that so well,” I said, “and you kept to the original without one of those arrangements that ruins a song. You are an embellishment, more beautiful than a song … beautiful voice … ”
     “Thanks — I knew you’d like it.”
     “Sometimes I’m in the mood and for a minute I improvise a song, but then somehow I drift off-key. It’s frustrating. I feel like I should be a singer, but my voice has run away from a roar to a snarl when it should be humming.”
     “I always love to hear your voice,” she said. “By the roar of your hum, I think you could learn to focus your sorrow, your joy, if you’d let the inner music carry you beyond a thought.”
     “That’s a thought — um, I mean, maybe I could … Where are we going today?”
     “Why don’t we go to the village near the cave exit for breakfast today. It’s quiet and peaceful and the café has good service I’ve heard.”
     “Yeah, good idea. I remember that place. Excellent food.”
     “OK. Join me in the shower and I’ll get you singing in a clean clear voice.”
     “Off to the suds then, m’Lady … Zawmbee, Warmbee is okey dokey soapy. Shall we dance to the shower?”
     “I will tune you up,” she said and did a little trill.
     It was a foamy morning. We were so clean when we dressed and left the sacred quarters.
     Zawmb’yee showed me the stairs to the Qukwerpfm. This was a new passageway for me, and I said, “How come you’ve never shown me this before?”
     “Well, you’ve always been an ‘official’ visitor to the sacred quarters, you know, like an ambassador to the White House, honored but not trusted, but now you can sneak in and out as the honorable lover with tacit approval, if not by the gods then by me.”
     We climbed the stairs. The walls were covered with Zawmb’yee’s art work. I said, “These are great. I remember seeing them when you were still angry at the paint for not being the perfect color, but you’ve made every shadow complement the bursting-out joy. Magnificent colors. Don’t you think someone should see these?”
     “Well, you’re someone.”
     “You know what I mean … you’re a great artist.”
     “Maybe. Maybe we could do that joint project you wanted to do.”
     “Oh yeah. I forgot about that. I like acrylic because it’s fast drying and you can correct mistakes quickly and keep going, but you seem to like oils … ”
     “Well, I could try acrylic … ”
     We reached the top of the stairs by the Qukwerpfm, made our way past the Cathedral formation, past the golden stalagmite with the purple pothole base, and down the final tunnel to the exit.

***
CHAPTER FIVE    
                        
LOOKING FOR ZUSOITI
    
ENTRY 63
     Emerging from the cave, we zigzagged as usual around the brambles and under the metal-leaf camouflage until we came to the clearing. I said, “Should we walk to the highway into town, or should we take the long way around, along the trail by the stream behind the café?”
     “Let’s take the scenic route,” she said.
     We walked through some brush that had a dangling sock and a scrap of paper hanging from a branch. “I see by the garbage that the village has grown,” I said.
     “Yes, it appears that way — a few more kids in town. I think the old fishermen were pretty careful about not leaving trash around.”
     “I wonder if there are still fish in the stream”
     “Maybe, if they like to eat paper … ” Zawmb’yee untangled the paper from the branch. “It says, ‘vote for the Violet Party’ … I guess the Village Board is up for grabs or something.”
     “Nah, nobody here has much cared about politics — It’s probably a promotion for the flower shop … you know, one of their contests — best daisy at the fair or dancing by the barbecue of the roses and basil or whatever.”
     “Yeah, I suppose.”
     After we thrusted through the brush to make our way to the trail, we relaxed, sauntering along the stream. A few leaves danced along the edges, and the water did look clear. Walking to the boulder where the stream wandered, I spotted some fish in the shallow water. “There,” I said.
     “Yes, I see. I guess the stream might still be healthy.”
     We and the stream meandered along gracefully, but a twitchy squirrel ran up a tree. “No nuts today,” I said.
     Zawmb’yee said, “Who are you talking to?”    
     “I meant the squirrel, but it would be nice if we encountered no nuts today.”
     There was a flitter and a chirping. The blue sky and Zawmb’yee’s eyes, matching beauties, were observing flights of fancy feathers, tickled by clouds.
     Putting something in her ear, Zawmb’yee said, “I want to get a weather report — it’s starting to get cloudy.”
     “It looks like just a few puffy ones …”
     “Hmm, rain tomorrow … yeah, yeah, yeah … and oh … I wonder …”
     “What?”
     “They’re talking about a new volcanic island forming in the Pacific Ocean, but they say it happens all the time and it’s nothing to worry about.”
     “Well, yeah, it might mean nothing.”
     “and uh, oh … that’s odd.”
     “What?”
     “More seismic activity in Yellowstone National Park. Hmm. Well, anyway, enough of that — I’ll listen to it some other time … Isn’t this a beautiful day?”
     “Yes, I wonder if Angela still works at the café. She was always willing to serve the lunch menu for breakfast — I was never fond of cereal, eggs, or other traditional nonsense for breakfast — I’ve always wanted real food.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “You know, why can’t I have smoked kippers, eggplant parmesan, trout, or chicken with cashews for breakfast? Oatmeal? I don’t think so — they feed oats to horses, right? Or once in a while, steak for breakfast.”
     “Yeah. I guess real cavemen eat meat, huh, or they crave fish like bears in a stream, ha.”
     “Yes, I will brook no oats for breakfast. Protein is needed for creativity and the stream-of-consciousness we need when we kneel at the river, praying for rain on the mountain, hoping the splash that soaks is the grace of
forgiveness and not the petulant turbulence of capricious gods.”
     “Geez, you do need breakfast.”
     “Hey, I’ve been reading and I’m trying to exercise my vocabulary. I am impatient to make a splash, be more than a corn flake …”
     “Okay. Better you be a flake than me. But I love flakes, and I will be as Shakespeare says, ‘the milk of human kindness’ in your bowl.”
    
