The Blog That Would Destroy the World

By Douglas Gilbert

In the fog of the distant past there was a Grand Ice Age that threatened the Ut’ishsih people. Before they could perish, the Gods appeared out of the sky to provide food and shelter in the Caves. Many miracles occurred, but not enough. Some would prefer to say poetry will end the world, but no rhyme will stick to the face of time. Lachrymal vicissitudes, slipping on plates of passion, are insufficient to generate terminal earthquakes. No, it is this blog that will end life on the surface of the Earth with a recipe for pizza and virginity. No, it is not the High Priestess alone who will do it. Many creatures do play their part to stage a farce, leaping in multiplicity, dark in mind. True, every seminal blog in the universe begins as a joke. Few end with dessert.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329904255

Book preview

The Blog That Would Destroy the World

The Blog That Would Destroy the World

By Douglas Gilbert

Copyright © 2016 Douglas Gilbert

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-329-90425-5

CHAPTER ZERO

The Fog of the Caveman’s Blog

This is the last Blog and Testament to folly.  The galaxy is capricious as is the Internet.

Wars are always inevitable.  It’s size that matters.  To find an ending, there is a beginning.  Before The Holy Blog was first recorded in internet history there were miracles.

In the fog of the distant past there was a Grand Ice Age that threatened the Ut’ishsih people.  Before they could perish, the Gods appeared out of the sky to provide food and shelter in the Caves.  Many miracles occurred.  The Gods provided endless energy supplies, and endless light sources.  Great stores of food, metals, and minerals were left in huge warehouses before the Gods mysteriously disappeared.

When they were on Earth, they communicated thoughts in the Utd’mbts language.  The ancient Priests were given an esoteric knowledge to preserve.  But over time the knowledge was corrupted and misinterpreted.

But revolutions are begun anytime.  This one begins with the writings in a blog.

Here is the record of the subversive blog of a small group of Ut’ishsih people trying to learn the nature of reality.  It begins with the writings of Doug.

CHAPTER ONE

The Bloggy Diary of a Caveman

Some would prefer to say poetry will end the world, but no rhyme will stick to the face of time.  Lachrymal vicissitudes, slipping on plates of passion, are insufficient to generate terminal earthquakes.

No, it is this blog that will end life on the surface of the Earth with a recipe for pizza and virginity.  No, it is not the High Priestess alone who will do it.  Many creatures do play their part to stage a farce, leaping in multiplicity, dark in mind.

True, every seminal blog in the universe begins as a joke.  Few end with dessert.

I had heard I should do something bloggy on the Internet if I were going to fit into the up-top world.  Perhaps it’s a mistake.  Let me attempt a blog this way:

ENTRY ZERO

Consider this my entry zero. But if I’m really eokxavexa as Utcoozhoo thinks, it does seem pointless to try to mingle. I was going to just post minor-English poetry here, as a token of expression, but Utcoozhoo wanted more, a lot more that would establish a footprint on the beachhead of humanity for me who would wash up on the surface beyond the limits of the cave.  Yet he wanted me to keep secret the wisdom and knowledge of our people the Ut’ishsih, who had gone into the caves during the Great Ice Age as the Gods had decreed.  During the Warming, many went up-top and became Ojdispekib who forgot their culture and assimilated the worst arrogant traits of the Mekibota, the Homo sapiens, who after many tribulations and primitive wars, invented anchovy pizzas and built nuclear weapons to feel safe.

If I were going to go up-top, I would want to jump ahead and reveal everything, I told him -- maybe perfect my skills at Utd’mbts, teach myself and teach the surface world.  But Utcoozhoo always used to say, You can’t teach and not mingle. He always says:

First, one must practice English, a subset of thought, until that is as familiar as walking in the dark to pet the lion. To turn on the light too soon can arouse the appetites in the wrong order. Utd’mbts, a thunderous whisper, is the poetry of the Gods no one shall utter lightly.

