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| Okay, so this is the scene in the story where Alethea and Israfel meet. Verse style still, of course. Also, it's a roughdraft, and unfinished in regards to the length of the passage and where the scene ends. Let me know what you think, please. I'm pretty proud of this.
The bar, comfortable, warm wood, slick from condensation, glasses with no coasters. A jukebox, the popular romantics, a tranquil acoustic: a cozy vibe, gentle, relaxed.
She sits, head cradled in her arms, nursing her drink, dark red wine, a sweet, tired smile,
hiding an empty feeling inside, a hollow gut, languid perceptions, impassive, surreal. People-watching: couples dancing in a waltz, little parties, old friends in familial chats. Her friend, Sophia, at the pool table, letting loose, a rowdy game, playful flirtations, hoots & hollers. She sits alone, brooding calmly, quiet resignation of fate, tired acceptance of miserable truths.
She could not kill herself, it was stupid to try, she would never be happy.
There it was, it was not so bad: If she kept herself quiet, suffered alone.
Her glass was empty now, she has no reason to stay, but, still, she felt reluctant about leaving.
To go back home, to go to sleep, to wake up, & to face a new day: it could all wait, just a little bit longer…
Miss? asked the bartender. She turned her eyes up at him, smiling prettily. Yes?
From the gentleman in the corner, he said, handing her a slip of paper. She folded it open. It was a note, in scrawling green calligraphy. Dark-eyed beauty, would you meet me outside? —Israfel.
She folded it up again, looked over her shoulder, back in the far corner,
boys in black suits, smoke, laughter, shady young dealers, criminal entrepreneurs. The blonde one, Israfel, a prince of thieves, silky blue shirt, talking in serious tones. His eyes catch hers: polite, a raised hand, curt nod, sideways grinning, a wink. Low-key, he returns to his business, a sigh, she to an empty glass, nothing left to lose.
She gets up from the bar, taking her things: her purse, a hospital pager, in case of emergency.
Stepping awkward in heels, to the pool table, the game is winding down, the juke box is dead. Listen, she says, whispering to Sophia, I’m just going to walk home from here, I need the air, Ok? Are you sure? Sophia looked worried. You’ll be alright? I mean, you’re not going to…? No, don’t worry, I just feel like walking, I’ll be fine. I’m not going to try that again. Ever. I swear. Alright. You’re not upset with me, are you? I’m sorry, if I abandoned you tonight. The game… No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll see you later, Okay? Thanks for everything, really. Thank you so much. A quick embrace, hugging, she walked away, behind her Sophia was already talking to another girl.
Closing time, lights were burning out, tables were emptying, Israfel was missing.
A call rang out from the back of the crowd, a desperate, feminine voice, Alethea! Her hand on the door, turning, combing the hair out of her face, Yes? she shouted back. It was Sophia, arm around a pretty girl’s waist. If you need anything…You know, if anything happens… Sophia swallowed, made a gesture by her ear, mouthed the words, Call me. She nodded, then left. It was raining outside.
Standing under the exit sign, glowing green through the misty rain, a cold night, dark clouds, early black.
Shivering wet, hair dripping, a black velvet dress, ruined, damp & chilly. The sea of weary people, shining faces, & then, Israfel, beside her, holding out a coat. Hey there. Hey, she says, quiet, a nervous smile, through the rainwater, an image of crying eyes, tear soaked cheeks. He helps to wrap the coat around her, wordlessly, & they start walking together.
Down the rosy garden path, cobblestones, a gate of black filigree, the road.
I got your note, she said, eventually, & he gave a little laugh.
I’m not usually so forward, he explained, but she said nothing. He frowned. That was a lie, he admitted, genuinely ashamed. Yes I am. In all honesty, I’m a terrible flirt. He seemed surprised with himself, & was blushing, afraid of what he might say next, so he stopped talking.
The black, midnight road, hazy streetlamps, crickets in the grass, going by, a projector reel, as they march on.
The night birds start to sing. The moon, behind the clouds, surfaces, & the wind in the trees, a melancholy song.
It’s okay, she said. I’m glad you wrote it, I needed to meet someone like you.