ENTRY 64
     To the river, the stream was child, guiding us in the ripples of the day, we, streaming along like banners playfully waving at life along a gentle brook where rabble are not heard, the child’s babble joyful enough to be understood in the gurgle of a float-along morning. But the last bend in the trail brought us to the garbage bins behind the café.
     We walked around the bushes by the wall to the front village sidewalk on Darling Street across from the Antique Shop. A few steps beyond the street light and parking meter we could see the old blue and white sign: ‘Moose Café’. “Here we are,” I said.
     Zawmb’yee said, “I’m hungry enough to eat a moose.”
     “I don’t think they actually serve moose, but they have everything else …”
     “OK. Let’s go in.”
     They did have a small dance floor and stage in the back room, but except for the Moosehead mounted above the simulated fireplace, it looked like a diner with old-fashioned booths and a main counter. Angela, a tall voluptuous brunette came running out from behind the counter. She gave me a hug and a kiss. “Doug,” she said, “I haven’t seen you in a long time … who’s this?”
     “I’d like you to meet my dearest friend, Zawmb’yee,” I said.
     “Nice to meet you,” she said.
     Zawmb’yee said, “You’re Angela?”
     “Yes, so make yourself comfortable and welcome.”
     Angela ran back around the counter. Zawmb’yee and I sat on the stools. Angela went over to the side to turn up a radio. We heard, “ … according to our source in the Pentagon, known to us as ‘Stealth Fox,’ it has been determined that neither the Russians, nor the Chinese, have launched any missiles. What had been thought to be the heat signature for some sort of stealth missile cluster, launched from, of all places, the SOUTH POLE, has been found to be a radar glitch caused by bizarre atmospheric conditions. It has been rumored that the United States was within minutes of launching a retaliatory strike against the newly belligerent Russians who claimed to be doing penguin research at a newly expanded base. The White House refusing to comment on these reports, issued a statement asking the Press to be more responsible, and to not report fantasies as fact. Moscow also condemned the America press corps; in answer to a reporter’s question, a military official through a translator remarked, ‘The only launching we are doing is of a weather balloon to carry an antenna, enabling our personnel to watch the cartoon network. We suggest that American reporters bring their ideas to Hollywood’… ” Angela turned off the radio, and came over to take our order.
     Zawmb’yee asked, “What was that about?”
     “God only knows,” said Angela, “maybe it’s that stupid Ozone Hole or whatever that is, but no one on Earth is capable of launching from there, are they? Nah, the whole thing is silly. They don’t know what the hell they’re doing — they could have started a nuclear war over nothing. ”
     “Maybe,” I said, “the announcer meant to say ‘missiles coming over the NORTH Pole’. This doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it’s a radio drama, a hoax.”
     “Well, maybe, but it’s the news channel. Anyway, whatever, it’s a false alarm … So, Doug, I suppose you’re going to have dinner for breakfast again. Why don’t we let Zawmb’yee order first: what would you like?”
     Zawmb’yee glanced at a menu. “I’ll have the scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage special with hash browns au gratin and um, cherry soda with lime.”
     “Comin’ right up,” said Angela, “I’ll wake up the chef. Meanwhile, Doug, you decide what you want,” and she disappeared into the kitchen.

ENTRY 65
     I said to Zawmb’yee, “I’m not clear on something: when we go back to my place and hang out in the city, how exactly does Utcoozhoo expect us to find Zusoiti?”
     “He just said we will.”
     “This has been a peaceful morning and I was feeling great to be with you, but I can’t help but wonder if something is going on … uh … ”
     “What?”
     “Well, is it possible that something really was launched from the South Pole? Could this be the gst’fibiche brought to life?”
     “I don’t know, but nothing has happened.”
     “Well, yeah, not yet, but maybe it’s putting devices of some kind into orbit or maybe somewhere else … I mean, we know little about ancient technologies, and what they’re capable of.”
     “Don’t worry. Let’s just relax, enjoy our breakfast, and then we will head out to your place — you didn’t take down my drapes did you?”
     “No, no. Everything is intact. The apartment is just as you left it. I wouldn’t tamper with the work of the master Interior Decorator. Your couch and lamps are still in the same place. I have saved every token of you, and now you will be you in-person.”
     “You have space for my stuff?”
     “Yes, yes. All your draws are empty and ready. Plenty of closet space and your stuffed animals will greet you.”
     “OK. I think I’ll hang some of my paintings … ”
     “That’ll be great … Y’know, how DOES a person with purple hair who wants to take over the world, not be noticed?…” Speaking of not noticing, Angela had returned and was listening to our conversation. She served Zawmb’yee the deluxe platter with the cherry-lime soda.
     Angela said, “Well, we have a grand Lady with purple hair who’s running for Mayor. I might vote for her if her prophesy comes true … She is odd, but I like her … Purple hair must be a new fad or something. She is funny: she says it’s natural … ”
     “What’s her name?” I asked.
     “Zusoiti Gabpix.”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Oh my God, what’s the prophesy?”
     Angela turned the plate. “Zawmb’yee, try the potatoes — the chef added some coriander, cumin, and onion. He wants to know how you like it.”
     Zawmb’yee took a taste with a prayer and a twofold curiosity. “It’s superb — my compliments to the chef, but there’s more?”
     Angela said, “Yes, there’s a secret ingrediant, but if he likes you, he’ll give you the recipe.”
     Zawmb’yee was trying to be nonchalant. “Yes, thanks very much … um, what was the prophesy?”
     “Oh yeah. Well, she’s running on the platform that if she becomes Mayor, she’ll rescind all laws that restrict wood stoves, fireplaces, barbecues, and campfires. She says keeping houses cool for conservation is just silly, and that we should burn as much fuel as we need to. Her slogans are: ‘If plants can love carbon dioxide, why can’t we’, ‘With every exhale we love a plant’, and ‘Every fire is sacred, whatever the fuel, because to warm is to love.’ ”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Well, OK, and what is the prophesy?”
     “Oh yeah, well, it fits in with all that: she says that an Ice Age is coming … ”
     I said, “Angela, when is this Ice Age coming?”
     “Hey, Doug, all of a sudden you’re interested in politics? Hmm. Well, did you decide what you’re having for breakfast/dinner?”
     “Uh well, I like black cherry duck, but an Ice Age, when?”
     “Uh, let’s see. What day is this, oh, OK, it’s supposed to start today at three o’clock … ”
     “Today?”
     “Yeah, she calls it a five step process — first there will be a super volcano, whatever that is, which will cool the Earth for a few years, because of the ash and smoke or something in the air. Then, the Earth is going to wobble she says because the moon is going to be hit by something or other — I forget. Anyway, she’s probably nuts, but I’m curious to see what happens today … ”
     “Oh, God,” I said. I looked at Zawmb’yee who looked like I felt, wondering how anyone defends against some amorphous Armageddon, and an enemy possessing unknown weapons and purple hair.
     Angela said, “Hey, why worry on such a nice day. OK, then, Black Cherry Duck Deluxe. I’ll get chef started on it — it’ll take a while.” Angela went back into the kitchen.
     Zawmb’yee said, “What do we do now?”
     “We have to stop her,” I said.
     “How are we going to do that? We don’t even know where she is.”
     “She’s got to be in town somewhere — Angela must know.”
     I was thinking, three o’clock, so maybe we had time to do something, but had she started the process or would she trigger it at three? It was only eight o’clock and we could plan for battle, but what exactly would we be doing? I looked at the Moosehead as if a meditation on nature and kitsch would supply an inspiration. Zawmb’yee massaged her tongue with a morsel of potato, took a sip of soda, and stared at the scrambled eggs. Angela returned.