Huh? Yeah, yeah, whatever. My father was ashamed to teach me Utd’mbts, so I don’t know it that well.  He was one of those aimless ones, the Ovfibogs, who wandered up and down, being neither Mekibota nor Ut’ishsih, uncomfortable everywhere and angry.  I don’t think that any translations I could ever learn to do would ever bring any lightning bolts, even if I could ever understand the ancient knowledge, but Utcoozhoo seems to think that if I ever truly learned it that I could bring on the destruction of the up-top world. I’m caught between a rock and a hard poem.

This modern era is very uncomfortable for me.  Zawmb’yee says she sees interesting turmoil in the future — that sounds like that ancient Chinese curse, May you live in interesting times. Please, forgive a shy caveman his tentative introduction to the modern world. So maybe I should just be poetic with her, and talk about Cirrus clouds.  I could say to her, Deep is the puff of your word, the tuft of wispy breathless love, a dear cloud for my sky I use as pillow to sleep in; it’s your fluff without rain enveloping it. Cirrus-ly, I’d say, could we be cumulus?

Nah, who cares about fluff pieces (Hey, is this colloquial enough — haven’t I mastered idiomatic English enough to pass as not caveman? I think it’s approaching conversational without affectation. I’ve gotten to use those careless redundancies and a few Y’know’s — right?)

OK, so I’m sort’a making a diary here.  What do I do now?  I guess I can just begin with a Dear Diary:

There is some disturbing news on American television: some Ojdispekib are beginning to appear on talk-shows and bragging about their special powers.  They may have accumulated money but they have neither boyish charm nor savage enchantment. 

I would have preferred to remain in the cave and woods, but with modern media, there’s no more hiding, and I probably should establish myself outside the cave where the Grand Council has no jurisdiction — Utcoozhoo seems to think their benevolent dictatorship is about to transform itself into a malignant evil that might even threaten the up-top world, but politics doesn’t interest me.  I’ve been to the city, and I can see why they call the city a concrete jungle. But the women are beautiful and graceful like deer… and I am like a caveman lost in the forest.  There would be uncertainty on the forest’s edge, my spear would seem not steady, a stone’s throw away from the missing red deer who’ve gone with the cattle, fenced by plank woods, and tamed.  I, lost caveman, still feel frozen out.  On edge, I’ve lost my säng-froid beyond the Ice Age.

She is a red deer who will not stray, stays deep in the jungle; it’s hard to ambush her heart when I am edgy, my spear heavy.  Supercilious, she will not touch the edge of my brow, the forest of my desire, unless I meet her for coffee at the Antelope Hotel minding my manners – small spoon on cantaloupe.

I’ve made a date with her. I guess I should keep her anonymous -- otherwise, she’ll be a laughingstock. I’m not quite comfortable yet doing a full diary.  I’ll work into it.  I’m not sure about the protocols for a Blog, but I suppose I could number the entries. Let this be:

ENTRY 1

— Good News Going To Dinner

Her roundness astounded me, and a glorious ballet danced her to our table, ecstasy tableau.  The mâitre d’ hôtel knew about her kindness, and smiling at us, served mixed pleasures without a raised eyebrow – he was a fine shaman, uncorking champagne and venison. She took me home.

Gorgeous was the evening when she spoke to me as if I were a hunter of love, and she knew my appetite profoundly.  She stroked the hair of my back, my buttocks, raised me right with sheep skin on my rod to save my genes for a future cherished child when glory would be our name, we, dancers of wealth sharing with every child who’d cry, a kiss.  Never have I seen such a feast like we had this night of lore, and I wish for more.

She is a smile, and I am a sigh, my hug was accepted.  Yes, I am we, we sing, and I would say to ring the tones of me forever.

ENTRY 2

Secret of the Gods

Y’know, despite their claimed sophistication, some of the Ojdispekib don’t want to scientifically examine some of our traditions. They think it is mere superstition and would embarrass them if held up to scrutiny. Utcoozhoo, especially, knows that the late-period migrants to the up-top world are ashamed of our traditions and secrets. So these are not as modern as they think they are — not open minded, not willing to examine all possibilities in an objective way… But I’m annoyed that Utcoozhoo allows their ridicule and doesn’t debate with them, and will not reveal the secret of the Gods that would astound them. They in their way are backward and stubborn in spiritual matters, but so too Utcoozhoo is stubborn and backward in not embracing the best of the modern age.

