Section I: EMPTINESS
Section II: Image 149- SPIRIT OF DARK MATTER 4: SEEKER RETURNS TO THE ORACLE
Section III: OLD MARY AND THE BEAST IV
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EMPTINESS, 10/’11
For Alan Mootnick,
Born to the Lights of this World in 1951, Returned
To the Bosom of Abraham November 5, 2011
Hard to impossible-
Emptiness,
To imagine
Can’t really.
Even deep, empty space
hides ‘dark energy’ and other things
Hardly empty.
Even when we are feeling empty
It means we are full of what we don’t want.
Feelings, images, ideas, sensations
Who is empty.
We get metaphor and paradox:
The Great Fecund Void
I can paint an abundance of ‘nothing’
Then frame it with preferences, culture and references
Glass it over with power and politics
Psychology,
Devotion, ...ologies of every stripe
Then,
Wrap it and
Send it with the
Features of
God...
Beautiful Things, sometimes
Silence is best
Snow flakes falling on snow
No big wind
No horizon
A flock of garnering quail explode-
Wings awhirrrrr,
From wet ground.
.
.
.
_______________________
THE BIG BANG!
Fr. Steve Frost, November 5, 2011
Chama Canyon, New Mexico
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Section II:
149. SPIRIT OF DARK MATTER 4: SEEKER RETURNS TO THE ORACLE
This painting references the final three years of my initiation as a mystic—with Georgia. (See Nepsis Foundation Table of Contents, Section III: "Resolution") 'Seeker..." also references our many trips to Egypt, the Spinx, Luxor and Karnak, etc., and on our final journey, the Oracle of Siwa. Implied here is a conjuring of dark spirits. Not evil, per se. Rather, here we engage the Spirit of Dark Matter.
An important influence in my studies has been the 'Genius Loci,' the Spirit of Place(s), and through that the engorged idea of a World Spirit or Soul. Here is something more than a rational extrapolation that posits ‘if places and objects are animated by some kind of spiritual presence, incarnation or psyche, then Dark Matter also might share such vitality.’ Here is an encounter with such or other entities from a vast universe as they might be perceived through the vales of human perception...
_______________Alan, soar in peace- Greet Georgia and the others. We’ll be together again soon- I’m depending on it.____________________
***
Re-member, reader/viewer, remember the sensations you have viewing the image, reading the poem, the narrative non-fictions of the NEPSIS FOUNDATION and the more popular format of adventure/fantasy fiction that follows. Then let your unconscious re-member it- Re-compose image, poem, history to tell its real story, to have its real effect on you!
***
Section III:
NOW we return to our tale:
DEADLY TRANSLATIONS: Old Mary and the Beast
from previous blogs this fall, 2011. We’ve met Old Mary and there’s been evidence of the Beast and its Mistress. We’ve met Dr. Jack Hartley, genius, warrior for sentience- now on the run and soon to be in hiding. We are about to meet another young hero. Sometimes it’s hard to tell whose side he’s on. But there are some who believe he might be the one to save all concerned!
1.4
Very Reverend Father Steve Shallot, the surprisingly young Rector of the Seminary—a position of high trust and discretion-- performed a private, nearly secret funeral and interment of Father Robillard’s remains at the vast San Fernando Mission cemetery. Steve is the boyhood friend, backpacking buddy and long-time competitor of/to/with Jack Hartley, now on the run. And as soon as he had finished the interment of their old friend, Jack drove further north to Palmdale, through Pearblossom, then up into the mountains to find Sister Mary. Both Sister Mary and Jack Hartley, a widely recognized expert in Spirituality, had been Father Robillard’s occasional assistants when a real Exorcist was needed. Both were wise in the ways of the Spirit and the human heart.
Fully summer now, in the middle of the afternoon above the Mojave Desert, it was well over 110o F. Yet, the air and sky were clear here. Crystalline blue silhouetted the mountains higher up. None-the-less, Father Jack rushed to the door and was granted entrance quickly to preserve the cool within. With drawn curtains and its old Kelly green carpeting, this retreat welcomed the eyes in its nearly crepuscular repose. The knotty pine walls of the cabin were hung with wonderfully spiritual abstract paintings. Various religious knick-knacks typical of Catholic retreat houses, kitschy crosses, candles and little porcelain statues created a familiar welcome for those who came here hunting peace.
But today it was neither peace nor retreat that Father Jack came for: He came for Jack. Or at least some idea where he might find him.
Sister Mary had seated Jack in a comfortable chair, over-stuffed to ensure a relaxed sense of security. She busied herself in the kitchen of that house on the hillside preparing a cool drink for her guest. She noticed for the 100th time the little summer birds that do so well in the desert, feeding in the shaded bushes outside her kitchen window. She knew why Jack was here. Didn’t quite trust him. She had many friends, nuns and priests, who worked at the seminary, knew that he was a worthy man, but somehow flawed. Overly disciplined. Not quite a martinet, but ambitious. Honestly in love with the Church and eager to serve. But truncated somehow. It wasn’t his celibate vows that cripple some not suited for the implied abstinence. But who could live with this controlling, oppressive, enthusiast? She felt sorry for the seminary faculty.
