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“Meet the metaphors of ‘mutually arising duality’ and soul sub-personality. Introduce yourself to elemental and animal Wills. Prepare for the spells of water, current & electricity to be revealed. Things are not what you think!”
“The ‘carnival’ is an allegory of universal experience -what you are in now.”
“Explore choice while your seizing possibility”
Crows, Zonkeys… and Lightning
Silhouetted under a blood-red sunset, a pair of crows commandeered the top my Airstream. Cavorting in a racket of chirps, they scratched along their metal roost, claws scraping like fingernails on chalkboard.
Gil’s mate launched to the sky. She ascended, tucked into a dive and returned, trumpeting her landing with a caw! The squawking lasted until the trigger finger of Chumba, a roustabout parked nearby, made it clear he’d enough of their racket. Soon, a rifle barrel pointed out his window. With not much time to preempt his trigger finger, I grabbed a skillet and slammed it. The sound startled the birds into flight, distracting Chumba and leaving a bullet hole through his truck’s cab.
So much for my attempt to wind down from my last day as acarny!No longer would I break my bones, operate the rides alongside grifters, or clean the spattered bathrooms. I was exhausted and ready for a different world.
I eased into the couch, while my sleep ritual began, waiting in the dark, body sinking, and gazing upon silverfish eaten books; a Bible, Dr. Seuss’s Sleep Book, X’Tzu’s Zoo, Bhagavad Gita, Origin of Species and the Tao Te Ching.
Sly cockroaches carried away stale potato chips. I had to laugh at my Ark-like existence,with two pots and pans… two steer horns hanging on the wall.
Yet, I just couldn’t get to sleep.
What I really wanted was a stiff drink, garbage talk and then… maybe a snooze. Luckily, local to the grounds was a watering hole acceptingcarnival tokensreceived as wages. This was where many carny’s could be found.
Now in Texas, every hole has a hill right next to it, and I was fortunate to have parked my trailer on such a mound. Stepping out, I noticed moisture-laden ripples lined the Southwestern sky, foretelling a storm itching to announce its intentions. No matter, with deliberate footsteps, I skirted past our infamous pair of pigs, the zonkey (a donkey painted like a zebra), and the two-headed cow. By the time I past the Rhode Island Red chicken exhibit, the sprinkle turned to drizzle. I knew I had to get to shelter, and quick. Suddenly, fifty feet away, a bolt of lightning bleached the landscape.
Thunder howled. Flames crackled along every nerve, knocking me to the ground.
When my eyes opened, my shoes were smoking and scorch marks blackened my clothes. I peeled myself up and wiped the rain from my cheek.
Chumba Cruz
The tavern was flush with the vinegary stench of spilled wine. Its decor was punctuated with stained carpets, ’70s-style wainscoting, and filthy bathrooms.
Like a gunslinger in an Old West saloon, I entered, imagining all eyes turned, mouths agape. I slowly walked as images appeared, hearing the first downpour and laughing that only a moment kept me from a complete soaking. I scanned over the sea of overalls and CAT-emblem hats for familiar faces.
At the end of the bar sat Wanger. His claim to fame was being the Tunnel of Love operator. For an older gent, he was a snappy dresser, wearing brown leather chaps, well-worn gloves and ostrich boots. If he thought you were his ‘buddy,’ he’d buy you drink when you were down, or let you sack out in his trailer if you had no place sleep.
Right next to him sat Jacques. You couldn’t miss his blond mullet, or the gnarled goatee that served as a reservoir for chewing tobacco. Tattoos crawled from neck to hipbone. He’d sit by Wanger where he could be badgered into bliss. When he allowed himself a word, his Cajun spiced comments came in intoxicated tones, rambling about something lost. It was clear his efforts were spent in becoming less aware as he bellied up.
A few seats down sat Crawdad. He’d sneak real smart sounding words in half-baked attempts to minimize the impact of his broken teeth and farmer’s tan. There was no way he could hide his buckshot freckled arms, especially because he always wore overalls. He had a cleft hand with fused fingers, like a lobster’s claw. Being deformed, he knew what it was like to be ridiculed. Because of this, he had a perspective worth listening to—that is, if you could understand him while he was eating, chewing tobacco or gnawing on his tongue. Almost everything he spoke about was in terms of food.
Adjacent to Crawdad sat Ella, a petite woman with braided jet-black hair who kept herself put together… for a carny. Her only apparent flaw was stuttering speech.
To Ella’s left, was Six Foot Alice, Ella’s unlikely protector. Alice had shoulder length fire-red hair and cursed like a truck driver with Tourette’s. She reveled in the absurd. But you had to be careful; she was always trawling for someone to toy with.
Finally there wasChumba… Chumba Cruz,that detestable neighbor who tried to shoot the bird off my trailer. He had a cratered face, as well as several scars on his left cheek from a knife fight. Most often, you’d hear him muttering in pidgin Spanish. Bad luck fell upon anybody who was within his arms’ reach for too long.
Chumba had a twin brother named Gustavo, who couldn’t have been more opposite. Even his last name was different. He shared lust for a good fight, like his brother, but would risk his life to do the right thing. He had a disconcerting, reptilian-like glass eye. Hair hung from his head like an unkempt mop used to soak up oil. The twins had always tolerated each other—after all, they shared blood. Gustavo stuck close to his brother, as he knew his wily, good-for-nothing sibling needed a chaperone.
Wanger acknowledged my entrance with a slurred song,
“Hot schweaty burnin’ pain, seethin’ inferno o flame, Push n’ pull so deep inside, pen-trate a tunnel ride…”
Jack coughed.
Alice complained.
Ella fidgeted.
Chumba mumbled while he rolled cigarettes.
Wanger put the brakes on his ditty and asked if I was going to set up at the next city. I just shook my head as I straddled the stool.
I squinted as the crowd dizzied and whirled - an odd sensation, akin to exhaustion, or more likely, the after effects of that lightning strike. My wiser half knew I should head back, but my stubborn side motioned for a brew. The bartender moved slow motion to fill a glass. Accompanied by a drunk choir of angelic voices, there it was, in focus, cool, refreshing and mine for $3 carnival tokens. The frothy beer sang a siren song as I reached into… empty pockets.
Having seen dread scroll through my pupils, Wanger quickly tossed out a few coins.
I should’ve known better.
Everybody busied themselves peeling labels off beer bottles and scrounging for cigs.
Chumba mumbled, “Pinche retrasados.”
Jack’s smirk revealed a snaggletooth as he ranted in disregard for whether anybody was listening.
My body begged to find a quiet room, but abandoning my beverage wasn’t an option. Finally, I stood up and hoofed it to the restroom.
Crow – Any entity that serves to awaken another who’s mired in the temporal perspective, inviting them to the absolute essential nature of the balanced Twin Inferno state.
“Can you feel the ‘ancient’ spell still effecting the way you perceive?”
11:11 El Luchador Gauntlet! A Contemporary Expansion of the Ancient Flood Story Examining the Nature of Choice, Possibility, and Competing Wills
© 2019 Maat
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1482736502
“The key to creation awaits in mystery 11:11”