ENTRY 66
     “Doug,” said Angela, “your duck is cooking. It looks fabulous — a glaze from heaven.”
     “Thanks Angela,” I said. “Um, your favorite for Mayor sounds interesting. Does she live in town?”
     “Yeah, she bought the old mansion. She comes by every day in her limousine at ten o’clock. Do you know her?”
     Zawmb’yee, looking up, after devouring her scrambled eggs, gave me a telling look. She looked back down, and started on her sausage.
     I said, “Yeah, you could say that Zawmb’yee and I are old friends of hers.”
     “Well, then,” said Angela, “why don’t you go to her place at ten. Joe’s cab can take you. I’ll put in a call, and Joe can pick you up at 9:30 — no problem … ”
     “Uh?”
     “Hey, relax, you’ll enjoy your meal — you’ve got plenty of time.”
     Just then, the building began to shake. “What’s that?”
     “Oh, it’s probably just one of the heavy trucks coming by: they’re making a temporary detour off the highway onto Darling Street until they can fix the big sinkhole.”
     “Sinkhole?”
     “Yeah. The highway was undermined by the last flood, because they forgot about some old caves that ran under the highway. They should have filled them in years ago.”
     There was more severe shaking and the moosehead crashed to the floor. “That’s not a truck,” I said.
     Zawmb’yee said, “Angela, that’s an earthquake — definitely.”
     Angela ran out from behind the counter with a broom and a dust pan, and ran over to the moosehead. “Poor moose. Trying to charge us with your antlers, are you? What a mess. Well, we do need a change of decor. It’s always been a little tacky (the original owner put that in), but even if the locals like it, I think it should go.” She cleaned up a little, but left the moosehead on the floor.
“Yeah. We’ve had quite a few minor earthquakes. They told us not to worry. The engineer said the building is structurally sound and gave us thirty days to fix a few minor things.”
     I said, “Zawmb’yee is learning Interior Decoration. I bet she could jazz up the whole place.” Zawmb’yee was finishing up her breakfast, slurping her soda.
     “Yeah?” said Angela walking back around the counter. “Zawmb’yee, let’s talk about it. We don’t have a big budget, but maybe you could modernize it a little … ”
     Zawmb’yee said, “Sure, we could discuss a plan.”
     “Great,” said Angela, “let me show you the back room. Doug, wait here — the chef will bring out the duck.”
     Angela and Zawmb’yee went into the back room. They looked like they’d get along fine.
     It looked very promising: Zawmb’yee was getting good at negotiating new projects for herself. I knew she could do it.
     The chef proudly marched out of the kitchen with the duck platter like a bushy-browed rhinoceros temporarily calm. He was dressed in the traditional white uniform with the big hat. “Voilà,” he said, “take a taste.” He spotted the moosehead lying on the floor with an antler broken off.
     I tried a piece. “Mmm. Sweet, tart, delicately spiced, perfect. Mmm, mmmm. Some Sherry, a little blackberry, lime, a touch of anise?”
     “Could be. I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I don’t get to make it that often. Come by more often … Oh, look at that: the moose is hunting — it must be mating season. Geez, I hope the building inspector is not going to give us a hard time. My kitchen is immaculate, and no dust has ever gotten in there, and never will, even if the moose wants to play.”
     “Well, yeah. I can see that. This place is spotless — very clean.”
     “OK. Enjoy.” He went back into the kitchen.

ENTRY 67
     I heard Zawmb’yee and Angela laughing. I gobbled up some more duck — it was so good. What a splendid breakfast — so soft, so tender, so juicy. And the beauty of laughter in the background — chewing on ecstasy as beautiful women approached, was a gourmet’s delight: the perfect meal in taste, in sight, and the feathered chatter of flighty conversation singing in my being. Vibrations. Zawmb’yee and Angela came back into the room.

