Tag: the library

Two Horns are  Blowing, Like a Thief in the Night He Comes

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“I am no god but I know God. I Am is God. There is but One. He speaks to all, but few listen to His Word.” The stranger spoke into the mob. Standing firmly upon the truth, he showed no fear.

“Blasphemy!” Shouted the crowd of fools. They were of the one who claims to be the jew but is circumcised only of the flesh, decendant of Jacob but not of Israel.

Before their anger and fury the stranger stood unflinching. The only reaction observable was the soft sound of disappointment escaping through his deep intake of air and slow, quiet release.

“I am an heir of Abraham. I have faith in his seed. That promise made to Abram, Isaac, and Jacob was made for all the families which walk the earth. On this promise the Testaments stand though the first has ended, the second remains. Soon even that may change when my Master returns.

I am a Jew as well as Semite. Curcumcised of the heart and filled with the Spirit, I am of the tribe of Israel. No redefining or reformulation of understanding can erase that. Engraved by the Almighty, how vainly do you scub and scrap upon the stone which this Church is built.

Behold the Temple.

Being but a lowly servant in the order of Melchizedek, king of Salem, priest of El Elyon, God Most High, I can only give you my own testimony of the coming day:
Look, see the High Preist, the Son of God. His eyes are fixed upon you. His voice calls. It is your free choice to blot out your own name or to clearly write it in the Book of Life. It is your choice… a choice not given to the angels. They with great jealously and envy look upon those made in God’s own image with little compassion. They serve the will of God, the good and bad, without fail.
Repent for your iniquity is great.”

With great gnashing of teeth, and tearing of their clothes, the masses seethed.
The bearing of impending retribution and the baring of their transgression burned like a hot coal to them.

The stranger knew what was to come.

“Do not rebuke a mocker, or he will hate you; rebuke a wise man, and he will love you.”

A torrent flowed uncontrolled from the lips of the naive nief and fallen men of renown. Curses, ill-conceived, poured forth from minds unable to understand.

Those who first entwined themselves with the majority began to filter silently out to the fringe. Minds exposed to grace soon finding the Light for the Light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not nor has overcome it…

The Man in Grey shuffled through the turnstile. The inconvenience, though breif, was enough to trigger his PTSD. Scanning the machinary and attendants beyond the choke point with a nervous, jumpy anxiety, the Man began making a multitude of escape and attack plans within his head. As predicted though the anxiety ebbed, the stress returning back to a concealable amount, though the plans were filed away for the future… just in case.
Making eye contact was never the Grey Mans favorite thing to do but on the occasions of being funneled along with a large group a very unavoidable thing.
“One cannot simply walk about staring at the back of heads or ceiling tiles. To be normal (or appear to be) the traveller must gaze about prepared to react and act. The gypsy and tinker know.”

“How odd it must be for you, my friend. Dragged along in a story not your own?”
The question was not really a question. Just a casual statement made by the many nameless voices which floated about in the Library.
The Sage had grown accustomed to the intrusions. With quill to paper, the ink flowed on unceasingly.
“Noted in the margins”, the Sage replied in media.

Pat looked blankly at the meager offerings on Tumblr. Though the tits, ass, and often grotesque images could stir up the oldman inside him, he had gotten a bit better at not giving out as many hearts.
“I like the vintage, retro, and fantastic photos of cities, byways, and the people of forgotten life the best. The new memes are sometimes funny, but they often are based in hate meant to divide all the families which walk the earth. Even worse are the ones which evil has made to redefine words to suit an agenda.”
Pat hoped most were just bots and not just wicked people. He noticed the tree which they spread out from.

“Enough reposting of that shit gets you unfollowed. If you have something to say then be original about it.”

On a clear days the Knight could see the path upon which brought him to the mountain’s top. Twisting and difficult, it has not been easy. (*edit – the slight pun on day and knight given by the author and not the sage.*)
“Still the way continues on for the knowledge learned shows the ignorance of my own understanding”.

And the fires still burn as the smoke rises upwards. What a pleasant fragrance it is to the nostrils of our Lord.

You

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The days and nights now merge
Trouble and torment cascade together
Sadness and sorrow but a fond memory
The sage’s quill slowly writes
Words trace out upon invisible parchment
Ink drying before the sentence becomes complete
How odd time has become
Blind eyes seeing clearer that those from sparkling youth
The Lord gratefully granting skill in both hands
Even as the right ends its useful purpose
The left grows more in skill

I digress…

The books stack together upon the bench. Many completed for their story was short. The few that remain unfinished will perhaps never conclude. Those that believe being granted everlasting life for Death and Hell have long since past.