Everything had to be just so in ways that complimented his ambitions. And how he loved all the pomp and display of the big public Church ceremonies. But Mary knew there was more to him than the pretensions of his early work. And she knew for a fact that years in religious life would mellow him—grind him down and spit him out if he continued as he was. But for now, he is the man willing to do the work of the Church.
Sister Mary had cooled the large glass with ice and water from the tap. Now she filled it with lemonade which she had made after Fr. Steve had called for an appointment with her. She knew he didn’t drink alcohol. She provided a kind of Pate that she knew he liked from past occasions with appropriate crusts and tiny sweet pickles on a tray. As she carried the laden tray into the front room, Jack jumped up to help, protesting that she shouldn’t be serving him, but rather the other way around. She smiled ironically after 50 years of serving priests, and told him to sit down if he knew what was good for him. They both chuckled politely as they moved to a table where Sister laid out their snack.
When Jack was seated, she returned to the kitchen, to the refrigerator, took a bottle of white sherry, which she preferred chilled with Pate. Poured a small cut glass 2/3s full and returned to table. She knew that Fr. Steve did not drink alcohol.
“All right, Father. Are you set? Can I get you anything else? A glass of water? Is the lemonade too strong? It’s made from fresh lemons?
Sister, as always, everything is perfect.
Good then. How is you mother? Well, I hope? I was so sorry when I heard that your father had passed.
(Jack was privately amazed that she remembered. That was ten years ago. Though it had been a tragic and mysterious death. Hushed up in the newspapers and even parish gossip since. One moment his father had been with his family. Then, all of a sudden, he insisted that they all go to their parish church of St Andrew in Pasadena, northeast of downtown L. A., they lived nearby in San Marino—they also had a ranch north of the city where they lived when Steve was a boy. They didn’t want to go to St. Andrew now, complaining that they spent too much time at church. But he insisted, ushered them all into the sacred space of that beautiful architecture before the Blessed Sacrament to kneel in prayer. Then, he disappeared. Walked around a corner. Just vanished. One moment he was there. They looked up from prayer and he was gone. NEVER to be found. It took five years for his death to be determined legally. But the pain that that disappearance caused never went away for Steve and his six siblings. Most especially for His mother.)
Mom is getting better I think. Lives with my brother and his wife now. They seem happy. People always liked having her around. Though she has suffered from depression since Father disappeared and has never accepted that he was dead. But, I think she’s better now.
That’s good. I hope so.
(A long, silent pause in the conversation.)
Father, why have you come here now?
(Again, a long pause.)
Sister, as you know Fr. Robillard is dead. He’s died under terrible circumstances. Have you heard?
Yes, I know he’s dead-- Well, there are rumors, but I don’t like to repeat what I’m not sure of.
It appears as if he committed suicide. I buried him just this morning.
Where?
In San Fernando, next to the old Mission.
That’s good. Some would have denied him consecrated ground.
Sister, I don’t believe he committed suicide.
I don’t either.
Even though his forearms were terribly slashed and he was found in a bath of blood upstairs in the priest’s quarters of the Theologate.
Aahg! That’s horrible. That kind old man.
There was an autopsy. There were some very strange chemicals in his blood in high dosage. They are endorphins naturally found in the human body, but not usually in such high amounts as this case. But even at that, there is small suspicion of foul play. With the police anyway…
(Another long pause…)
Father, how can I help you?
I’m looking for Jack. Jack Hartley. Our old friend.
I didn’t think you were friends any more. Even after a life long relationship. From Elementry school. No?
Nearly. We practically grew up together. We were in the same High School here for a while and then University back east. My father was like a second father to him. I’ve always been suspicious that Jack was connected somehow to my father’s disappearance! So, yes, we did have a falling out! But if we ever needed one another… Well, I don’t think he’d turn his back on us. Especially about old Fr. Robillard, whom he loved.
I think you’re right.
Sister Mary, can you tell me where he is?
He is in hiding.
Sister, we need him.
But there are others who want him as well. If they thought I knew where he was, I wouldn’t be safe either! (It was late twilight by now and both of them could hear tires crunching gravel outside. Sister rose to peer through the curtains.) ‘Thank God, it’s Brother Benedict from the monastery.’
He was great friends to both Sister and Jack and knew Father Steve as well. Like Celestine, he is huge. A great welcoming bear of a monk. He had come by to check on Mary as urged by Celestine. As Sister Mary opened all the drapes in the house to view the daily grandeur of twilight in the desert and waited for the monk to get to the door, she spoke softly to Father Pat:
I’ll write you directions. He’s up near Bishop, in one of our old retreats-- Abandoned for years, but for one of our sisters, a hermit. A real holy woman. She’s given him shelter and her spirits protect him and hide him. Benedict is a good man. But he’s here to look after me and doesn’t know anything about any of this. When I give you the directions, please take your leave!
Once Steve had the directions, he made polite conversation with the Brother and Sister for a short while, then, hit the road. He knew the way to Bishop, so close to his favorite ski resorts, he knew he would be in auto drive for the four hours or so that the distance required.