     Angela said, “How is it?”
     “Great,” I said.
     “Zawmb’yee has some great ideas. She’s gonna write up a formal proposal for the boss, but it’s gonna be great. She’s got the job.”
     “Thanks, Angela,” said Zawmb’yee.
     I got up from my stool and gave Zawmb’yee a big hug and a kiss. “Congratulations. I told you you’re good. I’m so proud of you.”
Zawmb’yee said, “Doug, sit down and finish your duck. Um. Angela, I’ll have the proposal and the estimate for you next week. OK?”
     “Yes, good. It’ll be no problem. It’s going to be fabulous.”
     “My friend Chloë will help me pick out the furniture and she’ll get you a really good deal. I’ll give you her résumé — she has a very good reputation in the trade.”
     “Yes, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m very excited.”
     “Yeah. Me too. I think we have similar tastes. This is going to work.”
     I finished up my meal, listening to Angela and Zawmb’yee. They are so cute.
     A jaunty fellow wearing a yellow cap came bouncing into the café. “Angela,” he said, “these folks want to go to the Mansion?”
     “Yes,” said Angela, “they know Zusoiti.”
     “Oh, OK. Hey, you all, I’ll give you a trip ticket — could you get her to autograph it?”
     Zawmb’yee and I looked at each other. Zawmb’yee said, “Sure, we’ll get you an
autograph. Just a sec’ Joe, I’ll go to the restroom and Doug finish up.”
     Joe said, “No problem.”
     “Joe,” said Angela, “how are you?”
     “I’m OK. I’ve gotten a little more business lately. It’ll work out … Hey, the moose is down?”
     “Yeah. We’re going to redecorate.”
     “Good — if you really want to know, I never really liked it.”
     “Oh, how come you never said anything?”
     “Well, everybody else seemed to like it, but I’ve always thought I’d rather see a leprechaun on a mural than that thing, and I have a feeling that both of us will find a pot of gold yet.”
     “That’s nice of you to say, Joe … ”
     Zawmb’yee returned. I gave Angela a big tip.
     Joe said, “OK, then, are we ready? Wagon train roll.”
     Zawmb’yee and I got into the cab. Joe raced down Darling Street and turned left onto River Road.

James Ziohat’s Blog

    Much has happened, but for now I’m left with the task of cleaning up the old party cave. I’m James Ziohat, the Poetry Guru. Doug, who’s the last one around that I know of, has lent me a blog to post on.
    In the 1960′s (who can remember exactly when) I founded the Xyiwa Poets. Poetry readings were held for a few select followers in secret caves. Like the impressionists in painting, we, the early vanguard poets were scorned. A few rich patrons financed the building of a luxury cave complex where wild parties were held and poetry was written on the cave walls. We called ourselves the Xyiwa poets because Jack Chelka found some obscure words that he learned in his travels, and we just picked one. We condemned the dependence on the traditional University system for validating the decadent standard for poetic excellence. Some of the early works were moderately incoherent, and meant for shock value such as this wandering verse by Jack Chelka:
Forbidden Cave
   by Jack Chelka

The scrub
cave way
often not high
not hiding
entrance to danger:
spikes and crevices of stone

Inside
never gone to.
Outside fire
guardian sits

Mob on fire
slays him
evil curiosity

wandering flesh torn inside
falls and torments
spirits savage
many hours to death
screams louder
softer
spikes and crevices
broken gasps
stone and stream gurgles
screams many hours

guardian spirit
greets the dead.
rather be outside

The Xyiwa poets can easily tear apart and destroy any formal form of poetry, making it unrecognizable. Here’s an example by Douglas Gilbert that shows how a haiku can be distorted into nothingness:

COLD ENDINGS
   by Douglas Gilbert

For the festival cry
many at the reflecting pond
see each other see
a lunch time in the park
a man gushing blood on a tree
cops jumping back to catch a

trial day for the
collapsing man on marble
his woman crying by

our exploding Sun where
couples in weeping willows
release spirits from ashes

by meowing lions
lambs in meadow’s lake

for all to
ripple still waters
with sneezes deadly mocking

Here’s another fragmented style by Douglas Gilbert:

INCOHERENT ICE
   by Douglas Gilbert

Lost cake
no birthday
deeply my song
in twists confesses

Flat note dance
in double time confessions
floored hard
fallen

With me gravely
deeply jam
rasp my horn
berries red

Lonely the night
leaky eyes stain
in fog lashes
for ships on ice
coldly stoned rocks
bleeding red confessions

Flat death
smashed cake,
deeply un-noted
twists turn to
song gash,
betrayed icing

The Xyiwa poets often ridiculed the poetic forms by including them with a non-traditional internal rhyme scheme. Here’s an example:

MRS. CLAUS HATES SONNETS
   by Douglas Gilbert

Santa Claus left her
a sonnet to read:

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust is cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss

I know you love me mole and mountain bluff
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss
no gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss

Mrs. Claus hated his bluff –
rarely did she see
his cherry lips or cheeks

She could play
with farce no more, for
the fantasy wishes
in unlabeled boxes
would not suffice
for Mrs. Claus who
wrote free verse
while Santa was busy

Santa answered
delightful letters
from giddy children, but

she received letters
of rejection from the
poetry editor,
a trochee donkey
iambic like an ass

Mrs. Claus hated when the big one
went away on Christmas,
when the snow looked like
semen dried up and flaky,
his departing stomach
like a pregnant indulgence
she could only wish for

Finally, one Christmas
when no more
could she count the
melting snow flakes on her tongue,
count the elves, the reindeer,
the orphan toys, her emptiness
overtook her sanity, and
she took an empty sleigh
to drive into the city of sin,
her naked body wrapped only
in a fur coat, a pocket
for her Santa cell phone

