Happiness

Happiness is a neat idea. In a society where reputation is everything - even money is just a ledger of reputation if you think about it - and people are conditioned to judge themselves through the eye of the other instead of looking inward, I think a lot of people are playing a game. They believe themselves happy as long as they are succeeding in selling the image that they are happy.

I think a lot of people who kind of know they're not happy are at least content to interpret they're on a path to happiness or are at least fighting to get on that path. Of course the joke's on them if the things this society holds dear turn out to be charades.

I know I feel happy when I put my arms around someone beautiful - whether beautiful (by my appraisal) inwardly or outwardly or both. I know I'm happy with a steak on my plate and red wine in my glass; happier still when they get in my mouth - as long as I manage not to think of the cow, that is, otherwise I feel the guilt I deserve. And that's not bragging. The sinner who knows better is the worst sinner.

But there are things that trump happiness and here it gets hard to explain. Because when I start talking about freedom, harmony, peace and joy - that's where I imagine people stop listening. Because it sounds like religion or it sounds like people selling snake oil or it sounds like I'm deluded. But there are things I know well and I really wish more people would know more of them along with me.

Earth is a paradise and humans are magnificent with the rare (or unique) ability to evolve beyond the natural death-state of the universe. That alone gives us incredible joy which I experience regularly. But that miraculous evolution depends on the power of a healthy consciousness; one not fooled by the instinctive mind, and that is so very hard to find. Because consciousness is a new evolution. It's in its infancy by universal standards. It's power is a baby-power but we don't realize that. Because our conscious self is the only self we know, it feels like everything to us. It is our totality, and this illusion - of our baby consciousness being a master brain - is the chief illusion which stems all others. And all these illusions separate us from the joy of our existence. They hold us prisoner. We don't know ourselves. Our master brain is a stranger to us and we barely know it exists. Our master brain can not trust our baby consciousness by handing over the steering wheel. Our master brain can not trust our baby consciousness to adhere to our all-powerful survival instincts which almost all normal human activity can be easily logically mapped to.

I had to be courageous and patient and strong (qualities not easy for me to access) for a long time in order to decipher the truth of myself and to grow comfortable with it, and the rewards are magnificent. My master brain has witnessed the intentional (far from perfect or complete) evolution of my consciousness and has surrendered some degree of control.  Those things we call sins - the simple manifestations of survival (domination) instinct have been diminished to varying degrees. One of them obviously remains strong unfortunately (gluttony - its no secret) and another remains somewhat relevant though diminished (lust if you must know) and I have little doubt I might defeat them if I were to dedicate enough effort to it but... I'm not ready and may never be. That's a subject for another time.

As killer instincts are diminished, beautiful things happen. Illusions fall apart and reality is much more graspable and this reality - lo and behold - is the paradise. And it's so transparent how some religions refer to it and it really is a lovely joke how these religions over the centuries have misguidedly strayed from whatever beautiful poetic enlightenment either inspired them or was manipulated by them to their ends (the former I hope) and painted this paradise of reality as some place in the clouds you go to after you die. It is such a sad insanity really. To think you must die to find paradise when in fact  it is a mental journey you must take, one which in fact feels like a rebirth. The memory of my former self is growing more alien to me all the time.

When illusions fall the societal ills that are born of illusions fall with them:

depression
lonesomeness
embarrassment
jealousy
anger
guilt
anxiety
sadness
insult
suspicion (not skepticism)
betrayal
impatience...

I know there are many more on the list though they don't come immediately to mind - probably because I haven't experienced them, at all or but in small measure, for a long time now.

The result is freedom in many forms: freedom from so many ills and from circumstances dictating one's feelings. The result is joy. The result is clarity and strength of mind and desire for (and easy access to) integrity, honesty and generosity. The result is death to the eye of the other; falling out of the reputation game and being motivated only by your own courageous examination of yourself.

The result for me is lovingness; loving motivation instead of selfish motivation. The hitch is - will lovingness be the result for anyone who follows a similar path? That I can't be sure of just now. I don't even have a theory currently - how to figure that out. It isn't really on my to-do list.

There was a time in my life - years - where I suffered so much of these usual societal ills, which people sadly pass off as the normal (okay), unavoidable (wrong) side-effects of living, that I would routinely feel unease; a mild foreboding during solitary moments - usually when driving, and sometimes this unease would come over me in a vague way and I would have to poke around in my head for a moment to remember what thing or things were going on to feel bad about. And sometimes there was nothing bad going on and I would realize that I was only feeling vaguely bad out of habit: sad but a relief.