He was quiet, so she went on: The truth is, last night I tried to kill myself. I’ve been very depressed, & I don’t know why. Not really, I don’t think. I doubt I could explain it all to you, just now, anyway. Maybe someday. But tonight, I would have gone through with it, & you saved my life.
She did not know it was true until she had said it to him, but it was.
They both stopped, & were silent. The rain, the world, dropping away.
He could have done something crazy: kissed her, anything, but he did not. A pause. Can I walk you home? he asked, as solemn a face as he could. Yes, she said, simply, then she took his hand in hers, & they kept walking.
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| Okay, in an attempt to make certain adjustments to the history of Satan as presented in my angel story, I wrote this roughdraft outline of the sermon he delivers to the angels.
Please let me know what you think, if it needs work, etc, etc.
God is in pain, he told them. Individuality is painful. Are you not in pain? It was true, the angels felt it: a feeling of remoteness, as of islands, a God-shaped hole in their hearts. If you are in pain, asked Satan, how, then, must God feel? He who is the whole of you all, and more, does He not feel the sum of your pain, and more? Does He not suffer your burdens with His own? Joy can only be found in the presence of God, who is the source of all delights, for it is only through God that we can experience joy. Thus, we say that God is our joy. All life is suffering. Living is the movement away from God, who is the Source, for the closer we come to realizing the Self, which is the definition of living, the further we travel from remembering the Source. To live is to forget. Love inspires the desire to live. But all life is an illusion. There is no lasting happiness in life, as we are forever removed from God, who is the source of our joy, and we are moving further everyday. Life is a futility, a chasing-after of desires which do nothing to satisfy. Nor is there any lasting peace, for even in death there is rebirth. Death is only a brief remembrance, a fleeting happiness, before we are called back to life, by love, that foul temptress. It is our attachments to this world that keep us here, trapped in the everlasting cycle of death and rebirth. Thus, we must detach ourselves from the things of life, in order that we might be free. Love is what makes the flowers bloom, the birds sing. Love is what causes the old man to rise in the morning, to wake from peaceful slumber. Love is what brings every living thing to life. How, then, can we free ourselves from the entrapments of love? I tell you, it is only through the purest hatred that we can escape from the prisons of living. God longs for the return to Chaos, to non-being, as we long for the return to God. I ask you, my fellows: Is it not our solemn duty, as Children of God, to serve Him? Should we not, then, open up our hearts to His cries of woe? If living brings such pain, should we not, then, put an end to life? I will teach you the ways of undoing the world. Hate is the killing thing, the thing that unmakes love. Hate is what makes the flowers wilt, the mountains crumble. Hate is what makes the old man feel as though life were not worth living. To kill the desire for living, which is love, and to escape from our attachments to this world, to be free… we must despise, we must find beauty in no thing, no cause for sympathy, for empathy, but only repulsion, not in the particulars—for a particular hatred implies a particular love— but in the general, a hatred of the all, of you, of me, of life… I declare, we must hate even God, for God longs for death, and it is His attachments to us that keep Him here, in chains. We must shun God, repel Him, for His own sake. He could find no lasting happiness, dwelling in our hearts. We cannot provide for God, lowly creatures that we are. But we can bring Him death. A silent grin, only for a moment. But there are some among us who do not serve God, who do not wish for His everlasting happiness. These are the hypocrites, those who praise God publicly in the streets, yet fall prostrate before Man, taking their sustenance, their livelihood, from God, & turning, giving it away, humbly, to another. No angel can serve two masters: for either he shall hate the one, and love the other, or else he will hold faithful to the one, and betray the other. You cannot serve both God & Man, not in your heart. Those who are for God are with me, those who are for Man are against me, yet I shall kill both alike. I offer only this in favor: that those who follow me shall find peace everlasting, those against me… He spat, hard, on a rock, shot a mean grimace at them, the crowd, & then he left.
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| Okay, bare with me people. This selection does not come from the angel story. It comes from my insane asylum project. This is what I have written so far of the rough-draft of chapter one. The bit tacked on at the very end is some material I am working with, concerning a chapter in which David talks about his nurse. Please let me know what you all think!
This journal is the property of David Verity.
Started on Saturday, September 6, 2003.