She left the sleigh,
tied the reindeer to a lamp pole,
strolled the streets showing a leg,
singing “Ho, ha, ha”; Heaven’s
white tears covered her head as
she peered into loneliness
waiting for a finger of love, but
she spied a lost little girl

She hoo, ha, ha’ed the girl
’till the crying subsided,
asked her name
found a Lisa

“Where’s your Daddy?”
She didn’t know,
said he went for a quickie walk

She would look to find him as
the snow thickened, her head covered
with a white crown of sorrow. Lisa skipped
and jumped close behind her like
a newly born calf not
straying too far, waiting for an available tit

Mrs. Claus walked, showing a leg. A man
appeared from nowhere, laid
his hand on her thigh
like a roadway, followed the path

Eventually he noticed
her glistening tears. Looking
in her eyes, saw
he knew her
once before

Just then, the
Santa cell phone rang.
The Elf Secret Service said,
there’s been a sleigh crash, and
Santa is dead.

The world was wrapped in gloom
as Mrs. Claus
brushed snow from her head

Joy fell from artificial boons
and wrappers filled the ocean

With a poof
unreal gifts
vanished in a twinkle,
elves all banished
to a realm of puff

Starlight appeared
on Lisa’s tears,
a word on innocent lips:
“Can we all be married, Daddy?”

With a ho, ho, ha
and a ho, ho, ho
they vowed to
do better with love
to listen to snow
gust up and swirl,
to see a gift like a crystal
had already been born

        APOLOGY BY ZIOHAT

    When we were partying and scribbling poems on the cave walls, I never thought about preserving them. I suppose that even though the walls now appear to be blank, there must still be some residue, chemical imprint, or subtle difference in the surface that was temporarily protected by the pigment of the writing. We could bring in some experts, but we really don’t want to reveal the location of the cave complex to any outsiders. However, I have found some old photo’s of a party where the walls are visible in the background and I’ve been able to read some of the old stuff.
    I’m sorry, but most of us were relatively young at the time, and although I put on a show as a Guru promoting poetry readings, the ostensible leader, I was really just excited about a rich older woman who took more than a casual interest in me. I guess, foolishly, I just thought of the poetry as a gimmick or excuse for an orgy. The older guys I guess must be dead by now. Looking back, it was really stupid not to publish in a book — after all, we were too drunk to memorize anything. Well, a few kept notebooks and did do some vanity press books. Doug has stuff out now, but not all of it is authentic to the movement — ah, well, I guess I shouldn’t be such a snob, especially as he’s been gracious enough to let me use this blog site…
    …And now that I think about it, Jack Chelka hasn’t always been that consistent either because he wanted to be published in the Mainstream press, but still wound up broke in the creek. Anyway, here’s a few different ones:

SEA SHACK
  by Jack Chelka

Below the tide line
a shack sits on my sorrow
on her grave in shallow soil
spotted ramshackle place
lair of the leopard who
could not but kill her nagging.

Wave crown like a lion’s mane,
erosion has left
an ocean opening for
pain’s swirling wash and drain

The beach shack of this leopard
shall not stand as
roaring sadness bites me there
where I will tell Guilt one thing:
eat me as prey,
pray me down soiled
blot the blood in spots
before I die awash

FRYING LAMENT
  by Jack Chelka

If feelings were enough
I could just be sad
like Swiss cheese
but there’s a hole
in that argument

You don’t know me at all
never asked to listen to me
’cause you say your tears
speak for themselves,
mine don’t
being too few, you say

If you’d let me speak
I might cry too
with an explanation that
I made the oceans

Let me fish in peace
and I might gut our problems
fry love in olive oil
stuff your poem in
a green pepper, sweet
and sour with a note from me
that doesn’t rhyme but’s
on rice paper that’s edible

I’ve been thinking about how to organize Jack Chelka’s scattered poems because I think the style varies quite a bit. I suppose I really should wait a few years until I’ve synthesized it into a more intellectual presentation, but I decided to plunge ahead with my primitive first draft. Ok, so I’ll embarrass myself a little. Jack would have liked that — he always thought I was a bit pompous considering how he suspected that I really didn’t know anything(I think I once overheard him call me the “fake Guru”, or maybe it was a curse word…) Anyway, here’s my first attempt.

Jack Chelka often fretted about his sense of identity, and pondered Love as a loss of ego:

ON DISAPPEARING

I spread myself
to be without boundaries
to conquer, to control,
yet diluted drop
doesn’t taste of
blood, soup, love
that I take back
when feeling loss of identity

Not I would be
if lost in love, but
who
is an owl, and
what a hoot feathers are
shedding

But, of course, Jack could often be grandiose. Here he imagines himself being God:

BEING GOD

I awoke this morning
finding myself not a cockroach
as in Kafka, but
as God

Everything is a bit much.
Therefore, I put all humanity to sleep,
except for one

You foolish one:
I give you
the power of Love, and
a baby

I know you will give it
the infinite Love
I have infused in you,
because this baby
is you.

Teach yourself, and
when you’re finished,
help me to continue.