I have a computer in an apartment outside the cave. A word processor helps with the writing. I’ve tried to save my thoughts in rhyme, to be the Ut’ishsih poet laureate, but it’s so tedious coming out of the cave, though I know the maze of passages, just to post at a computer, so far, so foreign to me, an artist not a hunter, perhaps a proto-shaman who still cannot do routine traipsing like a meditation, who feels no ontology snaking around stalagmites as a native not a tourist, bored. Maybe I should run cables into the caves, pirouette a line around lime and trouvère. I’ve heard the ancients say there are silken spider ropes below the floor.  Now that sounds like cables from the Gods, but the ancient technology doesn’t seem likely to be compatible – doesn’t seem wise to ask the Cable man to hook up to this and not ask any questions. I’ll have to come out of the cave to post.

ENTRY 3

The city woman wants me to embrace the modern age. She’s telling me to be more civilized like the Ojdispekib upper-class snobs who we, before the language change, called the hunter class.  I call you all the time, she says, you’re never home, you don’t answer e-mails, don’t pick up the phone.  Yeah, I know — mostly, I’m not in my apartment. I’m in the cave.  I can’t lay cable in the cave to connect to the Internet -- can I?

ENTRY 4

DRILLING THROUGH ROCK

She beseeches me to e-mail, to be phone touching, encore calling.  She says she’d lend me a cellphone, an earful, but I haven’t told her the cave is too deep for signal.

Oh but, let the Gods lay me a cable I say.  Might I lay aside the ancient prohibitions with a toast to modernity if the Lady needs a cable in the cave?

But it is said, Secrets are sacred.  Don’t approach the Sun Fire, or the growling spears of the sacred spider until the Gods return to sear the rock with silk.

Hey maybe I’ll just flip a switch or something, drill through rock, and voilà: e-mail, cell phone reception, redemption.  End of tension (right?).

ENTRY 5

The Apprentice

Utcoozhoo has been cranky lately. You’d think he’d be happy, because he finally got an apprentice to pass on the oral history – they do a lot of chanting and humming. I said to Utcoozhoo, wouldn’t it be easier to just write it all down. He said, the language of the Gods can’t be written – only seen. The only thing that interests me is that odd saying, The wearer of the hat can stab through rock with an endless spear. Oh hell, I think I’m just going to explore the chambers beyond the dome of the endless light. I can’t see what these superstitious curmudgeons are afraid of.  They’re waiting for the Gods to return. I can’t wait for that – it could be a thousand years from now or never. If there is some kind of drilling machine, I could use it to finally hook up my computer in the cave.

ENTRY 6

I finally got Zawmb’yee, Utcoozhoo’s apprentice, to open up a little. She says she finds the exercises exciting but tedious. Utcoozhoo doesn’t think she’s ready for any ancient secrets. She’s been practicing the seeing of knowledge.

Huh? I said. Exactly what are you doing?

"We walk past the glass wall, around the sword of the silver-red stalagmite. I turn my back while Utcoozhoo opens the ngtqua entrance…"

He has a key or code of some kind? It looks like solid rock…

I don’t know. I don’t look. Sometimes it takes too long. He tells me to be quiet so he can concentrate. It’s so boring — I sit down with my back to him, put on my headphones and listen to music. That annoys him sometimes — says how can you get into a mystical mood listening to rock music. I laugh — he says no pun with rock. But anyway, when he’s finished yelling at me, I sit down with my back to him again and he does whatever…

Yeah, yeah, yeah, and then what?

We go down the golden steps into the darkness to the floating bed…then there’s meditation…

Yeah?

I can’t tell you anymore. You know, ‘secrets are sacred’ and all that.  Bring me a gift and maybe I’ll tell you.

She’s a tease.

