Sunday, October 11, 2009
Immortals in Training. It's everybody---everybody. The viewpoint from which I am returning has given me the stomach of the person about which I am next writing, and that is the proper level at which to write. Once we read through the story "Holy Terror, Holy Pity", or the sequel to "So the Truth May Survive" we will have an illumination into the version of our dual nature as the universe and as humanity told in the colors ringing of truth.
I am committed to remembering the sanctity of all life and releasing illusions so deeply held beneath our subconscious concentration that they may elude our understandings, and with it, our peaceful negotiation with one another in these times.
I am proud of the pains that have brought this story to life, as I find faith in its voice. I will occasionally demonstrate how we often have no real measure of how much we are loved, having chosen at times to forget our identities as loved ones. You would not be now here reading this without the love of someone, however much you might judge their efforts.
When I realize the greatness of the force that motivates these words, my chaotic preparation to become this writer becomes a more humorous collection of lessons, as I have learned to enjoy my grim tales in art, with the need to constantly expand the warmth of tones and the fidelity to the beautiful long sentence and the down-to-earth conversations we hear in our favorite characters.
Before "I" prepared this ---you, my future reader, seem to be in on this at the very moment it's written, that's why it feels like you could easily have had these thoughts on your own. I'm excited that you will have thoughts on your own, and while I encourage a positive tone for our mutual benefit, I will certainly take in any you share with me, until such day I confess to being too behind to keep up with all the fan mail, at which point I'll then promptly develop the super-power to hear you anyway! I say, welcome aboard ASAP, the longer we're friends, the more happy I can be to see messages coming in from old friends! To say the least, it's simply never done without you.
Honestly? I didn't think "Sunstrike and Valkyrie Maiden" as a title did justice to their equality as characters nor did it give any hint of the importance of the twins at the center of observation ("Name the Twins" is hereby closed, as I've finally realized nobody else will probably feel comfortable to submit any idea that isn't a raucous joke---or do you have the burning inspiration to break my expectations?). So: whether it be in graphic novel form, or in its movie script or book or floating verbal cloud, Immortals in Training will be the title by which to find the adventures of...well, what starts in the present versions (!) as a teenage girl visiting family in Denmark getting mixed up with a thousand year old vampire and a champion of Luxitica, born of Earth and recently returned to wander the world, on the site of a lost museum of the Dark Ages. I've previously referred to it as inspired by a domestic situation crossed with the fantastic, and it's gotten more interesting growing into a life of its own. I hope that helps you understand why I think it'll have something for anyone and will remain a written child of my heart for you to revisit any time you seek that special motivation that lets you know, right in the stomach, you're in for the entertainment of your life! Hope you enjoyed the sketch; it'll always remind me of "Marker Day"...but that's another story.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
“So the Truth May Survive”
“Azuthar!” he calls from emptiness. He awaits a demon of the eighth dimension.
Sylvane’s eyes peer into the darkness, as he opens to the auditory place of Azuthar, a place where they co-exist and know each other---the dimension inspiring music to the human realm.
Across this seventh dimension bringing us sound, the archetypes idealize emotional portals that convey a sense of ourselves in the cosmos, but not so close to unity as to be subject to perfection (those of the ninth dimension are known as few). “zx..”
Colors seen in the fifth dimension, not meant to be paired with words without surrender to their intoxicating magic, open to create a spherical dial. He watches its surface rolling, effortless, inevitable, and then a glimpse into the pastiche of all realities seen if one’s consciousness dwells in the sixth dimension (so Oslar Bran had taught him when Sylvane visited the Citadel of the Children on the planet of earthly borne tomorrows, Kolpar. That time spent in the college invisible to mortal eyes had required the greatest price yet, until the one now at hand.
The harmonic, metallic voice, like an electric guitar, casts the sound of the spell, as the candles burn around the hotel room, barely lit here further in the sky than any window above the sea, lapping dark and eternal with our secret origins evolved divergently as it flows without difference to the air and all lands.
Peacefully, Sylvane waits for Azuthar to communicate---to open. The mercy he has upon his own soul balances him as he attracts a most tempermental and brooding personage, whose aggressive form required knowledge lest Azuthar sunder all one may hold dear.
So: as Sylvane begins to detach from words, he seeks his friends amidst the cosmos: the unheralded champion of Luxitica, Sun Strike, known before as Clay Alexander Reaves, in days when Sylvane made him laugh as they pretended their invulnerability, before the one who could help Clay most brought him the other two---his sons--- who would help him change the world with something better despite its insistence to test with pain and pain again.
Still Sun Strike maintains his power, there reaching out three hundred years from the place of his birth; he takes solar radiation, and, self-luminous plus expanding the sun ray focus, shines down upon the colony on a true moon, where his immortal sons pierce the secret to never-dying by the fountains unspoiled by many visiting without knowledge, searching the world standing in their father’s power.
The Valkyrie Maid appears astride her horse, thunderous to the mortal mind which beholds her. Winged for the stars, a super-hero of sixth-dimensional portions, Valkyrie Maid approaches Sylvane cold and icey as the vacuum itself. She sees Sylvane’s mind open to place he wishes to reach, his destination that would return him to his origin as well.