I have many billions more
to surprise
with laughter

Jack experimented with the re-assignment of word function. He forced the verb to be noun with an article: “the IS” — beingness; preposition with verb also used to force the verb to be a noun: “with COULD” means “with hope”…

eeHuh Light

sanguine pump in the played
the laughed love gushed
with could by the wished
the is by the bleed
a duel duet sings
the where ever light
up pump the huh down
duh the why burden heavy

beamed out the shadowed
the light by the be
sings the shine
on flashlight, onward

Jack liked spoofs. Here’s a spoof of the song “Anything Goes”:
ANY SONG
In
the
fun
the sun
is magnificent
warming the scent
to tent all the
tender ways,
and anything goes

well,
decamping a passion
lighting a fire
drinking desire
wellsprings a choir
so,
anything goes

On
the
march
the strut
is parading love
blowing our horns
to vent all the
kisses saved,
and anything goes

Drum up a throbbing
trumpet a
heart beat
glide with a
trombone smooth,
but

In
the
sun
the fun
is significant
warming the tent
to scent all the
tender ways
and anything goes

Well, that’s all for now. Geez, I’m thinking of deleting this — I don’t think this selection does justice to the body of his work — I think he’s done better. I could leave it for now, and I’ll search for more — I know I remember there was a lot more that was better…
————–
One of the underlying techniques embraced by the Xyiwa poets was the unending sentence, dependent clauses galore. This one is hard to follow until you realize that it is structured as “John, a blah-blah, troubled, is lost”:

The Explorer of the Clause
   by Jack Chelka

John, explorer of the weird
troubled by the accumulating
detritus of fear, greater in
reputation than courage, who
might easily step into
an abyss of unending tragedy, if
his fans goaded him into
indulging his foolish bravado by
leaping into supernatural danger, a
lurking phantom of dread, a figure
from the closet of his childhood,
this danger that he could
wrap around himself like
a cloak of honor, he, standing on
the magical cliff above the cheering crowd
who wait for his downfall, playing for time
that would run his future out of luck
with his last coin for the
slot machine of lemon cars driven
into rivers of lost hope, and who
distinguished as a novelist
fighting to publish the memoirs of a fool,
hoping bad jokes can be extremely bad,
campy comic and like a
very excellent counterfeit painting, one that
all collectors will insist is real to
save both their face and his, hoping a
cult following will astound the critics, but
not curse him when he ultimately
disappoints them with his frailties, those
quirks that twitch in the night of the dead authors,
is lost

John is lost and so am I, but this one is a little easier to follow:
Blubber
   by Douglas Gilbert

The psychic woman
had showed her
rough seas ahead,
said beware the tides
and flowing kisses,
but that seemed like
shallow waters to her

She had a fifth
her thick handkerchief
mopping up her eyes
highly high on her trumpeted mope
slipped on her poor spilled
cocktail of his love kisses
lost crawling
across the stage
where she was to sing beige
before a sea of mahogony tables
over drunks and hecklers
sticky stinky beckoning
bass strings plucking her heart
blubbering
woe tale wagging about him
the bragging whale
who blew his spout
and left her high and dry.

Seeing her collapsing,
I could not bear her despair,
rose to say,
“I have always loved you,”
and we all stood,
hecklers and all,
to beg the last song

She knew me at last–
kissed me, the little one

Turning from beige to blue
caressing the mike,
she rasped in weeping harmonies
“Stand for me
the stood-up one;
harpoon my love and
sail me to the Port,
wine me down mellow,
me, a cello solo
singing this tale of prophecy:
the big ones get away, and
the little ones stay.”
———————————–
Jack worked as a chef once and had a steamy affair with a rambunctious waitress named Marie who wrote a few poems about him, and although they had many fights, she did tend to exaggerate. Here’s one of the milder ones:

I Dump the Chef for the Poet
   by Marie Draper

My precious chef is a practical man
knows where to find fragrant garlic
can drive a chive dish to profit
buys me gifts and trinkets
but won’t let me buy him mouthwash
says smell is macho natural
won’t wear sissy cologne

I want less spice
more romance
but not a diamond ring;
mushrooming passion singing
brings a new excitement to

another, my passionate poor poet
complex, enigmatic
a soul layered
like an onion

In my buttercup, Poetry Man,
I shall sauté our bubbling love
and be soft
don’t make me cry
though I’m unfaithful to riches

Now, who will bring me
a hero
sandwich first

Marie could cook too. She made some special dishes on occasion. Pastele is a traditional Puerto Rican dish — Wrapped green banana stuffed meat pastry. It’s wrapped in parchment paper, and made with pork.

Having Pastele
   by Marie Draper

When I write my poems on parchment
he is my spicy pork
boiling with passion
wrapped in words of love
filling my scroll
dipping in the lip
of a labia pastele seeker
————————————-
I seem to remember there were a lot of poems written by the Xyiwa poets about floods and storms, but unfortunately I think most of them were written during the purge ceremony: We had a pile of pens, markers, crayons, and paint brushes with buckets of paint scattered about with a giant stack of old computer fan-fold paper. Someone started a chant, “Write your ire — throw it in the fire.” All night we wrote hundreds of pages, most of it crap, and threw it into a bonfire. By not worrying it was supposed to eliminate writer’s block. The day after, we liked to imagine that everything we wrote was a masterpiece. But unfortunately(or fortunately), Paul Chelibi had bad aim and a few of his poems missed the fire, or at least that’s what I surmise from finding a charred scrap, or maybe it was from a different time and he meant to burn it and changed his mind. I suppose it might need more work, but it’s too late for that now. Well here’s the burnt draft I found:

Her Floods
   by Paul Chelibi

Technology
you fair weather friend,
have you seen her?