ENTRY 7

Hmm, Zawmb’yee wants a gift. I don’t know; I don’t have any money right now. I spent all my money on Chloë, the lady at the Antelope Hotel(I know I said I’d keep her name anonymous because she’d be the goat of a joke if it were known she goes out with the Caveman, but I don’t think just a first name will do any harm.). I could write a poem for Zawmb’yee. I don’t know if she’d accept that as a gift, I think it depends on whether when she says, gift she means gift or bribe. There’s good news and bad news, I think. If she wants a bribe, then I can easily find out stuff, but then she’s really not trustworthy to receive the wisdom of the ages. On the other hand, if she really wants, umm, me as gift then… oh, Gods, she is beautiful… I must compose a poem for her, but she is too spiritual for my crude verse. I mean, Chloë, I think, is easily impressed by my poems of green pastures, but I don’t think Zawmb’yee will fall for me that easily.

ENTRY 8

Chloë Was Mad

I could hear my phone ringing all the way down the hall as I came in this morning. By the time I got in the door it must have been ringing more than 10 times. Chloë was mad. She says you’re never home. Well, actually, I would say (but never tell her) that the cave is more like my home than is my apartment.

Yeah, I know I promised to install a cable in the cave so I’d have an Internet link there, but I think it’s probably much too complicated and expensive.

I had a dream about Zawmb’yee. She was teaching me meditation, but it was weird like a loss of identity — some sort of blending process. She opened the ngtqua by herself and we floated in. I’ve been thinking about that gift for her. I did write a poem about gifts. Maybe it’ll do.  It’s based on the story The Gift of the Magi, but it has my own twist.  He buys her a swing for her tree so she can grieve over memories.  He has to sell his carving tools to get money to buy it.  She cuts down her tree to give him the perfect block of wood for his carvings.

Maybe it might be spiritual enough for Zawmb’yee.  I don’t think Chloë would like it. They are so different, but I don’t know who’s more exciting…

ENTRY 9

Zawmb’yee Is a Tease

Zawmb’yee is more of a tease than I thought. I wrote the poem out for her with a brush on a canvas. She sat by the underground-river Zhushcratylm, gently rested the tips of her fingers on the canvas with her eyes closed. I leaned forward and stared into her like a wild-eyed pupil.  Yes, she said, it demonstrates the devotional stage, but there is no sharing of thoughts.

I stroked the back of my hand across my lips, wiping my tingles. She took my hands, made a gentle humming sound like a ferocious purr, said: thank you and next week I’ll show you a vision in the fifth passage. Then she said, your phone is ringing — don’t you think you should leave the cave. A quick kiss and I found myself leaving hot…

ENTRY 10

I find myself thinking about Zawmb’yee everywhere I go. I wonder how she is able to navigate in the mainstream world above ground. I know she lives in the sacred quarters in the cave but is also expected to mingle in the city and across the world. It’s hard for me to imagine such a spiritual person riding on a common bus to meet me for lunch or come to my lonely apartment, see me type a poem into my computer, pull me away for more embraceable things.  I think about what I might say to her about it: I imagine you drifting in thoughts on the bus by the window with a mystery package.  Can you hear me honk; can you see me as the bird that flaps a clap, applauding your reverie.  On your way, squealing with the wheeling of the bus, I am the squeaky brakes squawking to see you; I am the roar of the engine.  Wake up. Don’t miss your stop; don’t drop your precious package.  Arrive soon, because I can’t wait to open you up to ride with me.

I imagine her everywhere doing her learn the culture exercises for Utcoozhoo — smiling on strangers at every museum, chatting at every Opera, commiserating at every bar, a discreet angel with casual compassion. But I am infused with the perfume of her joy:

You in Me

I woke up to my

longing for you; coffee

bit my dream

I stirred your cream

If I dress to seek you

will I know where

passion gallivants

You haunt me with

your many haunts. I

feel a phantom kiss

and miss the bliss from

flesh and ardor, belief bones

troubles massaged in a love whisper,

soothing music

melodic compassion

I am out to find you

driven like the mating birds;

walking, I hear the coos

but let them fly unknowing

for I have a gift for us:

wait ’til you

see me smile

everywhere I know you

But then Chloë is to call and my body is at attention…

ENTRY 11

I was thinking the other day, sitting under the Dome of the Endless Light by the K’ut’mbletaw’i River, that Utcoozhoo promises many spectacular things to Zawmb’yee, but it’s always in the future. When she wonders if anything he says is true, he always tells her the story of Tpiqlat’ng who was everywhere, nearby, and beneath all things at the same time. Nobody believed Tpiqlat’ng either. The day Tpiqlat’ng returned with great treasures for everyone, rather than be grateful, they demanded to know where he got it. He was nearly beaten to death when he told what they thought was a grandiose lie:

I rode the river to the place of the Gods where I was given the honor to ride with them on a flying mole in a fire tube under a great ocean to the Rocky Mountains.

