Sunday, December 21, 2014

Don't Wake the Baby - God of All Things




Angels have no names. But for the sake of this story we will use the name Naarai for our angel.

Naarai, the nurturing angel, sits beside the gently flowing creek, beside the garden, rocking the baby.

We shall call this baby “God of All Things.”

“God of All Things” likewise has no name. But for our purposes shall be called "The Lord."

The form of The Lord, for the sake of this story, we will form, in our belief, to be an infant.

This infant will be portrayed as a male...human. 

The name of the angel Naarai, spoken in truth, would be to any man the sound of a million piercing screams, carrying the shocking breath of omnipotent lightning, powerful enough to explode eardrum and skull alike.    

However, in order to share this tale we will say it thusly. From the bushes, near the bank, on the creek where Naarai sits, there comes a whisper. It says...

“Naarai, does he sleep soundly?”

Naarai replies softly, “Yes Jegudiel. All is well and it is as it should be. Return to the fields and the work to which you were tasked. Be at ease. The creek is ever flowing and soothing to The Lord's tiny ears.”

“But I came to...” Jegudiel stammered “I must warn you. Something must be done.”

“What warning could you have? What change could there be, requiring something be done? Things are! What danger could there ever be? The Lord is sleeping.”

There was a pause from the bushes. Then...

“It is Abaddon. He has grown angry, restless. He desires attention. He sits in the dining hall, ordering the others to bring him food, and drink. He has a wild look in his eyes. The angels grow fearful. His voice is thunderous and he is close to wrath.”

“There is but one child in my care, Jegudiel” Whispers Naarai, “Tell Abaddon he must fend for himself, for thusly he was dreamed into being. The others must not fall into his folly. Tell all to return to the Way. I shall remain to nurture The Lord Our Babe. He must have his rest.”

“Please, dear one, I fear to go before Abaddon. The light in his eyes is tremendous. His power is waxing and it is beyond me. You are the mother of things. He will listen to you. Do not send me to this task. It is far beyond me.”

“There is but one thing to fear Jegudiel. That is waking The Babe. It is the thought to be here and no other is my mind. The Babe wishes to sleep and the creek is ever flowing. There is a mist surrounding this which I cannot see through. The Babe must sleep. Tell Abaddon to return to things, and all is to be as it should.”

“Dear one, I cannot. Your task is eternally warm. I shall, as you earlier asked, return to the fields. My task is the sweet smell of earth and grain. Long may he sleep.”

“Go and be, Jegudiel. We are content.”

Jegudiel leaves the bushes and returns to the fields of the world.

Naarai gently rocks the babe in loving arms. Somewhere, deep in what we might call a mind, there is a worry. This worry is indefinable as it was never meant to be.

Away in the mansion, in the Great Hall, the truth of what might be words, the shattering of an over full glass. There is an energy, a tension in the room...electrified jealousy. A long table.  Adorned with gold, gems and finery, a room full of bustling purpose, red curtains. 

Everywhere in sight flow Escheresque stairways filled with amorphous angel being. 

“Abaddon sits at the head of the table!” The Host says in unison. “Abaddon!” 

A five headed beast sings in harmony. “It is the day of The Lord.” It sings. 

They sing.

A server brings in a tray for the feast, sets it before Abaddon. Abaddon smiles.

The sound of teeth chewing, tearing flesh is heard. Abaddon feasts. The angels go to tasks, serving.
               
Far away, in a timeless moment, beside stars and a nameless flow of water, Naarai rocks the babe. There is a slight whimper. Concern crosses the face of the angel.

“Shhhhhh,” the angel whispers. “Rest, sleep, the water is flowing. Peace...”

Abaddon, in the mansion, glares into reality. 

Housefly eyes engage a myriad of worlds, a prism of expanding thought. Abaddon scoffs, lets out a slight curse. 

In one small section of eye Abaddon sees man. “More wine!” he demands, pounding the table. “This is ridiculous!”

The angels, as is their being, serve.

Some, those unfortunate enough to be near, fall into the gravity of the power of Abaddon's essence. Several sit beside their new king, unknowing of what has just occurred.

“I have seen the shape of this baby dreaming. It is unworthy of all things. There are mockeries, frivolous games and unwarranted likenesses.”

The angels nearby nod...agree....bow... serve.

The angels on stairways, distant enough to flee,  lift in all directions, scatter, run, float, un-be.