He knows the ability to see demons, for she has fended off many in her journeys between the courage on the battlefield and the lies made in place of the brave fallen ones, ever taking the battle-slain to their glory in what she calls Valhalla. With her Odin-created sword, she points to the direction in the void that clarifies Sylvane’s intention to meet with Azuthar, seen dancing like flame in his mind. She points, for were she to go in that direction herself, she would battle Azuthar furiously.
For this reason, Valkyrie Maid’s glare pierces Sylvane’s heart, and looks to what he holds dearly to his breast. Within Sylvane’s robe lies a block, which floats free across the void, making it obvious they would physically be face to face. He waits for recognition to light her face. Finally, the block rests between her fingers, sword sheathed as an after thought, and then is touched on four sides by her hand.
From each point arises a bright sphere of thirty points of light spreading out equally. The other three points unite and spin as one, orbiting the fourth. With their part in the spell, their extra-dimensional counterparts spin free of the spheres, in sixth dimensional bodies of legend themselves. Those forms wait, their presence giant in the distance here on the dark side of the moon. They prepare to safe guard Sylvane’s soul there on the outer rim of comprehensible existence.
The fourth sphere of thirty points becomes 26 symbols of chromosomes, and chooses to manifest now as a slightly glowing version of the human Frida Dylan-Reaves.
“You can use the block now to free the human selves of your family, while their spirits create my vanguard here at the edge of sanity. At least, I think we’re still on the fringe of the knowable.”
“Not that I’m not glad ta see ya, fuzzy wizard,” she says, “but why are you out here?”
“In your valkyrie form, you pointed out the way to the demon I must meet soon.”
“Yikes, man!” she says, shrugging. “But if I’m here, my man and my boys have got to be close by.”
“Couldn’t be closer,” Sylvane says, smiling. “Do you remember the adventure that led to you and Clay assuming cosmic forms?”
“Aw, it all started when we followed the Triplets back to that crazy world where my kids were baby-sat whenever fate transformed Momma into Valkyrie Maid.”
“It will come back to you more and more once we get you guys back to normal,” Sylvane says, “You’ve merged with powerful, superhuman forms starting with your vision of them in both cosmic energy and perfectly healthy human bodies. You all ended up three hundred years in the future, but I can provide you the thread back to your lives on Earth in the 21st century while your exalted forms guard my foray into madness, or perhaps wait to destroy me if I am corrupted by Azuthar.”
“Heavy!” Frieda says, whistling (how?). I know I’m going to regret asking, but why Azuthar? Sounds like a demon or supernatural power.”
“I have only asked one thing of Azuthar in my desperate summonings,” Sylvane replies, gazing off at the distant quasars beyond the M-class star floating with the moon base and its planetary body in its swirling tow. “I see your concern: I agree he is not to be commanded by any human under illusions as to his good, yet he plays a part in development of humankind, and his understanding will help complete the role of my cycle.”
“When appearing in the physical realm, he’s much less powerful---tho he seems brutal to most observers with the distinct displeasure of his company. Yet he plays in the lower frequencies, and so he has played a part in one final connection with my sister.”
“Are you …?” Frieda begins her question, then deletes its intention. “I hope Vado is doing well. Wasn’t she leaving the Dome Tribe for a journey, like her namesake?”
“She has,” he replies. “And this time, she must face her adventure alone, save for the kindness of one who will find her shortly. Her travel is a labor of great physical skill, and her survival depends on her keeping the path to Kohlit Gamma close at hand. She is willful and curious, and somewhat addicted to times of sadness, which cause her to explode with bitter frustration.”
“That is something that comes with being human,” Frieda says.
“Well, it’s learned more often than not in that state,” Sylvane replies. “But she has out grown her radio station and vegetable garden, and like a pot in need of transplanting, the need for her roots crushes her confinements or threatens they wither. She faces a journey now where I cannot help---I only seem able to harm with words, so I choose to be faithful to the vision of her success and fulfillment, empower that possibility. Before we discuss this any further, I think your memories return enough to strip the mask of concentration from your brow…”
“Yes,” she nods, “it’s coming back to me: I’m a valkyrie soul who chose to tread the world of Midgard to learn of the world of the slain heroes and their ways. And in that time, I was a normal girl, with a family…and even after the king of vampire kind revealed to me my nature and bond with death and life beyond, I still looked for the same thing…and took a hus---Clay! And my boys! Do you know…?”
“Let your soul sphere self free once again,” says Sylvane, “so that it may cleave to the others and present once again the man you help to make and the children to whom you gave birth.”
From Frieda’s closed eyes flow winds of cosmic generation, and before they again open, particulate globs create white silhouettes of bodies, while two sparks fly like meteors from their presence to rest in the slowly-forming water planet further out in the solar system. The single remaining energy divides in two, but not completely; at their stem of unity, a man begins to grow from a microscopic source, as the energy balls rush together with him at its center.