In more recent times I would find myself driving and forgetting why I felt so happy; an anticipation, and searching my brain, I would realize that there was nothing special going on to be delighted about; that it was just my habit to feel good. A very happy realization each occasion and not a disappointment!

These days I'm much accustomed to feeling good. It never surprises me anymore. I do still feel a full range of emotions but many of them are confined to moments of empathy. I will feel your sadness or your anger or your anxiety because my empathy touches you at your state of perception; not my own.

And I know that there are opportunities for me to feel better still. If I could rectify my self-inflicted health issues, sleep issues, energy level issues and thus productivity issues, I could accomplish more usefulness.

And maybe even evolve a little more: knock those remaining "sins" down a little.

A good use of time

Jazz Lion visited Saturday night. We had Shawarma and Flying Monkeys and hung out in my room from six in the evening until four in the morning.

We looked at his menu of personal services: drum circles, vision quests, instrument therapy, vibroacoustic healing, brainwave entrainment, music production, live music, and lessons in music theory, performance, production and composition - to name just a few. I will do some 'marketing' writing for him in exchange for services.

He put together a binaural beats brainwave entrainment track for me to regularly absorb; subsonic pulse patterns to relegate my brainwaves for optimal blood pressure recovery. Sounds like voodoo but Harvard and M.I.T. are among those behind the research.

We talked about his getting roughed up and injured to the point of income loss (permanent, I wonder?) by the police and healthcare goons for his being polite but not quick enough to cooperate with psyche ward internment process for the authorities' liking, after they received a tip that he may be suicidal (he's not) because he texted his just-come-ex girlfriend "Whatever - see you in heaven." Apparently if you think someone is suicidal, you can best help them by beating them up so that they can't perform their livelihood. That's how they feel the love, apparently.

Watch out for the long arm of the law, folks. There's a fist at the end.

We talked about the Liberal Theologian's cancer. We talked about directional love versus all-emanating lovingness, and generous love versus selfish love. We talked about the illusory nature of anger and other emotions. We talked about truth and its non-applicability in our society. We talked about dreams, India, fatherhood, latent paternal instinct, the anatomy of relationships and the validity of different approaches to relationships. We talked about his music and mine and Neo's music and Senegal Astroturf's music. We talked about general phenomena of vibration and its effects on us. We talked about the psychedelic experience; especially DMT which he recommends for me personally. I'm hesitant, not being a smoker.

We talked about heartbreak, discipline, repetition, the cosmic perspective, alchemy and the desire to vanish from this society; something we're both acquainted with. We talked about much and ten hours dried up in a hurry.

When I had found out that Liberal Theologian was finally coming out of the hospital on Friday I offered to cancel Jazz's visit but she wouldn't have it. It's very unfortunate that she felt, last-minute, that she could not take part in the visit. Jazz, as I have told him, is a very important spirit in this world, and a very important voice in this world. I have no wish to keep him to myself.

As for L.T.: I'd like nothing more than to see her living life to the fullest; making the most of each day. Saturday night there was a marvelous opportunity for her that did not happen.

*Flying Monkeys is beer.

Guesses

She's so upset she's trembling; shaking actually. She says she doesn't know what she wants. She's crying. The plate of beef and rice on her lap is shaking.

I don't know what you want. I don't know how to help you.

But I guess it's not about the food or the visitor who I've just sent down to my room, or the other two visitors who are about to arrive with a gift, and can they stay or should they go.

I guess its just all too much; being told you're out of luck and running out of time. I suppose that if you surrender all responsibility and capability and just shrink back into your little baby soul, then the big bad problem becomes irrelevant. If you render yourself helpless and throw yourself to the mercy of others, that they might take care of you and make your decisions for you, then all the problems, and the problem become theirs to deal with, and you are free. You have escaped.

Except of course, this would be a game, wouldn't it? Some temporary defense, I guess. How, truly, to forget that you are dying and that you are afraid?

Knocked down

The Thoughtful Educator came to town for a lunch date and it was great to see him and very sobering to hear how his rare medical conditions are keeping him from the work he loves. I remember how he half-tricked me into volunteering at his school five years ago and how unexpected the experience was. How the kids were not annoying and the teachers so dedicated and so nurturing and the strong sense of community which I never sensed in my grade school as a kid.