He begged for one last chance to prove it to them. He said, Whoever is as brave as they are angry, come meet the Gods. The few volunteers he took to the K’ut’mbletaw’i (means, They say it speaks to wash away false beliefs).  They rode it out to the surface and beyond, transferring to a new vehicle.  All but the meanest one came back with great wonders. The Gods left the arrogant one behind — they say by his choice.

And then after all that babble, Utcoozhoo won’t even tell her what treasures and who was left behind for what purpose. Now doesn’t that just become another spectacular story promised for the future?

She says she wants to talk to me about one of her homework assignments. Gee, I don’t know that I can be of any help….

ENTRY 12

I Saw the Pfambuuwisen

The mystical things always sound so calming, and yet so dangerous.  I fear she may be seeing too much before she’s ready to understand it.

Zawmb’yee always seems to come out of nowhere when I’m writing by the K’ut’mbletaw’i. Poor Zawmb’yee — another disappointment, or delay.

She broke into my musing with "I saw the pfambuuwisen, the blue dream-stars shining on glistening water like crystal and all that, but now Utcoozhoo gives me a puzzle: ‘How are we like blue sheep?’ He says you know."

I know? How do I know…Um oh yeah, of course?  I lowered my voice to a whisper of authority, and I hugged myself like I wished she would.  I’ll give you ‘my best tongue in the wind’ as they say.

I’m working on it. OK, I see I’m not really doing this diary thing very well, because some days I don’t write very much. I’m just not that talkative, and I never did this before. Some people kept diaries since they were kids. I never did that sort of thing. I didn’t even like reading much, though strangely I wanted to write a novel (I guess everyone does). Quite a contradiction: to want to do something I have no skill or talent to do. Zawmb’yee seems more like the type who could do it quite easily… ah, phooey, I’m getting tired now and I haven’t really said anything. I’m supposed to write down all my thoughts, I suppose, but they fly by too quickly (most of the significant ones, even the ones not ineffable–{hmm, double negative — is there effable}. What was I going to say — I forgot…

ENTRY 13

I can see why Zawmb’yee is in turmoil. Everything is a contradiction. Utcoozhoo wants her to learn the dominant culture to blend in. If she does that, isn’t she assimilating into the mainstream, and adopting their ways.  I would think she’ll just become another sap (as Utcoozhoo calls them). But yet he wants to teach her the traditional ways.

He’s trying to get her to see the pfambuuisen, yet Zawmb’yee just seems to have the blues nowadays. Another contradiction: blue in a vision — a spiritual light, but brimstone burning blue — a devilish thing. (The devil is in the details.)

Exposure to the modern world could destroy the ancient culture. Hmm, I was reading about the last Buddhist Kingdom of Bhutan. They just introduced satellite TV because they believe the young people must know about the outside world. But some elders worry that their culture will be corrupted and lost.

Bhutan’s an interesting place with diverse climates and habitats. Aha, I think I have it — blue things in Bhutan. They have the same dilemma as we do: to assimilate, accommodate, or stay isolated.