Together they join as one, producing a human version of Clay Reaves. The singular energy floats on, sending x-rays and gamma rays as they twist and combine and flow against the heavy, dark matter background, black crackles of energy radiant about their nimbus.
Their immortal sons stand in the waters of worlds without man.
With this honor guard to watch over his soul, Sylvane then turns his attention back to the floating human beings before him. He decides to provide a spell in connection with the witch from the borders of cedar town, the mysterious but generous D. C. Sharlet. Queen of hearths and homes, with a friendly smile she arrives on a cycle spinning star dust in her wake. “Who says these things are only stationary?” she chuckles. “Hullo, Fuzzy Sorcerer!”
“Hullo, D. C., “he replies. “is all gentle in the many eyes of the peacock?”
“She sends her cuddles,” D.C. says, slipping in a hug that envelopes Sylvane in a presence of great safety and nurture. “I thought I’d find you if I could pick the right moon of Saturn---it’s your ruling planet in your star chart, you know!”
By this inspiration, the magic in his heart and her special abilities evoke the human forms of Clay Reaves and his twin sons, restored to child form, tumble forth, also lit in glow, impervious to the rigors of space.
“I called upon your power to fondly grant these weary souls a time when they can be together and grow, if only for a few years of Earth time. Someday, it may be Me who needs that magical hitch, but now, I want to work with their cosmic forms, while they enjoy the human peace and love I hope one day to be mine again.”
D.C. the Witch turns towards her charges, the family of four floating freely.
“The power to return home,” D.C. intones warmly. “I remember when that ability was my great struggle. But just as I learned how to return home---to find dreams where I have a full life and home in more than one parallel world---I can help you maintain the dream link to this place where you have the power to seek immortality. But just the same, if I’m not mistaken, your heart’s desires are for home cooked meals and beds calling softly---to face another day on earth, passing time as a family while dreaming of immortal seekers.”
“Thank you,” says Sylvane. “Please take this necklace, the one with the red pearl in the middle.”
“How did you know I had a birthday coming up?” she says coyly.
“That red pearl is also a beacon,” he begins...
“A present and a favor request,” she replies. “You are getting the hang of this wizard thing.”
“Vado journeys alone,” he continues, “and this time she must remain alone, so that she might also decide the course of her life for all years to come. Not even Cary Jewel Kinder, nor friends from childhood, Zazook, Pinneypoppa, or Yaybob---in this one thing, there are none that may stand at her side, save in her heart. She will have one beloved friend, going forth to meet her as she travels, though he may be disguised at first. Eventually she should arrive at Kohklit Gamma Island.”
“Aw, you want to me to be there to bless her with a way home?” she says. “Okay. Your sister’s so crazy, Sylvane. Maybe the monkeys will carry her up into the trees.”
“If they have wings, they will probably be working for her,” he snarls sarcastically, shaking his head. D.C. laughs uproariously. They turn again to the Reaves tribe.
“Could I bid them farewell a moment?” Sylvane inquires of D.C., “before they go?”
“Should be okay,” she replies, stepping backwards into her beaded veil, closing slowly as an orange oval, contracting over a mist-filled area now containing the sorceress. “Don’t keep them out here in abstract-land too long, and tell’em take this beacon back through Misty Hazel’s Garden. The twins ought to know the way from there and take the same exit from there the Triplets take when the kids swap places.” Then she is out of line, safely back in her grove, where the hummingbirds grow hearty and evade the swift cats that prowl the yard.
Sylvane, heavy at heart, wants to tell them so much, but with a pass of his hands, instead clears a channel for their words, before he passes beyond the realm where words may serve. His old friend Clay speaks:
“Sylvane! So…what took ya so long?”
“You were really expecting me?”
“I wasn’t really expecting anything,” he replies more seriously.
Sylvane quickly repeats D.C.’s instructions, finishing with, “the portal’s relay, the one the Triplets used to swap places with your children in dangerous circumstances.---from there the portal should take you back within a week or so of when/ where I last traveled the woods with my sister.”
That sounds great,” Clay replies. “I could stay out camping by that lake forever!”
“Well, good luck man.”
“I’ll have you with me, trust me,” Sylvane replies, waving. “I’ll be stopping by for a Kopi Luwak some day soon.”
“I’ll look that up,” Clay replies, “and we’ll probably just have Dr. Pepper.”
“And don’t forget, children who eat more candy as kids are more likely to be arrested for violent crime as adults, so…buy comic books…”
“Yeah, way to mess with trick or treat, ya b—“ the taunt finishes in a stopper-like pulling shut of the area where the four formerly floated, swirling away down the other side of the contracting orange oval that receives their human, protected selves.
“I am glad,” he says to no one remaining, “hearth and home can be for someone.”
After a pause, he thinks: “this heaviness must leave my heart; I am called to many strands across many facets of reality---and I have languished before all of them, at too low a vibration to affect any of the struggles that compel my aid, for my all-too-human feelings fluctuate my resolve. Now I go to face the demon I’ve called forth, to lay aside that heaviness...and to face death, and the end of death...”
In the distance, the strength of his friends stands guard, as Sylvane reaches out into the final darkness.