| Topic: |
Religions > Atheism |
| User: |
"Bill, The Avender" |
| Date: |
21 Dec 2003 02:41:32 PM |
| Object: |
AA Estranged Senses - Ghosts of a Life Past |
Sometimes at night, after I've drawn the shades closed for my windows
upon the world, I find myself walking down long, dimly-lit hallways
past doors of every conceivable shape and size. Shiny black surfaces
reflect pale, golden cascades of light, the origins of which are
always indiscernible. Each ray shimmers as it bounces from wall to
floor to ceiling, one dancer of many in a ballet of incomprehensible
complexity...
Occasionally, reflections composed of these mysterious beams of light
reveal for but an instant a picture which if not immediately
recognized fades back into the darkened fog of my mind. Faint, subtle
images can be glimpsed - faces, places and an endless array of
"things" that had at one time or another been pieces of my life...
Few shadows are cast by this light, so weak is it that the dancing
shadows are virtually indistinguishable from the dim, shimmering
puddles of soft light gathered in their midst. Yet in the darkness,
shapes scurry about mouse-like, flitting around as they weave their
way in and out of areas that are somehow darker than pitch black.
Wings flutter and fabric rustles about, something metallic taps with
indiscernible lightness upon a surface that somehow manages to "sound"
like granite... A breeze picks up and moves through the hall,
sometimes blowing doors slowly open or shut, sometimes with creaking
groans and sometimes you don't hear it until the slamming of door upon
frame. But always, the winds wind their way in and out among threads
of whispering voices, filtering them sieve-like until there's
virtually nothing left to be heard or understood.
In the darkness where the hall comes to an end against another hall so
that the two together form a "T", I see a figure standing against the
wall. Pure darkness, completely silent and still. He's huge, like
one of the giants of old that fill countless fables and legends. I
can only make out his general shape, nothing of his features. I feel
like somewhere, a voice is calling to me, only I can't hear it. How I
"feel" it instead of hear it isn't a complete mystery to me, as this
sort of thing happens often. At least here, in my astral excursions
after my body has long since become devoid of sensation and my eyes
have long since ceased peering out at the World of the Awake.
The voice calls silently, beckoning me on. It is the dark figure
speaking to me, though he does not make a sound. This figure is with
me often. Though I cannot see him in this dream, I know from other
encounters what he looks like. Picture a white Incredible Hulk in a
black Armani suit - fingers and fingers alone bling-blingin' as he
puffs a cigar, staring at you through two tiny, beady little
smoldering jet black eyes with an expression that's both completely
blank and yet somehow strangely expectant. Imagine also that you
somehow just "know" that he is something akin to a mafioso boss within
your own personal dreamscape, and a 'gatekeeper' of sorts. Like one
who deals with all the riff raff for you with both a genuine desire to
do a favor for you _and_ to make sure you don't screw something up for
_him_ with your inexperience. I can't explain quite how the
transformation occurred, but this silent, eerie figure is what my
conceptualization of "God" has morphed into over the years. Rather
like a playful rotweiler, he's not nearly so threatening as he is
dangerous.
I walk up to him and a door opens to his right, a firm, steady golden
stream of lights beaming out in all directions, their presence in the
hall made blatant as they scatter upon the thick dust that clings so
heavily to the air. As I walk up to him, our eyes meet for a moment.
I am a woman, looking like a cross between Cybil Shephard and June
Cleaver wearing a bright red dress, dark green heels and a khaki
raincoat. The impression is supposed to be one of "the Dame" from so
many 1940's radio shows and countless gangster movies. We nod to each
other for but a moment as the door opens completely, and I step
inside.
I never remember what happens after this, or if anything at all even
happens. But there is a certain "feeling" which pervades the
atmosphere of these dreams. A feeling of some nearly-forgotten long
ago, of antiquity and of wine and vinegar and dusty, stale cigars long
since forgotten in someone's basement. It's a feeling most strange,
something that was once meaningful to me now a relic of an era long
since extinct within the annals of time. I only encounter it
infrequently now in the World of the Awake. Less and less with time.