The Sage puts down his pen…

Pat sat comfortably in his chair. The chickens and geese happy to be out roaming the yard blessing him with ruckus crowing and the pleasant clucking of a satisfied hen. The only distraction from this pastoral paradise being the occasional black ant foraging up between pants and sock.

“Those little bastards…”

The Watcher paced about nervously. His mind distracted by the events not yet seen…

“No. That’s not right. Events not yet witnessed to.” The Sage correcting thoughts even as the scroll unrolls.

The Watcher’s pacing unaltered continues on. Even as that which is false is spoken of so too the doer is busy exalting of himself. Money and power are of this world. No greater chains were ever forged in the darkest pit. How vain those people are to trust and believe in the words of their own mouth, and works of their own hands.

“I have been here for a very long time. I have watched as the light has filtered in through the many seams and cracks of this reality. I have watched as the myriad faces flowed by. Often our eyes locking for an instant then timidly released by you in sudden fear. I see you. I know what it is to be you. Like a shadow your fate and mine are bound. There is no escape.

“I am as you are as you are as I am.”
Wise words from an even wiser man who saw only after he was blind.

This I say to you, “Repent! The glass, darkly obscuring, soon shall be removed, and you will know even as you are known.”

Guilt or Sorrow, I do not know…

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Dark thoughts hidden behind pleasant words and a polite smile

With a sidewards glance a trembling hand reaches out touching memories the mind fears which the heart holds dear…

and on the phone I find silence

Another Wakeful Dream

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I’ve been here before…

This same dust filled room.

I have sat there in the same worn, mildewed, moth eaten chair, and watched the silent currents blow the cobwebs into movement.

I have watched the micro world’s blown about as dust in the light of each passing day.

There every page of life is written, collected, and bound. The work of a legion of unseen hands.

Every letter, every mark upon the page, created by a host of beings.

Beings that etch their knowledge simultaneously into the condensed lines of unreadable script.

My tired eyes have long ago grown accustomed to the wording.

Upon a shelf of magnitude…

There sits the great library.

Each volume a collection of time. Each traced letter a forgotten second remembered, recorded, and shared…

And each night I close my eyes…

Each mid day nap I close my eyes…

Each careless blinking of the eye…

Another leaf, another chapter, another book is added.

They lay scattered, disheveled from there proper place…

For but a short time.

Until leathery, age worn hands, once more lifts them into their place.

I know. I have been here before.

I will be again.

The Torn Letter, From the Book of Pat

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Another Wakeful Dream

I’ve been here before…

This same dust filled room.

I have sat there in the same worn, mildewed, moth eaten chair, and watched the silent currents blow the cobwebs into movement.

I have watched the micro world’s blown about as dust in the light of each passing day.

There every page of life is written, collected, and bound. The work of a legion of unseen hands.

Every letter, every mark upon the page, created by a host of beings.

Beings that etch their knowledge simultaneously into the condensed lines of unreadable script.

Linking infinite worlds and paths.

Information and energy never disappoint

Recorded beyond the boundaries of forever

Relics of bygone years

Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, all things are vanity

Death in a deathless place

Life in a place of despair

There grows the knowledge

Torn from the roots of trees

Grown fruitless in the withering breeze

And when you look for what it is you find

It’s then you loose your place

In the endless fantastic we craft

An Autumn Day

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The heart grows weary as the cold nights lengthen
The wicked gather
Adorned in riches of jewels and gold
Where are the vigilant that tend the watchfires
Have they abandoned their duty to glean the crops
Why have the wise men ceased their understanding
Frequenting instead the alehouse and tavern
Alone the traveler wanders
Burdened by knowledge that the gates have all been barred
Highwaymen prowl like lions
The blind, arrogant, and foolish fall prey
And from the rooftops the innocent crying leap
But there are none to stop their fall

The Rain Upon the Windowsill

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Quiet words echoing
Silent thoughts repeat
Shadows run through empty hallways
Whispering currents blowing dust
How loud the fluttering moths wings sound
When emotions become numb

Scraps of Paper

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Just a bit of broken poetry
Cast aside – abandoned upon the floor
Words I’ve written
Their meaning lost along with their purpose

Each life carries their own tiny bits
Torn and tattered scraps of paper
Scrawled with half formed thoughts

On the backs of old receipts
Amongst the creases of crisp folded napkins
Beginnings fade
And sentences out of place wait
Until in their own time find a little light upon the page

God

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Who was your most influential teacher? Why?