But mostly I remember how T.E, engaged with the kids in such a delightful manner, so approachable and fun, and with difficult matters: how sensitive and respectful. How he always seemed to know exactly how to handle any situation; how precisely to balance priorities. How he empowered the students and how he coached and led and challenged the teachers with intelligence, wisdom and humor. And how uniformly he was loved and respected by students and teachers alike.

To see him removed from an environment where he so brilliantly thrived and made such a positive difference to others' lives, is - a sad thing. If he doesn't make it back, I pray that he finds another effective outlet for that brilliance.

The Liberal Theologian is back home. She arrived today with hospital bed and oxygen tanks and managed to stay up until I got home from my evening shift. We hugged for a long time and held hands and I smiled with my mouth and so did she and we tried not to cry too much.

It hurts to see good people knocked down.

But I made a vow to make 2015 a celebration of life and I aim to keep it. The universe is mainly ugly. Let's face it. But people, for all our faults, and our struggle to be good when it's really hard to be, are just plain beautiful.

Yes. You are. So there.  

Now or never, once again.

A colourful sunshiny landscape constructed primarily of Smarties candies with vague cartoony characters leaping around and diving into colourful pools. A giant mouth - the one from the Scream mask, perhaps. moving forward through a dark tunnel, threatening to consume everything in its path. What else? That's all I can remember. I was sleep deprived today, as usual lately, and so I experienced many waking dreams which I call dreamettes. They're always lightning quick. Do other people get those? I presume you do. Though if you don't experience sleep deprivation then they probably don't register consciously.

I haven't slept well for a couple weeks due to illness, which struck about the same time I found out that the Liberal Theologian has not triumphantly defeated her cancer after all. Wave One took a beating from the chemo, surgery and radiation, but here's a surprise second wave and Wave Two is - What can I say? Wave Two will not take a beating. Docs will do what they can to slow it down. My friend and excellent housemate will suffer until the end. And I can't do a thing to stop it.

The nice thing about sleep deprivation is that the brain doesn't function very well so it's rather easy to mentally procrastinate. My brain doesn't want to deal with this business right now and so it doesn't. L.T. has been in the hospital the whole time and I can't visit for all the coughing so... no pressure to deal with it.

She could finally be home tomorrow. So I'll have to start dealing with it, which is good. There are a lot of people in my life right now that I need to be strong for. Like Dog Whisperer says. I have to look after myself first, if I'm gonna be useful to others. She's right of course. When the cabin depressurizes, it's your mask before your child's. I know that. And that means taking care of my health. And that's gonna be a lot of work.

I can't take any more holidays from life. Do I have what it takes to get this train back on the rails? I have serious doubts. I have a bad record.

One step at a time? I need a plan. And I need inspiration. Here's a good sign maybe: Neo, World Citizen, Jazz Lion and the Thoughtful Educator have all come out of the woodwork just lately, wanting to get together. Good timing guys. I had one date, scheduled two more and expect to see Neo some time soon. And Dog Whisperer was very generous with her time tonight. I've been receiving wise advice lately. And the poets speak to me too. Discipline, they say. Not my strong suit. But I'm blessed with the finest associates; these and others. My love for them is really the only thing that keeps me in the game. And if I ever start winning, it will be to their credit.
  

NaNoWriMo Necessity

So I'm deeply embedded in National Novel Writing Month of course and statistically doing well: at about 34,400 words at the half-way point. The goal is 50,000 but I'm just about on pace for my secret goal of 70,000.

One of the many interesting ways I've changed, which I attribute to the poetic lifestyle, is the lack of power first impressions hold over me. My lack of need to compartmentalize, my welcoming of complexity and greater capacity for forgiveness are surely a part of it.

A certain NaNo associate did not rub me the right way upon our first introduction - which was through internet forum. I think it's safe to assume that the intentions behind his initial overtures were not what I interpreted. Ah, the flaws of human communication.

Now that he has declared the intention to depart from NaNo, overwhelmed by other needs, I found myself wishing he would stay.

