Sunday, December 14, 2014

Adventurous George (12)

Human adventurers meaning no ill will, will sometimes bring with them to foreign lands ravages of nature which devastate the populations of their vanquishments. So George, harbouring no vengeance, awoke one fine morning a week after his inestimable visitors had departed to depart with the contents of his stomach in a rather forceful manner, which left poor Mottles rather taken aback as George collapsed back to an irritable stupor. George lay in oblivion for a mere twenty-four hours although eternity does not mind the clock, the latter half being in a copious diaphoresis, in which his mind was beset by visitations from tenuous dimensions some which stuck in his mind for days after he recovered. As George regained some composure the following morning and was able to light a kindling in his cold stove and warm up a delectable broth, his sentience was unabashedly worsted by the seraph of an ancestor who had been prominent in his delirium.

This seraph who had in his own words, been floating around the universe much like the detritus from a resentful supernova since his earthly departure, had come to impart bits of his icky bicky spirit unto his descendants more for his own gratification than for any altruistic considerations. But anyhow, he had told George realms of fables about his own and George's past, about the rather tedious relationship which had developed between their kin and the god almighty, and their search for a new land where they could be ostracized for their sinful nature without the constraints of totalitarian governments. They had come to this land of virgin soil to build their little wooden church with uncomfortable stately pews and keep their nonheathen convictions free of adultery. And so it had been that George as a little boy had been taught the true way, the uprighteous way, the way to heaven and the everlasting life. And the god almighty would make mince meat of him if he ever so much as thought of straying from the path of total servitude.

But George had not been a good lad. He had the knack of asking the darnedest questions. The leather strap did little to quell his enthusiasm for shameless knowledge. The elders and the revered pastor found no pleasure in George's flights of fancy and so at the modest age of sixteen, when he was found hiding in the woodshed with a paperback copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” he was convicted of being a menace to the purity of his compeers and banished to the outer world to live in sin in duplicity with the heathens till fire and brimstone could take his soul forevermore. Even his upright parents could not see their way past this unremorseful dilemma and turned their other cheeks when George bid them all a brave farewell. So George had trudged off with a few clothes and not too many dollars to make a new life for himself.

Resentful supernovas, or resentful seraphs, or even Georges for that matter whether resentful or not, can have a difficult time coming to terms with the staunch biddings of the fantasies of nature which have guided their conquests of a self identity out of the chaos of our universes building blocks. So George lay in bed one night and said out loud “There is no god,” and nothing happened. The devil didn't come dancing in his head with corruptions of fiddling duels or hot women, no, everything was humdrum. But time went on and the feeling that there must be something significant in the spiritual history of humankind would not leave him forsaken to the fervours of capitalism. George found a lowly job in his non-diplomaed state but not having the social skills to fan wangle his way through legions of the more aggressive sorts he sort of stayed at the bottom of his calling which gave him latitude to make the local library his second home where after several years he knew the covers of most books by heart having read bits and pieces from many of them, and the kind librarian had taken to ordering in armfuls from the main branch downtown dealing with everything spiritual and philosophical, some with a slightly pagan bent, which George would devour in no time flat. And so it was that George being not a trifle disillusioned with with the construction techniques of fine furniture for the well-heeled, turned his mind inwards to the disciplines of sages and mystics not to mention yogis and began a journey into the depths of his noggin where there lay a wonder world of adventure far beyond the confines of condescension. He had few friends, that being non, although he got on well with most people in the work-a-day world and even developed a sort of humour about life, but he could just not bring himself to trust the self importance of anyone desirable of an indelible bound through the vagaries of social stratagems, many of which had befuddled his childhood with their destinism.

The ancestral seraph had left his mark, although time obliterated the details of a lively encounter which may or may not have had a footing in the less walked corridors of reality. Georges memories of his past life returned. They were not so scary, they actually made a bit of sense. People were people and no one was perfect. We were all flawed perfections of humanity striving to whatever humans strive for. George began to feel he wanted to be a part of it.

(To be continued)
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