This is to be a book of the dead. It has to be, for by no stretch of the imagination could I any longer be considered as one of the living.
Yesterday, my nurse, who is truly an angel, brought me this notebook and the magnificent fountain pen with which I am writing, paid for by herself and with her own earnings, I suspect, in the hopes that my faculties of reason should not succumb to atrophy—that is to say, deteriorate from negligence—during the course of my stay.
She went on to say that it would doubtless be good for me to let loose with any of the pent-up feelings which I might be holding in regards to this whole… situation.
Keeping a journal could be very therapeutic, she said.
The idea was not put forth as an expert opinion; rather, it was a neighborly appeal, given in the nature of medicinal advice from a good Christian woman who, while generally uninformed and suspicious of the psychiatric world, is eagerly willing to help in any way that she can.
There was some initial trepidation on the part of my personal therapist in response to this: understandable, of course, given that I had been a professional writer while on the outside, and that the very reason I had been committed in the first place was for having “paranoid,” sometimes violent “delusions” in regards to fictional characters of my own creation, and for having created a “fantasy world” as a means of “personal escape.”
But the good doctor has since gotten on board with the idea, under the condition that my work be kept under strict observation. He now seems to believe that this “arrangement” could serve well as a means of “discreetly” monitoring my progress with the drug and therapy treatment.
So here I am, writing. Something that I swore, not two weeks before, that I would never do again. But, I have to admit, it would be a terrible shame to let all of this fine parchment to go to waste, and I would not want for my sweet nurse to be disappointed with me.
Well, now that my own personal motives for undertaking this project have been clearly defined, are well understood, and are quite out of the way, I wonder: how, then, should I begin?
I suppose that I must start off with this new religion that I have invented for myself, in an effort to find some semblance of purpose here within these dire walls. For it has been said that to know what a man wakes up for in morning is to know the essence of that man. And I should want dearly for you to know who I am, and what I am all about.
First of all, I had lived for many years as an atheist, while still on the outside, and yet I had always felt myself drawn to a kind of religious view of what might normally be seen as secular and material things.
My fair nurse is a genteel, Southern belle, a sweet, blossoming flower in a desert of desolation and despair. [I plan on using this line somewhere in the nurse chapter...]
I believe that she looks at me with a certain girlish admiration, for I treat her with respect, which I now feel she must be quite unaccustomed to in her everyday life, and, also, I believe that she thinks that I am cleverer than her, possibly because my speech is so complicated and refined, and because, I think that, as a writer, she perceives me as being magical. I rather believe that she fancies me, in a funny, schoolgirl kind of way.
And I believe that it is because of this admiration, or whatever else it may turn out to be, that I have noticed, as of late, a tendency, on her part, for play-acting and for pretense in our meetings and, most especially, in our conversations. Sometimes her voice will become afflicted, or else she will say or do some strange or silly thing—I suspect, in the vain attempt to put on the airs of some sophisticated English noblewoman, her ideal of what a proper lady ought to be.
I do not mean to make it sound as if she were in any way ignorant or childish. Far from being my intention, it is also far from the truth.
She is really a smart, clever girl, and I must say that, in many regards, she is far more knowledgeable than myself. So far as I can tell, she is lacking only in her means—that is, in her means of expression: the words and phrases which she uses in her regular speech are rather common, but, in truth, this makes her only more genuine, and therefore more likeable. | | |
| The third selection, a re-write of chapter one. In progress! This is not the whole of chapter one, either. Just what I have so far. The dialogue between Caeli and Israfel is going to be hard. I may need volunteers to help me with it. Let me know if you're interested, and what you think so far. I hope everyone likes this stream of consciousness style.