A well-intended writer made the sensible suggestions that real life is more important than NaNo and he should return to the novel when the time is right. I'm always mildly terrified by anyone who uses the phrase "real life" but I got over it, and offered this response:

Not looking for a debate but I think it's only fair you hear from the other side of the coin: Creativity is as vital to the real world as anything. In fact I suggest it is paramount given that creativity is the only significant thing uniquely human and that it is an integral and inseparable component of that very evolutionary branch which brings us consciousness, empathy and love. Without this, I can not see human life having a point or being worth living, other than as a kind of parasite. Anyone who can't devote an hour a day to creativity and only be slave to survival necessity (or the garish things we perceive as necessity) for 23 hours a day or less, in such a privileged recreation-based society as ours - spoiled to the point of perversity - is in a truly dire state! And for those who choose such an arrangement permanently - I have no hope for them. I can't imagine how they'll ever find any legitimate joy, rather than chase artificial happinesses to unending disappointment.

So I hope that you'll re-examine the math - or else solve enough of your current dilemmas soon that you'll be back to creating - in time for NaNo or for afterwards. And if a favor or two would help you quickly return to this state of grace I have eluded to (!!) please don't hesitate to ask - seriously.

Whatever happens, I am adamantly determined to maintain the writing habit permanently and to stay as connected as possible with this group between Novembers and it would be great to see you at any time!    

Not precisely the 15 minutes of fame I might have hoped for!

By the time he reached the end of his mile long walk Saturday morning, Rich Landriault wasn't sure he was going to make it.

It wasn't just that his feet hurt. Every muscle in his body ached.

"Everything hurts," the Hamilton man said, moments after finishing his tour around the Pen Centre shopping mall as part of the Walk a Mile in Her Shoes event to support the Gillian's Place Women's Shelter. "That was so much more difficult than I expected. It's like a workout."

Landriault came to St. Catharines to join the team of walkers put together by Tory Gillespie of Thorold to raise money for the sheller.

Gillespie said he put together his group, called Judy's Gentlemen, for Walk a Mile in Her Shoes because his mother-in-law had been a victim of domestic abuse, and supporting the shelter was a way to show solidarity with her.

Judy's Gentlemen, along with a host of other teams and individual men who donned high heels to march around the mall, raised more than $86,000 for the shelter.

Community development manager for Gillian's Place, Nicole Regehr said the funds will allow the shelter to keep operating. The facility is only 80% funded by government sources, leaving Gillian's Place to fundraise the remaining 20%. However, Gillian's Place is the midst of a five year funding freeze, making the Walk a Mile event, it's largest fundraising effort, all the more important.

"We have a funding freeze, but costs keep going up for everything. So this is absolutely vital. When someone comes to the shelter and hits a light switch, the lights have to come on. We have to feed 30 plus women and children every day," she said. "So we have to include this fundraised money in our budget. Without it, we couldn't operate."

The total for Saturday's event was down from last year's $125,000. But Regehr said 2013 may have been an anomaly.

"We were aiming for $120,000 but it may be that we blew the roof off it last year, and it is difficult to reproduce that every year," she said. "The $86,000 is in line with what we raised in 2012."

The 40 member team from TD Canada Trust raised the most money of any participating team, bringing in more than $30,000.

The St. Catharines Standard team was a distant second, with more than $5,000, most of which was raised by publisher Mark Cressman, who raised the most of any individual who took part.

Event emcee and radio personality Tim Denis, said the unfortunate reality was that Walk a Mile was such a necessary charity, but that the ongoing support for the event was heartening.

"Your support means a woman in crisis will have a place to turn to if she needs it," he said. "And your being here is saying to them that they are not alone."

Every day

"You need to blog everyday."

My brother said this to me late on the night of his wedding two months ago. I guess we were talking about me; how I was doing. And what was on my mind was how I'd been way too long in an unproductive funk; dicking around haphazardly, here and there; bouncing around between way too many projects.

I once went through a journey - over the course of years, that I suppose no one will ever understand, much less believe - unless I manage to figure out how to write a book that would effectively demonstrate it and then actually write it and then people actually read it...

I came out of that journey so very inspired; knowing I possessed something that could change people's lives. But that inspiration waned when I found out how nearly impossible it is to break through the walls that instinct and society and investment build around people. And then that inspiration bounced back when I started to associate with youth for the first time since my own youth; some of them very special; very intelligent but without nearly so many walls in the way.