I’ve been here before. I have sat in this same dust covered, mildew eaten chair. I have gazed out across this same room with its piles of magazine and newspaper stacks. I have taken pride in the organized rows of books that younger hands once carefully placed upon now collapsing shelves.

My dry blood shot eyes watch as the dust falls. Layer upon layer sediments of time flow down from their unseen creation. Still I sit and watch this world evolve, and I am satisfied.

Eternity.

A game of chess. Each volume and periodical but a piece upon the board. Every mote of dust a single move across this limitless chasm of creation. Alpha and Omega, beginning to end, the Lord plays on.

We are but observers, Watchers who share in the one body. All share in the glory or at least we should. Some walk away or turn a blind eye to the match set out before us. Spoiler alert. God wins with or without your patronage. Your choice is to accept the win or loss.

I am sorry. Distracted by the vastness of reality my mind wanders.

I do love the soapbox, and the ancient sage easily slips into conversation with the limitless unseen voices of this world. Sometimes I forget which one I am talking with or do I mean to?

So how are you doing? I see that you’ve bought yourself a new fancy since last we visited…

What?

Everyone knows they’re never as good as the last one you had. Things are cheaply made so you will have no choice but to get another. The box it was packaged in is often of higher quality. It’s a little bit of the evil this “modern” life tempts us to accept. You should vote with your money and learn to do without. You’d be better off.

Off on another tangent. This world is full of distractions. If you don’t notice different things then what’s the point in smelling another rose. You need something to reference it to.

The Dreamer dreams beneath a turquoise sky. White foam floats as a silky sheet across the sun warmed pillows of sand. The white noise of the wind mixes fluidly with the birds of the air and gentle sounds of the rippling waves.

The Dreamer dreams, day becomes night.

The flash of light and sudden blaring of a horn startled the man in the grey suit into wakefulness. He had drifted off for a second into some partial memory.

With another blast from the asshole behind him the grey man took his foot off the brake and slowly accelerated on the gas. In his heart he knew that what he really wanted was to hit reverse, and turn a small moment of time into an epic spree of self discovery.

“Fucking asshole” muttered the man to himself. “Fucking world of assholes.”

The Sage was having a rather mixed day. He was slipping in and out of the differing realities so quickly he barely had time to let the ink dry between pages. That’s the usual come the first days of spring. Rebirth brings an extra energy to the writing that the long cold winter lacks.

Pat watched as the kids helped set up the shooting line as the other adult volunteers manhandled the oversized targets into position. The gate was placed at the distant far end of the lineup. A slightly pear shaped woman shouted out commands from that location. It was for that reason Pat had placed his chair a good distance further down the field from the other spectators. She was really loud, and she loved blowing that whistle.

“I imagine she wanted to be a life guard as a teen”, Pat said out loud.

“Let’s see if that’s true”, the sage replied to himself. With the practiced flip of the wrist the book before him flipped open.

Never mind what you are thinking because you’d just become confused. The ink stained sheet of parchment that was being was never but the book was, and is for everyone present. That at least until it’s no longer. You see…

Her name is Dottie, or Dorothy depending on which frame of time she thinks of herself. Presently it’s Dot. Just a small spot at the end of a sentence.

Dot took another long blow at her whistle making both the Sage and Pat wince.

“Anyhow”, The Sage continued muttering to himself. “It says here teen Dottie had a strong passion for David Hasselhoff, and some of the others from Baywatch. So it’s a fantasy rather than a desire to actually become a lifeguard.”

With the reading of that knowledge and a slight unseen twitch of a big toe the plain covered manual labelled “Comas, Dots, and Quotation” disappeared. Elsewhere in the vast library a sharp sound of a book upon a falling book could be heard.

From somewhere overhead a disembodied voice spoke, “That ruined the cool factor of what you did”.

The Sage just rolled his eyes.

It has been awhile since our last visit to the Doorman and his doormat.

“Yes, it’s been quite a long time since anyone has come to visit”, the Doorman spoke out

“There’s a reason”, said The Sage, and with that an unseen door clicked closed and locked. “I really must remember to close those passages behind me when I go out.”

Indeed. We all must remember…