Zawmb’yee needs 12 ways to answer the question, Why are we blue. Well, I think I have one:

Blue Sheep In Bhutan

Have I sinned

to love snow leopards

I have heard

rock-and-roll

and blues too

Scampering up cliffs

blue sheep make me cry

freezing to hide

Snow leopards

must eat –

I will not look

Kayaking down the Mochhu

I see only splash

only sky

Blue is clean

red I deny

Prayer flags on the mountain

let me be of slate color

hiding my friends

Can I sing the blues

in the sorrow of the lamb

with only wool to give

in cold comfort, or

must I be the tiger

to growl at my hunger

to dominate

The dominate culture is like a tiger. We are blue sheep hiding? No, that doesn’t sound right. Aaah, well, that’s the best I can do for now… I mean, it’s her homework. Why do I have to do it? Yeah, I’ll just say I’m giving you a clue, and pretend like it’s some deep profound strategy to get her to think, even though it’s just hogwash, ’cause I don’t know. I’m not wise — I’m just confused… maybe she won’t notice the difference…

ENTRY 14

Lately I’ve just been staring at the rippling waters of the K’ut’mbletaw’i.  It is said that the Gods left behind many pfayohoqwaahujpi (lightning boxes for guardian spirits to dwell in) that power the Endless Light and purify the river. The river is always pure even after many reckless picnickers have frolicked with abandon.

I look into the beautiful blue ripples hoping for a splash of inspiration to lift my writer’s block.

Zawmb’yee says I should look over my old poems to see if there is one in my trash heap that could be revised and purified. But I don’t have the power of even the smallest pfayohoqwaahujpi. I found an old poem, but it’s too weird to use I think, and I don’t think it is worth reading again:

Enchantment

In warmth

you’ve already read this

but I made you forget it

many spells ago

down the path

you’re on now falling

down the mountainside

to lush green sleepy

pleasant grass under

picnics’ bliss wine

soothing solitude like

a bath, bubbles a

swarming essence

perfumed with

perfect memories cherished

idealized

realized

in sleepy fantasy

that counts to five

enchantments

you’ve read

in many spells

down steeped tea

paths pleasing.

Five

is quintessential

to awaken you again;

are you dressed for the day

or is it night–

but you’ve already read this

in warmth cherished,

and now

forget it,

forget what you’ve done

in warmth unknowing, for

you need not know why

everyone looks at you

again, and sleep

will overtake you eventually

to do what you must forget.

You’ve done it. Thanks.

ENTRY 15

Utcoozhoo Jumps Out of the Water

Yesterday, I don’t know when (I forgot my watch again, and in the endless light of the cave, there’s no way to know the day or time), I was startled by a surprise visitor.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Utcoozhoo swim. Somehow I couldn’t picture the scene of a wise old Guru, who might sit by a jagged rock face like his own face, impenetrable, not likely to float, swimming, but it is true that this wise one could chuckle like the water splashes.

Thus, sitting at the Nipeiskwari (Place of Meandering Thought), by the granite intrusion where the K’ut’mbletaw’i twists, I was surprised to look up from my notes to see Utcoozhoo leap out of the water like a dolphin with gray hair.

You look surprised, he said. Anyone who can hold his breath for a couple of minutes can reach the Akwangtqua, enter the Tzvaleubhoi, cave of the third sun, rest by the Tree of Many Fruits and … but, of course, if you don’t know where the entrance is, you won’t have enough breath to return.

Actually, I was more scared than surprised to see anything leap out of the water, and nearly dropped my notes in the water. I thought to ask, Well, then can you show me the entrance?

I’ll think about it … but I wanted to thank you for helping Zawmb’yee — she’s a bit young for the Utd’mbts. I had thought to teach you, Doug, but you were too cynical at the time of the Maghuogke. Sorry.

That’s alright. I was in a crisis and would have thought the idea ridiculous back then…

Yes, I know. You hold your breath too much without going anywhere … always seeming to drown in sorrow.

I was embarrassed to have too much dust in my eyes to answer…I changed the subject. So, are you revealing the oral history of our people to Zawmb’yee? I don’t know what’s so secret. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal. I mean, if I want to know American History or Ancient Roman or Greek History, I just go to the library and get myself some text books.

Asking about secrets made Utcoozhoo grimace. It triggered a long lecture, and a warning of sorts:

"True thoughts are not at all like words.  They are more like dreams.  They have many metaphors, many meanings.  There are many levels of Utd’mbts to learn. One must be ready.  First one must babble like the baby, then a first word, then a sentence, then a complex sentence, and finally the fine points of a dream poetry.