Again, by the stream, the baby whimpers.

Naarai, without feeling, fails to understand.

The Babe stirs and slightly groans. Somewhere inside the dream of The Lord there is an angry storm. Somewhere in the World of Man there is an event, fire, death, a search for meaning. Children are engulfed by volcanoes. Armies form, fight, conquer. Moons and fractions of the universe explode into sparks and pain. The baby twitches its toes.

In the dining hall Abaddon laughs. He is pleased with the direction of this moment. He quafs his wine and tosses the goblet at the head of an attending angel. “Move, you fool! Get me more wine! Get me more food! Bring me whores! Stop whimpering like a foolish, suckling babe and do as I say!”

The angels, forever in this moment, attend. It is what they do. Of course the scene is a translation. Let your thought drink in the manifestation of higher principalites. Let your eyes read the world of all things. Reality is closer to an electric storm.

Suddenly, beside the once peaceful creek, a wave rises up. All at once the peaceful waters writhe, the baby cries, engulfing the nurturing Naarai. She is washed from her seat, smashed to the ground. From her arms The Lord appears, striking her backhanded into the bushes. He strokes his beard and growles “WHY HAVE I BEEN AWAKENED!”

“I know not!” Naarai whimpered, bowing, grovelling, crawling at the feet of The lord. “All was peaceful and sleep was upon you. The water was flowing.”

 Time is disrupted as The Lord violently throws the helpless Naarai into the stream. Dropplets of ages splash into the air. Dinosaurs stomp through downtown Manhattan, ships are lost at sea, World War II fighter pilots chasing flying saucers, vanish, crashing into fields of modern sci-fi movies, children watch from the edge of their tiny village as the sun explodes.

“CALL THE OTHERS TO ME! NOW!”

Naarai crawls from the water, eyes submissively downward. The angel grabs the pack from where it sat beside the peaceful rocking chair, glancing longingly at what used to be, sitting peacefully. The angel pulls forth a long silver horn, somehow larger and longer than the pack could possibly hold. The angel raises the horn into the air, blowing, letting out an enormous, eternal note.

The sound of hooves, of wings, of heartbeats, of worlds is heard all around. The angels have been summoned.

At the table, Abaddon hears the call. Some angels, on the edges, skirt away to answer the call of God, breaking the grasp of gravity that is the contempt of evil. Those close by grovel, cry, and yes... gnash teeth.

“Why do you worry, fools!' Abaddon yells “The baby created you! The baby made you so! The baby created your lust and fed you to me! This is not outside of any scope of things! Your weakness, even, is the dream of your father.

“Now serve me wine! Serve me food and bring me more whores! Roll upon the ground for my amusement and defile yourselves. Defile each other. You are without choice!”

The angels do this. They defile, they serve, they are.

Abaddon watches for a moment. Without choice, the angels obey. Without choice, Abaddon realizes. All is done without choice. His ire quickly rises, but just as quickly falls into acceptance.    

Calmed, musing as it were, on the spread before him, Abaddon takes up a silver tray, tosses the contents to the floor. Meats, fruits, cheeses and other manner of treats go flying. He pulls the tray up to his face, stares deeply into it.

 Slowly, in ways unimaginable, he sees. Softly at first, then slowly, in the manner of the essence of eternity, he weeps.

The Lord and all his host, unchallenged, enter the hall.

The lord's mighty arms swollen with power, prepared to pull the head from Abaddon's treacherous shoulders, smash chairs, overturn the table, feet crush goblets and kick flesh and broken wings.
The lord's anger is horrific. All shall witness his wrath!

The five headed beast sings “The Lord is Righteous! All shall bow before The Lord!”
This they sing endlessly, and forever, for a moment.

Feathers go flying and the five headed beast sings “Today is the day of The Lord!”

The angels bow and scrape.

The Lord scans the room for Abaddon. His nostrils flare, immensely. His veins stand out on his magnificent, omniscient forehead, forming a map of all that can be.

He hears crying, wailing, seep out from a mound of rubble where the table used to be.

Violently he digs through the debris, tossing and turning the wreckage.

Perplexed, he finds no angel, no foe, no fallen Abaddon.

He digs into the mound, beneath the rubble, frustrated.

 A faint moment of some hidden, all knowing panic hits The Lord, some never ending recognition.

There, beneath it all, in the glint of a silver tray, to his all encompassing disappointment, The Lord, once again, finds only reflection.       
      

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