500 year almanacs, and
planes by twilight
didn’t warn us

She and I had last cognacs
before floods scoured

Now lost I am
forgetting her for hours
awash in fragrant flowers
in harsh despair I pray will soften,
but since I see a glimpse too often
of glints in shadow sorrows seen,
I look for her still in rainbows
gone in soaking drowning rains
those floods awash in flagrant flows
of love remains awash and soaked
like boundless muddy sadness buried,
in all, forlorn to mourn a body missing,
not saved by dams man-made
nor comfort jammed assistance,
but madness of sadness remains to be found lost
on ships listing heavy in names of my loss

I also think this one escaped purge night:

Still Verse Born Dead
   by Paul Chelibi

I showed you my
only poem child
who wanted to sing me
the gospel of my wails
to sail on windy travails
my hurricane of desire

He is too fragile for you
to adopt

You won’t
rock us to sleep
when calm seas
seem too boring
to let us dream
of tranquil verse
because
our cries to the sky
are more amusing
by doldrums
than albatross

Here’s a more recent one written by Doug, but he claims he wrote a much better one those many years ago that he threw in the fire on purge night, claims it was magnificent, but nevermind — we’re all stuck with minor work now:

A Wash Day
   by Douglas Gilbert

Clear skies a sad beauty
blue light on the
heavy smashed awash

Flagging hopes asunder
only her scarf waves
a brick on its end

My eyes flutter full
overrunning my face
a thunder sob escaping me
though death escapes her not
beneath a fallen wall

Waves
she had for me
while I was away

Waves she got
while I could not
wave good-bye

Last wave
too high for tiptoes
dancing toes, dainty
toes in the water

I wave of me in light
it waves of blue in dark,
last waves cried tsunami
—————————————
   The Xyiwa Poets had many “unanswered prayers” — none of them were ever published in a legitimate publication to my knowledge, and I don’t think any of them made it to Woodstock. I haven’t been in contact with any of them except for Doug who’s letting me use this blog space while he recovers from his brush with death and … well that’s another story. I think Paul Chelibi went to the Grand Canyon once, but probably that has nothing to do with this poem of his:

Climbing Music
   by Paul Chelibi

I am my own donkey
carrying my mule-song
down this canyon road
narrow ledges slippery

More than once
I grasp a tree root
protruding from rock crevices
devastated to hear
answered cries are echos
off backpacks heavy with
futile supplies
too heavy to cross the river
too light to turn back
unanswered prayers
heard by vultures circling
seen by eagles leaving
scenes tumbling in
avalanched dreams
hoping to reveal a cave
a cave-in song, or
you

   Marie Draper was a troubled person who prayed often and experimented with many different religious movements. She kept a journal or diary but was unfaithful to it. Sometimes she shared her journal entries with the group and certainly, everyone would agree that she had many “unanswered prayers”. She said,
“The restaurant where Jack works(where he thinks he is chief Chef, but is really just a lackey — I mean, he hasn’t been to Cordon Bleu school or whatever the hell those elite saucy snob cuisine colleges are called) has been in turmoil ever since one of Jack’s prize steers on his cattle ranch died. He’s not much of a rancher or cattleman and his dream of a new cut of prime famous branded beef has died. As they say, “he’s all hat and no catttle.” He was going after that dream of a perfect herd and great riches. The death of his best stud was the end of a dream. I told him that the Native Americans always said a prayer before eating an animal(so maybe he forgot that part): they thanked the spirit of the buffalo for sacrificing itself for their survival. Jack doesn’t want to put prime beef on the menu for eating anymore — I wouldn’t be surprised if he put a memorial sticker over the entry on the menu. He’s too sad. He just wants to bury it. I say, eat the meat because we have canine teeth for it and we’re not meant to be vegetarians. I’ve written a poem in honor of death and chicken bone soup for poor Yorick or Boris or whoever that famous allusion is, and I think I’m going to dump him, the arrogant chief Chef, because we fight too much. I guess I should have taken him with a grain of salt and thought of him as a poetic moment— wait, um, what ever happened to that discussion at the cave party? I thought we were going to amplify on that concept. Somebody started a flu poem and then did a second more poetic version…. well anyway, here’s the poem:

Marie on Death of a Chef Who Loves His Beef More Than Me
   by Marie Draper

Don’t rip me no more
you’re tearing out my guts;
I’m tearing out yours
spewing entrails
in my trail

I’m stuffin’ it;
take your chitterlings and go
’cause I’m not mad enough
to eat your brains.

Sweet bread, I
once thought you
were sweet enough
to eat without your pancreas

Defeated I cry blood, but
your pain:
take it with you
because
it’s a pleasure
to vomit alone without you:
I can flush

Oh, writing hurts so much, well.. so this scattering:
Oh hell, what is this crap, “Poetic Moment”. I’m not sure what that means. Is it an incident and an emotion that’s trying to be expressed? I’m not sure what many of these poems are trying to say. Some seem to be hiding very dark events that are too painful to express. But I don’t think that vagueness in poetry is always a virtue(I almost accidently spelled that “vulture”, but I guess vagueness can’t be a vulture, because the carcass is the vagueness I guess— you can see I have trouble with metaphors). Am I wrong about this? My poetic moment is confusion:
I’m confused about
what words to use
to stew my angst
banking fear by the river
where I stir my pot
over the campy fire
with soft marshmallows
charring with emotion

Maybe I misunderstood something, but I thought one of the poems that someone blurted out during one of our drunken orgies was about rape. So I wrote a poem talking about revenge and/or forgiveness. So we come back to vagueness: I don’t know what I’m saying, if anything:

Cornered in Hell
he holds his breath
while praying for his birth

The Devil asks me
shall he be forgiven:
you decide

No, no, no,
I cry in remembered blood, but
a question occurs to me to ask

Have I ever been in Hell
on Earth or elsewhere, and
whose forgiveness did I require

I was tempted until I heard
my former tormentor shout,
I will get you even from Hell

My screaming anger
burst into flames
turning him into the ash
of a phoenix

Whose remorse
will God seek now

Not mine is a life that
is an end to suffering.
Pain will not let me forgive”

That’s the end of the entry that Marie donated to the group. Each of these is very different but I think they both represent “unanswered prayers”.
—————————–
Discovery! I found a box of old 45rpm records, and tucked between “Honky Tonk Women” by The Rolling Stones and “Knock On Wood” by Eddie Floyd, I found a gem of a poem by Marie Draper. Gee, I don’t think there’s a turntable anywhere in the cave to play any of these. Oh well, here’s the poem:

Minding A Mine
   by Marie Draper

Loving a stone
is like being stoned
’cause
he comes alive
sometimes, love
revealed
coursing in gold veins,
sometimes he’s
in my mine
and I share my treasures
pleasures we are
in my mind, but
he is a rocking
a stone of mystery
sometimes
he is a gem,
could be
I love a stone

And I found this one at the bottom of the box. I had to wait to stop sneezing from all the dust before transcribing it.