The key here is you say ‘many books’. Each is a distortion of a different kind, a glorified hearsay — the gossip of the conquerors, the elites, the propagandists, ravings of madmen with charisma and minor magic. It is the written word of major and minor egomaniacs, words from scribes of the dominate class driven mad by their self-importance; words from scribes of minorities driven mad by their oppression, waiting for their revenge and reversal of role when they will rule and write with a new kind of madness. All of these are the scribbles that blot the world with cycles of boom and bust of ever larger magnitude, notation for melodies symphonic and chaotic, with a tone of hope in overture, an interlude of cacophony, and percussion like tornadoes. History of clash. Not enlightening…"

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Utcoozhoo was making it clear to me that the oral history was much more than oral. When will you tell her?

It’s not a telling as much as a transference. But I have to be careful how I say this to you. Skeptics can be blinded by their anger when it comes to mysticism. There is such a flood of pretenders that usually it is justified to call most crackpots, charlatans, or superstitious fools, but not all. I must tell you to be very careful with ‘Enchantments’… I’ve heard that Ngheufel has been stumbling into some dangerous states-of-mind without knowing what he’s doing. He’s a very stubborn fellow who I fear is on the edge of mischief.

With that, Utcoozhoo did some odd breathing exercises and dived into the water, swimming underwater to the Cave of the Third Sun.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

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1 comment on ENTRY 15

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~~ Jeanne

I’ve never heard of the Ut’ishsih, secret cave or of Utd’mbts, but anyway I like You In Me.

I don’t think the format matters that much.  There are different styles that are used for blogs.  Some people do diaries and some just give information.  Swimming to an underwater cave sounds dangerous.  Good luck.

*reply

CHAPTER TWO

Trapping Oral History

ENTRY 16

It was really weird early today when I got a phone call from Zawmb’yee. I mean, I see her in the cave all the time and I didn’t think she even uses a phone. She would seem to pop out of nowhere whenever I wrote at the Nipeiskwari. I guess I’ve always thought of her as a cave person even though Utcoozhoo makes her mingle in the up-top world quite often — it’s just that I’ve never seen her there. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised because she can pass quite well as an ordinary, run-of-the-mill, common gorgeous model. It’s odd though because in the cave world she used to be teased all the time: they used to call her the hairless albino. But that was so ridiculous. She has blond hair, but she’s not albino. Her eyes are blue like the color of the pfambuuisen.

She called to say she wanted to meet me. Zawmb’yee is going to show me a meditation exercise she’s been learning and maybe she’ll reveal some oral history. She said to meet her past the glass wall, around the sword of the silver-red stalagmite to the left of the pothole marker, and up the narrow ledge to the ngtqua.

An odd thing though. Before hanging up she said, I want you to gargle with salt water, and then gargle without water to just make the sound. Then make the ‘ka’ sound first in the back of the throat and then like you’re scraping the roof of your mouth, purse your lips, and add the gargle sound until you sound like a motor forcing air out hard until your whole face, sinuses, and head vibrate. It’ll feel like a face massage.

She hung up before I could ask a question.

ENTRY 17

Ever since I almost dropped my notes in the river, I’ve been carrying all my writing paraphernalia with my camera in a waterproof case. Hmm, protecting the notes for this diary — that sort of assumes they might have some importance. I’m not sure I’m even finding this cathartic. It’s only slightly amusing to me when I can imagine a future audience. (I suppose if I were to be writing in the cave and died, someone would take these notes and transcribe them for me, enter them in the computer and continue…I guess they’d be like a ghost writer.) But I can’t see a diary of a boring person as a stage play. I could see Zawmb’yee on the stage or maybe Chloë. I’m probably more like an adequate ‘extra’ who’ll never be an actor.

I’ve had sigh mornings

leaving sighs to mourn

the heave on traipse

on feet’s defeat

a hunched up shoulder,

looking for a walk-on day, say

I could have missed a cue

if you’d not staged a

run in radiance

In the running of my soul

you make me bullish

playing on my horns

Stages of my performance

in the footlights

of your delight

gives me this role

in run-ons

carried away with you

stage right into the wings of love

Well, I’ve practiced Zawmb’yee’s head vibrating sound or mantra or whatever it’s supposed to be. It is a weird sound. I wonder what it will sound like as a duet. Well, I should pack up my stuff and go meet Zawmb’yee at the Ngtqua. (Oh, I just realized there’s another flaw in these entries: I haven’t marked which ones I’ve made here in the apartment and which ones I’ve made in the cave. Actually, this is the first entry I’ve written in my apartment. So it’s a quick turnover to put these handwritten notes into the computer. I hate typing directly — I’m more fluent scribbling than typing. Ah geez — another point-of-view problem.)

