EC 543

A Happenstance Witness and The Holy Ghost:

Neither a novel or documentary, but for the patient reader

a timely story about the collapse of Modern and Post-Modern Times.

By © Ludis Cuckold

For They Know Not... (11)

I awoke this morning in a state of ‘angst’ or, if you will, with a troubled mind. The musings inside my head had returned me to the land of my forebears, where I found a community demoralized by its own zombie government, which has got into the habit of shifting its incompetence in state craft on the ‘Russians’ and has joined discombobulated Americans in cheering their discombobulated war mongering Kenyan-born president.

War among zombies would of course be a solution, except to look at a zombie is to become a zombie. Like it or not, zombies have pretty much cornered the advertising industry. Zombie missionaries have never been more prevalent than at this time and are about to occupy Mars. Unless the oral word makes a comeback and is enabled, and dismisses the legal profession (which presently controls the written word and writes teleprompter texts) from its out of mind virtual existence, humans are on Mars already. This is the reason why there is hope—that the necessary oral order will come in time to leave the tourists on Mars regardless of what the opinion a Supreme Court Judge writes.

It is not that Ludies are any different from other humans, but they are not the ones who began parceling out our planet to private interests any more than wolves or tomcats are becoming less territorial. It took the descendants of ‘the ludies of the wood’ a long time to awaken to the fact they were but the remnant of a violently enforced forgetting. One such example comes from the Russians, who to this day believe that they were invaded by the Mongols, when in fact their homelands were invaded by the Vikings (from  whom the Germans and latter day Americans) and exploiters of their own peoples.

The Russian past is a time and a landscape they have largely  forgotten. Tsar Peter the Great was one of the first to dimly comprehend what had happened and had Russia pay a heavy price for a last minute rescue: he forced it (Old Believers and like communities) to lose its soul by enforced westernizing, that is, catholicizing the original autocephalous stock. The criminal activities (from the perspective of the faithful) of Patriarch Nikon (17^th century) are being continued to this day through no less traitorous activities of the befuddled Patriarch of Moscow Kirill (21^st century).

St. Stalin, an heir of Peter (apparently reincarnated in the President of Russia—Vladimir Putin ), was another savior-traitor when he mistook the utopian dreams of such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778) and Lenin for God’s own reality. From the perspective of nature and not yet virtualized humankind, Rousseau was among the first wholly befuddled human beings who emerged out of the city wholly enveloped in the fog of virtual reality. Because of his romanticism and utopianism, Rousseau had no idea he was not real.

Yesterday evening I received a texted message from Daisy. She apologized that she had not contacted me sooner and excused herself by observing that she had financial problems. She wrote that she had had several days off from work, which she had spent planting her garden: had put in potatoes, onions, tomatoes, carrots, and only butternut squash (of which I had presented her a package) and cucumber seeds were still awaiting their turn. Daisy wrote that in a few days she would have another day off work, and offered to come clean my house then. She also asked me to drive two of her children to the dentist, which I agreed to do. As I lay in bed still half asleep, I was more than happy to know that at last someone was coming to sweep up last fall’s 10,000 dead flies off the floor of my ‘meeting house’.

My mobile phone beeped again. It was a message from Indra reminding me that today, Sunday, was Summer’s Day. As is common among Latvijans, she expressed her sentiments from a borrowed poem. The words that have stayed with me asked to: “…expend your soul in a warm smile….” Indra said that she was sick, and wanted to know if I could come meet her.

Indra’s message caught me at a time when the image in my brain had turned me into a nestling, which a cuck-coo bird had pushed from its nest. Was I being visited by dementia brought on by senility? With my skin not yet covered by feathers, I was lying at the bottom of the tree wondering…. What next? Indra’s greeting channeled my thoughts onto her situation….

…She walks with a limp, because many years ago her alcoholic husband had kicked her in the legs. Her one child, a teenage son, suffers from epilepsy, because during an argument with a school companion, that companion had hit him on the head with a fagot and caused a concussion. The boy’s problems are aggravated by a disturbed mind. He has been seen walking the streets of the local town in a state of inebriation. My resources are insufficient to extend such help as he needs: The brain operation which may help cure the problem of epilepsy costs several thousand euros and neither I nor his mother are likely to come with such money any time soon. Neither do I know what kind of operation is being suggested. I am not likely to support a lobotomy if such is still among medical practices.

My friend, eighty-five year old Helen (whom Oscar befriended, then when drunk, chased around the house with an axe in hand, then years later—disturbed by his disturbed deeds--hung himself from a bathroom pipe), sends me greetings and wishes me to “have success with a young lady.” Helen then asks me to drive two ‘elderly’* ladies decimated by alcohol to the grocery shop.

*Both women look to me about sixyty years old. When I ask one of them how old she is, she tells me “forty-three”. I am surprised and not surprised. This is what virtual humans have turned real humans into.

Also a message from “Sparrow”. She recently celebrated her 59^th birthday. She writes that she has received from the electric company “a last warning”, Her electricity will be shut off if she does not pay her overdue bill of 37 euros or eiriks quickly. She also tells me that she is passing shards of kidney stones. Can I help? Unfortunately, I cannot. I have to have my car inspected at the state transport control agency this month, and the car is in need of repairs. The government refuses to reduce such inspections to one every two years, because that would reduce indirect taxation and empower the people. I sense that Sparrow is annoyed by my negative response, because she does not respond to my reply as she usually does.

I tell myself that I need an angel to sort things out. I find it curious that though I have never seen an angel, I give them credence. Over the years, I have been visited by a few. My angels have some of the attributes of a hexagram of the I Ching of which there are 64.

I get out of bed, and turn on my computer. I click on a link I have saved from the day before. As if on cue, an angel flies in from Alaska. Her name is Melinda (hexagram 49). She reminds me that the words "...for they know not what they do..." are closely linked to words not uttered "...for they know not who they are."

Melinda flies with her hair dyed purple and her washing machine humming in the background. She informs me, in so many words that God has forgiven Stalin—after he relives (I presume after successive reincarnations) the experiences of the victims he has killed unjustly and whose moral crimes are lesser than his own. Melinda informs as a matter fact that “the business of God” is love, and that Judgment is a matter of the human ego. Though she turns my ego into a criminal creature, I have no problem agreeing with her. Apparently of those of us living on our planet—from the Tibetan perspective—so few achieve Nirvana that the rest are all transgender Stalins and Hitlers to an n^th degree and no end of rebirths in sight.