Rushing Love

I call to the waterfall
who shushes my heart
fallen

Peeking through
a shining sky peaks

Waterfalls speak that
shining tizzy for bears who
love a glistening fish falling in

jumping bubbles of dinner calling,
but alone I watch for

the arrow of Cupid
within the rushing twirling fluid
and I pray to the guardian
of the calming sound
for a listening lover
found so fit
to christen me in
the love in a bubble
a splashing sound
found when
champagne glass
breaks for a ship
———————
     Cleaning up the mess has been more tedious, more arduous than I could have ever imagined, slowed when an objet d’angst brings me the pain of reminiscence, tiny little crumbles and broken things. What is it I should remember…
     Y’know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that as kids we were arrogant and foolish to think we were inventing new theories of transcendence: we thought that thought-games would liberate us from redundant emotions and sentences to obscurity such as this. Venting anger on paper was supposed to cleanse us. It didn’t work. If anything it reinforced our rage.We must have written hundreds of angry, unfocussed poems that wound up in the trash. But I think when Paul Chelibi helped Marie Draper write a few, it wasn’t too bad.
     I found something the other day. I had been doing a meditation on a stack of 45′s when I found a tightly crumbled up wad of paper in the center hole of a record. At first I thought it was a crude version of one of those plastic conversion discs that were used to change the large hole of a 45 to a small hole so you could play it on a 33 1/3 rpm turntable. Maybe, out of curiosity, I’ll try to play it, some other time, to see if it has any significance– hmm,”Lover’s Holiday” by Peggy Scott & Jo Jo Benson? Sort of scratched up…
     I’ve unfolded the crumbled up center paper and even with all the dark black pencil scribbles all over it, I’ve managed to pick up the impression of the writing from the undersheet. So here’s one which I think was a tamed down version from an argument between Marie and her sister about who would make a better hypothetical Secretary General of the UN. It’s pretty mild and I think maybe the original rant was better. Paul broke up the fight, and by the time he and Marie decided to collaborate on a poem they were both too calm and too drained of passion. I’ll look and see if I can find some other draft, but for now here’s the crumbled up version:

Adze
  by Marie Draper (with Paul Chelibi)

While resolutions were tabled
at the foot of war
peace was axed, and
the ancient evil growled
in the castle fortress
on the pimple of the world

The blond UN lady
knew I would blitz
up the hill with
my adze
for I had advertised
my attack with polish
that it was time to chop wood

Dreaming at the foot of twilight
the ancient house called
me to reform its recalcitrant wood
to etch a notch in the handle of my adze
by slaying the dragon
saving my son but
I had brass and so did he,
so I arrived to his triumph
kissed his success
as we cried for the dead

Kiss my adze blond lady
if you want to auction it
to the highest bidder who
chops down ancient trees
in the forest of the evil castle
where the Beast waits
to be transformed by
the Beauty of justice
at “twilight’s last gleaming”

If I would be as beautiful
as he is ugly
I might approach him
with reproach
but I polish
the handle of my adze
until I am pure of heart
and the wood is ready for carving
because death is the only solution
for the impudence of ignorant brutality

Only revenge now
when evil breathes fire

Tasty is the barbecue
that roasts on the
spit of freedom

And speaking about rage, here’s one by Doug:

Killing Dad
  by Douglas Gilbert

Justice, I called on you
to shield me
from my father,
a hanging judge
self appointed
child critic
who made me
an orphan from love
as he had been one
in fact and for me
de facto. TURNING AWAY,

a scientist, giving me
a time machine,
let me go back to pre-mean.

Seeing my Grandmother
hit by a random stone
I lured her into a trap, thought to
let the crowd stone her to death
a method ensured to suggest
to Fate that my Father never be born.

Told I could not come back
as I wouldn’t exist,
I visited myself as a child,
had him kill, but
it took an extra day for
his Mother and him to dump the body,
never did tell his friend Becky
to check out the museum where
she was to meet her future husband,
father of the world’s greatest healer.

If it was my fate to suffer
I was convinced these paradoxes
made time traveling circuses
dreams not to be had
as I know I woke up from
somewhere unreal,
but next time I’ll
introduce Becky,
then kill him
except…
I could have gotten help
when Justice I called on you
but you were dead;
I am Justice alone.
———————————-
    I didn’t want to do any spring cleaning because bringing back memories is so painful. I’ve been finding all kinds of stuff.
    I found an odd note from Jack Chelka: “I’m sorry I left in such a hurry, so if you find any of my poems, could you please burn them. Well, OK, I know you never listen to me, so, could you give them to Doug in case he ever publishes anything. He can do whatever he wants with them. I’m going somewhere — maybe Australia. You are groovy Ziohat… and don’t take this the wrong way but you have been so cool and I love your… nevermind… peace and love,
Jack Chelka, 1969
p.s. Marie Draper says, ‘Right on.’ “

Well yeah, great guy, and I’ve found at least one poem that was to be burned:

Not A Fair Match

This last affair
not a fair match
in the clinches

Saving the ring and little else
only one tissue an eye
dampened
dripped insufficient
last box