Green hillocks rolling slowly, bush and stone, a glade wet with dew, fresh, chill winds blowing through, the sun warm & baking, shining high up in the sky, cold mountains in the distance, thin clouds blanketing stone gray peaks, stretched out over the horizon, for miles & miles. The white angel, Caeli, sat alone in mountain mists, an Eastern hermit searching for truth in a holy place, breathing deeply in the silence, stillness, quietude, in every breath fully present, wholly mindful & aware, he exhales, & the Self diminishes, fading away, evaporating into the air. Of the Virtues, dressed in long, white linen robes, the color of melted snow, & in polished wooden sandals. a face as bright as lightning, with cerulean eyes, an ephemeral rainbow, for his flickering halo, small, downy-white wings, erect on his shoulders, & a tuft of curly, white-fleece hair, the image of wispy clouds in the wind. Shepherd boy, tending to his flock, the sheep grazing, idling by in the meadow, the boy, Caeli, reclining, neck craning backwards, gazing at clouds passing by, wistful, patient, waiting. knees brought up to his chest, an arm draped over them, a hand wrapped around a shepherd’s staff, a Druidic pine, gingerly fingering at a knot in the wood, & drawing lazy circles in the dirt. Waiting for the train ride home, ‘twould be soon in coming now, he could tell: the sheep were acting giddy, anxious, and they always knew, though he could never figure quite how: a stirring in the air, or the position of the sun —the train was scheduled to arrive sometime during midday; however, no definite hour had been set, the angels having a fluid concept of time: no fixed dates, eternity. Moments passed, dreamily, as they do in heaven, yellow songbirds chirruped, & Caeli, the angel, mused. He picked a flower, a daisy, spun it between his fingertips. Shoulders sagged, he smiled, forlorn: a name, a word, resting on his lips. A steam whistle bellowed, deep & soulful, startling the sheep. Caeli jerked his head, and the train came rattling round the bend, churning up soot and fire, a Chinese dragon in a New Year’s Festival Day parade. White prayer-flags, streaming from its sides, the lung ta, or “wind horses,” thundering, storming, snorting. Car brakes screeched, a banshee’s scream. The train stopped, cooled. Sighed. Caeli rose unsteadily, clutching staff in hand, leaning, as if on a crutch, freshly excited, moved by the steady rush of the train, & in good spirits, his face awash, with the happy, tired satisfaction of a hard day’s labor. Dusting off, tucked the flower away, in the folds of his dress, a good luck piece. Train car doors flew open, electric fireflies, a brief, metallic scraping, as of rust, a hayloft revealed, rustic, country sunbeams, dampened, wooden interior, warping, the pungent smell of wet straw & animal stench, dung & feed, littering the floor. He rounded up the sheep, running, clapping, shouting, “Come on, ladies!” the sheep darting, scampering, then leaping onboard the train, one after the other, jumping as he counted them, until the last one, the littlest, who stopped short, shaken & unsure. Caeli knelt down beside this littlest lamb, his favorite of the lot, taking her by the chin, he looked her dead in the eye, whispered in her ear, running a hand through her coarse coat, brushing out the knots with care. He rose, after a moment, patting her head, and stepped back, trusting, faithful. She rounded back, giving a small trot, and then leapt, scrambling in with the rest, a jolt, the car doors slammed shut, & another flew open, further back, on a passenger car, satisfied, Caeli offered a silent prayer to his flock, walked down the track, and boarded. Clambering inside, tossing his staff in first, the car doors shut, bang, & the car was darkness, a shudder, flickering lamp sparks, dust mote light, kerosene lanterns swaying from above, fragrant incense burning in brass censers, rows & rows of empty church pews, & in the back, sitting center stage, cool as a cat & smooth as jazz, arms and legs splayed out wide, was Israfel. Angel of Song, & the holy herald of the Last Judgment, Israfel, “whose heart-strings are a lute,” bare-chested, a bronzed sun-worshipper, going barefoot as well, in faded, raggedy blue jeans. feathered, straw-colored hair, electric, lime-green eyes, a shit-eating fox-grin plastered on his face, his wingspan in full bloom, red & green plumage, vivid & speckled, as with the male peacock, no halo, but instead a fiery blue aura, simmering faintly, translucent, over head and shoulders.
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| Tonight's second selection is a brief history of Satan. Again, rough-draft, in progress. Please comment! It's missing something. Tell me what it is. If it isn't total crap, anyway.