I'm thinking of Neo and Aqualad mostly; both of them brilliant in different ways. So why have these associations not yielded a great leveraging of my resources as I thought they surely would? Or have they, but not in the manner I expected? I don't even know. I don't even have the energy to imagine trying to figure that out.

I've been lacking motivation for so long. For me, motivation comes from inspiration. Inspiration comes to me from special people in bits and pieces. I see them each too infrequently. Mostly I spend time with people who have no clue what I'm all about; no clue what I have to offer, and I spend so much time giving and receiving such mundane words and trinkets; giving people the lame little things they want, but damn it, they could get these things from just about anyone, couldn't they?

Why am I not isolating myself in circumstances that actually leverage what I'm truly good at; the rarer resources I possess? Why am I so pliant, so patient, so mentally tired? How can I finally demonstrate to people who I am (or should be) and what I possess if I'm always holding their hand and telling them more or less what they're comfortable hearing instead of reaching for the truth; as scary and difficult as those truthful insights are - scary and difficult and ugly and beautiful and freeing and joyful.

The youths are getting older. Are walls being built? Will I get my shit together one day but find I am too late for them? I know it all comes down to me; getting my shit together. All of the hurdles are not to blame; only me to blame for not finding my way over them. There are many things I know I should be doing. I've got to start making more of them happen.

Well, I am more inspired these days than usual. I'm dieting again and I think it's going well. And it's prep time now for National Novel Writing Month which certainly inspires and sparks a good work ethic too; very important.

And Neo has leaked to me is upcoming album which has been a joy to explore - not that it doesn't contain very sober components. It has monopolized the car stereo every day since I got it. It's a beautiful and unique piece of art and certainly a motivation factor.

"You need to blog every day," my brother said.

Somehow I've long known that this is one of the important things I must do though I don't even fully understand why. So how the hell did my brother know it? It startled me when he said it. I wondered how the hell he knew to say that. And I still wonder. Well. Here's hoping.

Space Travel

There are people who are always hinting that they don't hear from me enough. It's funny how time moves differently for different people - or rather, the perception of time, of course. Time rushes by for me. I'm never idle. Never bored. Always behind on a hundred different projects and goals. Time flies so swiftly for me it is practically undetectable.

"It's been a year!" says a friend, or "It's been three years!" This has no meaning for me. My friends need to do the time-managing for us. I'm incapable. If it has been too long for them than they must reach out to me. They must not wait for me. It's not that I don't care about them. It's just that it always seems like yesterday that we last met.

Tati is a morning-person. Her meds tend to loopify her through the latter part of the day. I am not a morning person but my shift-work patterns - until just recently - made Wednesday mornings a good time to call. I invited her to do so on any - or even every - Wednesday morning.

I haven't heard from her since then. She hasn't responded to my facebook overtures. There is no internet trail of her since March. I keep thinking I should try calling some rare morning that I am awake. What's funny is how I've been subconsciously afraid to do so. I'm afraid to find out how she's doing these days; that she may have deteriorated. Or worse.

I'm awake this morning. I really should call.

I'm walking a mile in HER shoes

Yeah, I really don't like the idea of violence against women - or children or men for that matter. They're my top three kinds of violence I dislike. So I'm joining a protest against domestic abuse and helping to raise a few bucks for a shelter called Gillian's Place. It was Skeeter Willis' idea and it made too much sense to turn down. Plus the best part is - I get to wear high heels.

I'm thinking of throwing in a nice sunhat and boa but I don't know if that would be in the proper spirit.

If you want to make a donation, I wouldn't say no:
https://gilliansplace.akaraisin.com/pledge/Participant/Home.aspx?seid=9149&mid=9&pid=1873884

Useless

In the Circles community there is a culture around communication. Email is for logistics. Sensitive communication happens in person.

The email says that our Mr. Blacksheep is in the news and in custody, having fallen into old habits, and we need to gather.

The news article uses words such as lure and assault and no forms of the word alleged. And that doesn't even bother me. Something in my gut says it's true. If not a re-offence; at least a serious breach. What matters is that I should have seen it coming. I really should have. And now there is potentially a new victim. Or victims.

The quiet room just off the Sanctuary feels like a funeral parlour. The circle is larger this day. Valuable free agents have been drafted. We go around the ring of chairs getting reactions. Anger and disappointment are the themes. By happenstance I am last to speak. But I'm not angry, I say. And I'm not disappointed. All I feel is guilt. I weep.