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1.5
Benedict came once again to examine the scene Sister Mary had described in the cave apartment still taped with yellow crime scene police tape. He was concerned about Sister’s well being, as well as what might have been the source of all that blood. No corpse had been found. Only broad smears of blood. The police believed Sister when she said she’d seen a body, but thought that the killer had still been around when she saw it, since the body disappeared between her first viewing and when the police arrived. Or that whomever it might have been wasn’t dead. There was some evidence of a blood trail over the edge of the Patio. But that was lost a few yards into the chaparral. She had retreated to her neighbor’s house, a quarter mile up the road, which might have saved her life, they said. She suspected otherwise, as did Benedict. The police suspected Jack, but said they only wanted to question him.
Benedict was inside the root cellar apartment as Sister sat outside watching darkness claim her beloved desert. She knew that the desert was livelier at night than during the day in the summer. But this moment of twilight was her favorite—a sacred moment between the worlds of day and night. This was her moment when prayer and its intent is strongest. As the scripture would have it, one must be ‘innocent as a dove, and wise as the snake.’ After years of intense religious devotion, broad spiritual knowledge—dark and light, and long inner practice, she has become both wise and innocent.
Benedict looked for any sign of a crack around the back wall that supposedly had somehow opened. He could find none as he heaved his remarkable bulk around the room, along the base of the wall-- three hundred pounds of powerful grace. Though vast in his monastic robes, he moved with the sureness of a Sumo wrestler as he checked the work Celestine had done in bolting floor to wall. It was excellent. He also noticed the dusty etching of Sister Mary’s prayers: Crosses and lightening bolts, rain clouds, alphas, omegas and other signs he didn’t know. After examining where the blood had pooled, and had been scrubbed clean, the monk joined Sister on the Patio.
Mary, I just don’t see it. Its seems as if that floor and wall are cast concrete in one pour. Seamless. There’s not a hairline of a crack.
Benedict, you know what’s behind that wall as well as I do. It’s the reason we bought this place. It’s the reason I’m here to keep watch. It why Jack was brave enough to live there; that he would know what to do when the time came.
Yes, I know. But even knowing, it’s still hard to believe. Maybe you should come over to the monastery where you’d be safer.
But then how would we know if it was opened again.
How would you know anyway? You’re up in the house most the time, aren’t you. (He paused.) Don’t tell me you sleep down here now! It’s dangerous. You know it is.
I’m old, my friend. One is less afraid when there is so little left to lose.
Damn it, Sister! I’m going to get Celestine up here to watch out for you.
Big and strong does not guarantee safety. Not with what we’re up against. Let’s drop all the histrionics now. Tell me what you think happened to Father Robillard?
Robillard?
Yes, the Church History professor at the seminary.
Yes, yes, I know. What do you want to know? All I know are the rumors.
It seems he committed suicide. I don’t believe it. It’s completely out of character.
I can’t say for sure, but you know I did quite a few exorcisms in Asia-- People still believe over there. It’s easier to deal with. I just can’t say for sure. I know what its like trying to lift a curse. Or, get rid of an evil spirit. Or, a hungry ghost. You have to take them on yourself, be strong enough to take it for a time without losing control and then at the right moment, with the right name or word or sound, a massive counter strike! Or, its like flushing the toilet! Excuse me, Sister.
Don’t worry brother. I’m not made of sugar. I won’t melt in the rain.
(Piss and vinagar, more likely. --Thought the monk. If one can frown and grin broadly, Brother Benedict can.) But you see what I mean. It’s a gift. Some can do it. Most can’t. I’ve also been trained by the Church to augment the gift and give them a context. So, it’s safer. Anyway, Fr. Robillard! Maybe he just got too old and weak and couldn’t rid himself of the terrible, repulsive energies from some ritual in which he tried to free someone of those horrors. Maybe they festered in him. Quietly at first, then just drove him to despair. They usually feel like a bad case of the flu, a migraine and being hung over rolled in together. You have to get rid of them. Can’t let the beast in or let it to cling to you. Not in deeply or for long. Just enough to fool it and then disintegrate its artificial composition—its lie. All happens inside. Hard to explain.
I wonder, brother. That might be. I know those sensations. I’ve participated in exorcisms. Though I haven’t had that much experience with lifting curses. Lots of blessings. This doesn’t feel like any of that. Well, let’s pray on it. I have my suspicions, but its too early to tell. It’s Jack who knows! And I haven’t heard anything. --From him or Sister Hermit… Well, I’m tired. It’s good of you to stop by, Brother, but I’m alright and it’s getting late. Time for a bit of supper, then to bed for me. Tomorrow then?
Yes, yes, tomorrow.
As Brother Benedict’s great old boat of a car had bounced and crunched its chassis over the ruts, potholes and mother stone of this private and largely un-kept road, Sister set to work!
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Soon Fr. Steve will meet the 'Mistess of the Beast and Dr. Jack Hartley will be found! Same place, next week- Mas o menos!