ENTRY 18

Meeting Zawmb’yee at the Ngtqua

There was no comfort in a familiar scene. Many times I had traipsed past every limestone drip in time, every ancient erosion, but as I traversed this common maze to reach my appointed meeting with Zawmb’yee, making my way past familiar speleothems, some loomed like broken talismans. An ominous insight seemed to trickle into my consciousness that some of these formations were not natural. It is said that the Qukwerpfm, the glass wall, once was double silvered to hold the lightning of the Gods. The sword of the silver-red stalagmite spoke to the Gods in heaven, the legend said, and I walked past to the left, up the narrow ledge.

On edge, I hummed a few umm’s as I put foot to each stone, trying to remember the sound I was supposed to make for Zawmb’yee’s incantation.

She waved as I approached the Ngtqua….

ENTRY 19

She was standing with a Gnolum that she had evidently removed from a wall. I didn’t even know you could do that. I had always just taken the gnolums for granted — common glowing crystal lights that have always been. They were just like streetlights of the cave. Most people don’t ever question how streetlights work — they’re just there.

Zawmb’yee said, Doug, I’m so excited. But I forgot to tell you, you have to add a deep voicing, like a bass hum, to the ‘ka’ and the gargle, like this… The whole cave vibrated, a small stalactite fell out of the ceiling, and a stone fell off the ledge. Except a little deeper … you try…

I made my whole face vibrate and my eyes shook like little REM’s from a dream. No stones fell.

She said, Good, perfect. Now we just have to harmonize. OK, now, we stand by the entrance to the Ngtqua. We do the ‘ka’ together, but when I point up, I want you to raise the tone of your voice, and when I point down, I want you to lower the tone with more bass. When we get the beats right, you’ll hear a ‘wah-oh-wah-oh’ sound, but think that you’re focusing your energy at the entrance…

Somehow, her giddiness just didn’t seem to match the occasion. I said, Do you know what you’re doing?

Zawmb’yee said, Um, well, let’s just do this.

When we did the sound together the wah-oh was intense. The large square stone pivoted on one edge, opened like a door, but smoothly without creaks. The inner surface of the door was smooth and polished, not at all like a rock, but more like the vault door of a bank.

She said with confidence, Now, we go in. We walked into the Ngtqua. The door slammed behind us with the sound of locking bolts. The inner surface glowed red hot for a moment and a frost of rock formed, making the door indistinguishable from the surrounding rock of the chamber. There was a trickle of water on the floor.

Zawmb’yee covered her gnolum with her back pack until it was totally dark. She took my hands in the dark, said, We are of the universe, the distant stars, we diffuse into a unity of chaos, a smear of light, the glow of love; we are the moment. See the pfambuuwisen, and choose the one that glows the most. Let it expand. Dive into the blue light, and let it expand into a dream. What do you see?

I see a woman in a helmet with a spear.

Zawmb’yee laughed. Oh sorry, I lost my focus. That’s an opera that I went to. Actually, I should tell you that I saw Chloë at the opera…

You know Chloë?

Well, yes.

The trickle of water was increasing and I found myself standing in ankle deep water. Don’t you think we should go…?

ENTRY 20

Drowning in the Sealed Chamber

The water is rising more rapidly by the second. We’re doing the ka wah-oh up and down the scale.

It’s not working — the door is not opening. Zawmb’yee is screaming. I’m telling her that screaming is not the right chant. She’s looking around. She’s running to the back of the chamber where the golden steps are. She’s taking a deep breath, diving underwater, swimming down the stairs.

Returning, gasping, Zawmb’yee says she doesn’t see an exit. She’s screaming at me to