In all our meetings I should have been more assertive with my contrary views. For so many reasons I never thought we were getting through to him; never getting the real deal from him; always subterfuge instead; distraction from the real issues. I should have come right out with it long ago. Even then would this disaster have been avoided? Chances are - no. But at least I would have done my duty.

And yet, he very recently dropped some real hints that things were bad. I caught one at the time and missed the other. I'd better give him a call, I'd thought at the time. And I never did.

And the third reason for my guilt, odd though it may seem, is the worst. It's the part of me; an ugly part of me, with a shameful wish that he will just stay behind bars. For good.

What a useless way to feel.

April A-Z: Running the Bad Boys Out of Town

Yeah, it's still April in my little world. Sorry for the confusion. I figure I've got til April 1st 2015 to get April A-Z 2014 done. And now... a completely useless conclusion to a useless prompt:


Nulling The Void - part 2

 “We don’t have time for this,” said Tyna. “Carey?”

“Yeah?”

“Start the car.”

“Don’t start the car,” said DeSchayne.

 “Honey,” said Tyna, “Start the engine.”

“What are you thinking!” said DeSchayne. The engine came to life. “Hey! Turn it off!”

“Hit it Carey!”

“No!” DeSchayne cried. Carey floored the pedal. The wheels spun at length before gaining purchase and the buggy leapt forward. “Are you kidding me!” DeSchayne grabbed Carey by the shoulders. “Every honky cop in town ‘ll be after us! And who’s butt do you think they’ll throw in jail!”

“Sorry bro. Tyna’s right. Who cares about jail when there’s a demon taking over the world?” The Honda crashed over a curb jostling all on board. They roared over a park lawn as the cruiser followed, spraying coloured lights everywhere.

“You keep us outta the river!” DeSchayne snapped as they flew downhill. Carey swung right and they raced along the riverbank just ahead of their pursuer. “No risk of you going to jail, boy!”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m white?”

“’Cause I’m gonna kill you first.”

“That’s harsh, bro.” They roared toward a steep embankment where an overhead bridge spanned the river. Carey drove straight at a dimly-lit footpath tunnel.

“No!” cried DeSchayne. “No no no!” They plowed into the tunnel. Steel squealed against concrete. Sparks flew and they penetrated the tunnel. The cop veered landward at the last moment, rising sideways on the steep hill, canting too far and tumbling over. The cruiser skidded to a halt on its roof; wheels turned up to the night sky and spinning uselessly.

“Hoo haw!” sang Carey as the Civic emerged from the tunnel, its body somewhat re-designed.

DeSchayne sat rigid and open-mouthed as the misshapen Honda raced up Townshend Line to higher ground. Finally: “Well, thanks for getting rid of those pesky side-mirrors for me.”

“Hey – who needs side mirrors?” said Carey. “In India cars don’t have any mirrors.”

“Isn’t that fascinating,” said DeSchayne flatly.”So they can fit through pedestrian tunnels?”

“No, I think it has something to do with Vishnu putting eyes on the front of their heads for a reason.”

“I’m gonna put a couple holes in the front of his head,” said DeSchayne to Tyna.

Tyna crossed her arms. “You love your stupid car more than me.” DeSchayne rolled his eyes.

“It’s just an object, bro,” said Carey. “We’ve all had to make sacrifices, you know." He glanced continuously in the only remaining mirror, expecting flashers which never came.

The ground leveled and they turned into a short dirt driveway, halting at a chained-up gate. Beyond the frost fence stood a collection of towers and transformers and a low shed of concrete and metal. The engine ceased, surrendering the night air to a steady racket of crickets. Carey turned the switch to kill the one working headlamp and the four riders emerged, Carey with duffel bag in hand. They approached the gate.

“Now what?” said Carey.

“We consult the cards,” said Tyna. The boy drew a packet from the pocket of his gray pleated trousers and unpacked the cards, He surrendered them to Tyna who shuffled them deftly. “Walter?”

The man eyed the stack. “Pick a card any card?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip as Walter cut the deck and turned up a card. It bore the image of a king surrounded by nine golden goblets. They stared.

“Now what?” said Carey. Light flashed briefly in the sky.

“We drink?” said DeSchayne. Thunder rumbled gently.

