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“The flood waters symbolize the Absolute, that which has no place in duality and is outside of circular and linear time. Here, both ‘Creation’ & ‘Destruction’ are born from eyes attached to time.”
“The more power you usurp from other entities (which are ultimately aspects of your higher self’s expressions), the more locked in time you have to become, and the longer your segregated awareness will experience distance from a true Playgroundia experience.”
“Relative ‘truths’ are only found in mutually arising dualities such as right/wrong, good/bad, positive/negative, black/white.”
A Teardrop in an Ocean of Weeping
I peaked my head out of the bathroom window. The flood was rising. Electrical wires charged the water. A power line whipped in the wind and the fiery sparks illuminated the muddy water. They cast reflections off the partially submerged truck and a man frozen to his vehicle. It was Wanger, up to his chest in water, teeth clenched, face turned skyward with a Joker-like grin.
Emergency strobes flashed, but soon... the deluge covered them too.
A torrential wall of water raced towards Wanger’s camper, freeing it from its earthly bonds and sweeping it away. The rushing stream pummeled the grounds as I stood there, strangely separated from the cacophony of destruction.
The insecurity of the future was unavoidable. I looked out the window at those who drove their cars around barricades. Stalled in rising water, they were doomed. Others were standing on roofs, waiting for rescue from saviors that needed to be saved themselves. Little did they know, there would be no higher ground!
I was now leaning out of the window like a catamaran sportsman. Rain lashed my face. “What a fantastic flood!” I hollered. “The absurdity! The wonder!”
Plastic lawn statues and pink flamingos floated by.
I staggered to the mirror to examine my manic expression. Wanger’s death shone in my eyes. My finger extended as I chastised my reflection, saying,
“You’ve been gorging on too many hotdogs. Secure your raincoat you fat slob. Together Chumba, me and you will sail through the wreckage where the drowning think their experience is a nightly dream. When they pass under the bridge of what ‘ought’ to be… foul, festering facts will splash.”
“Callate el osico gordota! Shut it, fatty!” Chumba’s voice reverberated through my skull. “There are many more of us… tag teams of Luchadors producing more muscular energy than the sum of our thrusting parts.”
I was feeling more and more like Chumba.
“Our goal, Xavier, isn’t absorbed in choosing mustard or ketchup, bible thumping or fleshly, free lunch or paid, burro or elefante. All fake choices need to continue dancing the quebradita.”
I took a breath and expanded on his thought, adding, “And power doesn’t need tokens, but those with tokens desire power. We’ll watch as fairgoers clean vomit off the Octopus ride for the right to clean more! For those who don’t believe they have to kiss our ass, we’ll force them to use carnival currency or they won’t get to mack down fair vittles, or eat at all.”
“For those who wish to play the coin toss game until they win, we’ll lend our tokens and make them pay us back tenfold to insure the fairgoers can never leave. We’ll never stamp enough plastic coins to pay us back. Before they know it, they’ll be walking around with a trash scooper, sunburned, and missing teeth. Even the most intelligent fairgoers presented with evidence of the scam will deny it until they too are cleaning toilets!”
Mirror Chumba nodded with vigor.
Several of my reflections stared at me with horror as I continued.
“Once in awhile, we’ll allow the rides to fall into disrepair. When the patrons are mugging each other, we’ll create new tokens and buy their shoes for next to nothing. We’ll pound our fists on the floor laughing while their stuffed animal prizes fall apart. Locked into the fairgrounds, we’ll loot their houses and place saddles on their loved ones.
Our token system isn’t just timed to rip off the fairgoers work scrubbing outhouses with Pinesol, or to swindle their essential nature, but it’s also a safety valve for our ‘humanity’ to survive any up coming catastrophe, like a real flood.”
Fed up, Chumba’s voice interceded. “What is the true battle being waged, cabron? And why am I still stuck in this bathroom with you?”
I answered, “Don’t worry Chumba, it won’t be long now until we leave. But the answer’s really very simple; it’s all about burying the wisdom of their life force, and ensuring the appearance of a beginning and end of their essence. Damn straight… our goal is the elimination of others intent. If we can get them to believe and act as if their motivation is determined, then their Will belong to us.”
Shakedown Cruise
Outside the Tavern, which sat safely on a small hill, the flood heaved and swirled over the dreary, desert landscape. As I looked outside the window, I saw crowded aluminum vessels and flimsy wood canoes sinking one by one, toppled by currents and capsized by waves.
In my vision-consumed mind, I saw a priest float past on a bookcase, confused there was an atheist nearby. A shaman dog-paddled toward his waterlogged peace pipe. Pastors and mullahs draped in rib-eye swimsuits furiously crawl-stroked away from chop-licking, hammerhead sharks. From seemingly nowhere, a rescue boat motored up, pulled them aboard and zipped away. Not more than a hundred yards had they gone before a twenty-foot wall of water reared up behind. The rescuers couldn’t have fathomed what they were up against. When the energy of the wave came, it sucked them up and spat them over its crest, grinding them into the soil beneath—only a few surfaced.
Completely twisted, I yelled out the bathroom window, encouraging the dwindling congregation to ignore the most important book… the one within… the ones I needed to burn. I watched myself make sure the few who contemplated ‘who and what the book was about’ soon found the content of their pages ran over by the bows of rescue boats. I watched as those who were drowning, pretended that truths mentioned by anyone who had even once spit in public had to be a fib.
“Such gall!” I exclaimed into the reverberating bathroom, “The floating see relative truths with accuracy! That is, until they suck water into their lungs and are floating face down.”
The rain was severe. A billion tons of water added to the pressure of the earth’s crust. The additional load opened fissures where vast reservoirs stood, and squeezed the underground lakes up in a cataclysmic, seismic geyser. Each crevasse opened unpredictably. Rampaging walls of water slid across elevated surfaces—sweeping away the unsuspecting.
Lightning flashed, performing a dance on the sullen clouds. The sediment-heavy floodwater, attached to time, gushed over the windowsill in a futile attempt to wash away the overflowing toilet. I raised my fist and shouted, “Balance isn’t unmoving, it swings side to side, and is managed with callused hands. Intent is the star in the contortionist freak show, violently suppressing mutiny and silently pulling bowlines. Riding out the flood, bending as a slave master’s whip, never snapping like a rigid mast… that’s the best way to weather the gale.”
Truly deluded, I continued babbling, “Freedom is limited to bedding wenches, manning the helm, and leaving the galley without permission! This is how you get others to have their children toil unpaid, in shackles and happy to swab the deck.”
“Continue courageously. Consider how religion, science, ‘trusted’ institutions, language, and ways of ‘knowing’ are all suspect of limiting what you can feel and conceive.”
“A tragic example of souls attached to unbridled ego (greed), & time (fear) are those who operate the global financial scam. Characterized by fiat money, fractional reserve banking, stealth money theft & devaluation, these entities are locked into their attachment prison. They re-routed others purchasing power to support delusion and ego, and elongated their detachment from present essential nature.”