Last week, the women who I work with and I all went out for a
"Christmas lunch". Another member of our party would arrive at the
restaurant in sporadic intervals. Finally we were all there and were
taken to our seats, where we settled in and ordered drinks, read the
menus and engaged in a few moments of idle chatter. We'd ordered
drinks, our supervisor permitting us to order wine so long as we only
had one glass (we had to go back to work from there). Then, once the
meals were all ordered and our menus taken away, a most peculiar thing
happened. Without anyone even saying a word, our supervisor closed
her eyes and bowed her head. Almost as if they were all puppets being
held on the same string, each and every one of my co-workers did the
exact same thing - instantly. And they prayed.
I just sat there, stunned, looking at them. It was almost like they
were all "psychically attuned" or something, that's how coordinated
their prayer seemed to "occur". It evoked the memory of my mafioso
god, and that feeling couldn't have been more palpable had it been
made of solid concrete. The feeling of something old and forgotten,
days gone by, something I once held so close to my heart and from
which I now had become so very estranged. I smiled silently as their
prayer came to a close, realizing just how little I felt the urge to
join them in their ritual - a ritual which seemed utterly alien to my
slowly aging adult self.
The meal went well. We all got to know each other better and had a
great time. There wasn't nearly as much talking about the "reason for
the season" as one might have expected after the prayer, and while I
wouldn't have minded too much, I was nonetheless somewhat grateful for
this. As we left, I caught the fading trails of a familiar smell.
Looking back towards the bathrooms at the end of a long, dimly-lit
hall near the entrance, I saw a man on the phone with his back to me.
Trails of smoke fell from the end of his cigar almost like microscopic
drops of lead, slamming into the red carpet that lay in the center of
the hall and rolling outwards, avalanche-like, in all directions,
funnelled by the walls either in towards the bathroom or out towards
us. I could tell that his voice was deep and gruff, and he was very
large and of a solid build. His suit was black, though I have no idea
if it was Armani.
I didn't stick around to see his face. But I almost could have sworn
as I caught one last, involuntary glimpse around a closing door that
for a moment, he paused, nodding his head for my benefit, just like he
was my mafioso god and knew I was there.
All in all, the experience was extremely surreal. It's strange when
you run smack dab dead-center into your old religion like that, just
unexpectedly and out of the blue. I knew all the women I work with
are religious, but I had forgotten how very much like choreographed
monkeys religious people could sometimes be. Seeing "him" there yet,
it was perhaps the most bizarre day I've experienced in quite some
time.
Christmas isn't quite here yet. I'm sure there will be more such
incidents. Whatever you celebrate or even if you celebrate nothing at
all, may the season bring you great things. And should you happen to
see him anywhere, don't be afraid to say hello to my mafioso god for
me. ;-)
--
L8r,
Bill
=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*
The quest is never fruitless -
even when all you walk away with
are memories of the search.
=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*
.
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| User: "Harry Leopold" |
|
| Title: Re: AA Estranged Senses - Ghosts of a Life Past |
22 Dec 2003 06:35:07 AM |
|
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On Sun, 21 Dec 2003 14:41:32 -0600, Bill, The Avender wrote
(in message <3fe6eee9.67645646@newsgroups.bellsouth.net>):
Sometimes at night, after I've drawn the shades closed for my windows
upon the world, I find myself walking down long, dimly-lit hallways
past doors of every conceivable shape and size. Shiny black surfaces
reflect pale, golden cascades of light, the origins of which are
always indiscernible. Each ray shimmers as it bounces from wall to
floor to ceiling, one dancer of many in a ballet of incomprehensible
complexity...
rest snipped, but only for reasons of brevity
A very interesting post, not much I can say about it, but it was certainly
interesting.
Thanks for sharing, Bill.
--
Harry F. Leopold
aa #2076
AA/Vet #4
The Prints of Darkness
"God hates figs."
.
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