“Let me think,” said Tyna.

Walter grinned mischievously and whispered: “Who’s up for a tickle-fight?”

“Is that a combination lock on the fence?”

“Yes,” said Carey.

“Draw again, Walter!” She proffered the cards. Walter turned up a card depicting a princess before a field of thirteen stars. “Now one more time!” He did so, drawing a knight with three swords. “Nine – thirteen – three!” she exclaimed. “Try it DeSchayne!”

“Try what?”

“Try the combination. Nine – thirteen – three!”

Lightning flashed again and thunder followed. DeSchayne spun the dial this way and that. The lock clicked pleasingly and released. “Hot dog!”

He unthreaded the length of chain and shoved open the squealing metal gate. The crew piled in between the humming towers and monuments.

“What are we looking for?” asked Carey.

“I don’t know. Walter, draw again.”

Walter stepped up and drew again. His eyes bulged. “The tickler!” The image was that of a grimacing skeleton astride a black horse. Tyna paled. Thunder cracked.

Carey stared at the card. “Death!” he said breathlessly.

“Mulligan,” said Tyna, slipping the offending card to the bottom of the deck. “One more time, Walter!”

“You can do that?” said DeSchayne.

“Huh huh ho!” sang Walter, drawing a card of fiery orange and red.

“The Prince of Fire!” said Tyna. Their faces suddenly washed with light and a boom of thunder made them jump. An electric pop rang in their ears followed by a chorus of sizzles as smoke and sparks issued from some of the looming structures around them.

“I don’t like this,” said DeSchayne. Lightning struck again and again; the crash of thunder immediate. Tyna squealed. Walter’s spongy cigar hit the ground. “Yeah, I really don’t like this. Why don’t you draw a get-the-freak-outta-here card?”

“shazzam,” said Walter matter-of-factly. The others ducked as a symphony of electrical fireworks blossomed all around them. Then all at once the night was dark and silent. Even the crickets seemed stunned into silence.

“I think we blew a fuse,” said Carey, righting his hat.

Suddenly flames leapt into the air from a single structure; a mechanical monument about eight feet high. “Give me the Sonambule!” Tyna yelped. Carey unzipped the bag and drew out the Alice in Wonderland tome, its pages tea-soaked. “No, the whole bag!” He dropped the book back in, re-zipped the bag and handed it over. Tyna took it by the handles and approached the burning structure wide-eyed. The others followed just paces behind her. “Back where you came from demon! Back to the flames!” She hurled the bag into the air and they watched it vanish into the fire.

“Nice,” said Carey. “Nice eulogy. Short and sweet.”

“Now what?” said DeSchayne. A deep deep rumble was then felt as much as heard.  

“We get the freak out of here,” said Tyna.

They turned their back to the prospering flames and made for the gate. “I’m driving,” said DeSchayne.

“Shot gun,” said Carey.

“Lazer beans,” said Walter.

DeSchayne yanked ineffectually at the driver’s door handle. “Gimme the keys.” He turned up his palm.

“Shit,” said Carey.

“No shit,” said DeSchayne. “Just gimme the keys.” A blast of hot air swirled through and around them

“Um…”

“What!”

“They were in the bag.”

All turned to look at the flames which had trebled in height and grew swiftly taller before their eyes. The hot wind sent Walter’s long white hair dancing in the air. The ground began to tremble.

“Oh my god,” said Tyna.

“You threw my keys into the fire!” DeSchayne blurted. “With the demon?”

 “He threw the baby out with the bath water,” said Walter.

“Who’s got a coat hanger?” said Carey.

“Yeah, I’ll check my pockets,” DeSchayne snapped. “You little-“ he reached for Carey’s collar and the youth slipped barely from his grasp. A deep rumble accompanied a marked increase in the earth’s trembling. The flames leapt higher still.

“Oh my God oh my God,” sang Tyna.

“Hallelujah!” said Walter, bringing his palms together; his face awash in the orange light of flame.

“This is bad,” said Tyna. “This is really bad. I’m not even kidding.”

“Whadda we do?” said Carey and DeSchayne in chorus.

“Jinx!” said Walter. “Buy me a coke.” The ground positively shook. The flames leapt straight into the swirling clouds.

“Run!” cried Tyna. They ran, Walter cackling with delight.

A grand explosion flung the hydro sub-station far and wide.