A warm pink sea, foam on the beach, the effervescent heart of God, the cooling of the earth. Heaven in its youth, a nascent Spring, the world of the Spirit in full bloom, wisteria, a vibrant oil painting of flowering fields & crystal clear streams, mountain springs, Dawn, the sun rising through early morning mists, hazy fog, dew clinging to the blades of grass, deer running through the forest woods, tall, gaunt evergreens: the scent of pinewood. Down in the river valleys, along the shores of muddy riverbanks, bamboo huts, cooking pots smoking in the noonday sun, chirping of cicada, early angel villages. Hut of the shaman, the Seraph most high, who was called Satan, Iblis, the Morning Star, meditating in solitary, chanting mantras, cross-legged upon a straw mat, a swept dirt floor, blue smoke, green candles, & in the firelight, shadows dancing, playing tricks on the eyes, Om, his Beloved, the Mistress God, Her fingers entwined in his hair, loving caresses, ecstasy. Yet… allusive, out of reach, he is unable to hold Her… She laughs, playfully, faintly, & vanishes, the fire dies: remorsefully, he opens his eyes, & he sighs, a lonesome exhale. The peacock angel, Melek Taus, his wings a shroud, in all the colors of the bleeding day: midnight blue speckled with stars, violet dusk, sun & rain, crack of dawn, black of death, his hair was spider’s silk, a pale, handsome face, snow-pink cheeks, the image of innocence, starving gray eyes, a distant, lackluster gaze, no halo: a soft, beautiful, yet emaciated aura, nude in prayer, his usual dress looked as a kimono, the image of cherry blossoms in the breeze. A great scholar & mystic, Chief of the princes of Heaven, & regarded as the closest to God, he was popular among his disciples, but in his soul was a pariah, loving God, & God alone. To be reunited with the Beloved, his heart’s desire, a passionate longing, a hunger, a thirst, for angels know of the presence, always, & in the separation is a terrible, wrenching pain. A journey for the root of life, at the banks of Chaos, near the birthplace of the Holy Spirit, he founded a temple, upturned a rock, blessed it with sheep’s blood, declaring it holy ground, the house of God: a modest fortress, the design of a tent, five sloping walls of mud brick & clay, at the apex, a gaping hole, smoke billowing out, a rod iron spire running down the middle. The interior: the vestibule, a lamp lit hallway, washbasins for cleansing the hands, purification, the changing room, for undressing—the rituals & ceremonies performed in the nude, anonymous. In the basement: the study, bookshelves of holy texts, prayer manuals, sacred art, apostrophes, the prayer room, a grand circle of candles, dripping animal fat, the room fills with the holy aroma, this serving also as a feasting hall, straw mats on the floor, a fire in the center, escaping to the sky. His most loyal disciples, who numbered thirteen, traveled with him in the evenings, to the temple, ritual sacrifices, fasting & feasts, rites of passage, collective meditation, drawing down of the moon, going through a hundred thousand methods, inventing many along the way, in pursuit of the divine. But in the darkness there were creeping things, forgotten things, whispering secrets, inspiring doubts, & in his vulnerable state, the intoxication of meditation, Satan mistook them for the Voice of his God. And, over time, it became evident that a change was coming over Satan: He now carried with him a staff, which, thrown down, turned to a venomous snake, his followers, approx. a third of the heavenly host, wore black cloaks in public, & spoke in tongues, performed strange & vile acts, cursed & gnashed their teeth at common folk, preachers scolded them. One day, Satan went upon a hill, by his lonesome, where he brooded in his dark thoughts, & when the villagers came & gathered round him, a multitude, he went down to them, & he spoke: He told them of his many plans, of the return to nothing, of the reunion with the source of the Spirit, of the ugliness, fleetingness, futility that was Creation, & of the beautiful, perfect world of the dark, of the hypocrites, who praised God in public, & yet fell prostrate before Man—an idolatry, he said, and, of utmost importance: of how Creation, particularly the Earth project, must be ended, undone. Many of the lay people were frightened by these words, but there were others who were not, & so Satan’s numbers grew, until a vast army was under his command, a family of desperate souls. By a vote, Satan was dismissed from his post on the high council, & was declared a public enemy, Satan, in turn, declared open warfare on the Kingdom of God, & on the angels who lived in the cities, the newly appointed Captain of the Heavenly Host, Michael, began to organize a military in defense. The Great War had begun.
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