When souls attack... fighting back

It goes without saying that most of us are sick to death of our frikkin' alternate selves gallivanting through all parallels of existence, damaging the reputation of our purer than pure souls.  Right?  I mean, when all is said and done, there can only be one soul.  So what happens when two corporeal selves actually physically touch (and I know, like me, you've spent many a sleepless night wondering just that)? 

And what would happen in the metaphorical 'sorting office' if your evil other kills you, will your soul go the right place... the appropriate afterlife?  Well this experience I had last night has the answers to that and more  - although I have no idea why my alternate self chose to suddenly materialise in my bed; I didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened.  This tiny stand-alone chapter of prose (isolated from the regular styling of Warped Mirrors, a paranormal comedy) is one of two, the second, near the end of the book, a spoiler).  So, come, come fly with me through the universe and find out what's there... or not.

Ch. II The Universe

Silence.  I find myself simply being in some natural state amid an endless environment, bottomless, no up, no down, simply direction all around.  Freezing, scorching, everything in-between, but yet I do not suffer; I am not burning, nor I am cold, for I am part of it.  Floating, soaring, sentient, everywhere at once, and yet nowhere at all, my spirit delivering me both to where I have, and haven’t been.  But not for much longer; time, of which there is none, is running out; Divine Intervention losing His tolerance; tranquil infinity bored with such humanly concept.  Omnipotent, yes, for in this present I am one with everything that exists and that does not, has once been, but yet to become.  Nothing, where I am, not even I, yet I am rich; own all that is not corporeal.  No one thing here that can contain any other, yet still they do.  And then I see them; magnificent colourful spheres, invisible, so beautifully patterned, remotely scattered within folds of seamless, infinite and intricately weaved fabrics of space, time and dimension, painted by hands of gods, hitherto unimagined vistas.  And I am in control, at least for now, master of sorts, a god myself of this divergent realm; the energy encompassing me, obeying the command of simple thought, traversing me through a vast container fashioned simply from all that I am, until it emerges me in some other galaxy, a place, that too, is part of me, or I it. And as I knew it would, it looked exactly as I had always known, even though I had never seen it before in any lifetime.  And the solitary planet shimmers luminously; red, amber, green, and above all others, implores me to become a part of it.  For I can be, I already am.  Entrancing, it is, but entrapping, pitiful, inviting.  I don’t want to go, and I won't, though I will arrive in less than an instant, or never in this eternity.  But as alluring as it might be, as ensnaring, I will leave if I do; for I can; yes, I am in control of the stellar chariot that draws me towards it - at least for now; stronger than the impostor, I know.  Soaring within it, motionless, yet speedily, leisurely, willingly, hesitantly, hurtling towards both a place of euphoria and, perchance, of eternal damnation, if I don’t.  A place impossible to comprehend in my waking state, conceived of, perhaps, but impeded by human limitation.  And it is as well, for we should not know.  I see that now.   Beings that lived, that died, burning, thriving, hostile, beguiling, insisting that I befall unto them to be less than all I can be or more than I am.  But still, this moment is not mine.  Yes, I have a choice, for this celestial crossroad is not my eternal walk home.  

Not yet.

No Need to Get Pregnant the Milky Way

Now, I’m not trying to say I am Thee Creator or anything, but, it does seem a little more than coincidental that when my best friend was trying desperately hard to have a baby, for years in fact, she only got pregnant after reading the poem below.  

With nothing working (and trust me she tried everything, in vitro fertilisation, bonking every chance she got... well okay, that was nothing new, but still...) she was eventually told that at 42-yrs-old her eggs were fried and she’d never have a baby.  

After we both called that doctor a name beginning with C, a word that rhymes with hunt, in case you didn’t get that (who says I hold my reader’s hands?) I wrote said poem to buck her up, but nonetheless with the sincere belief she would actually eventually get pregnant.  And sure enough she did – the old fashioned way – shortly thereafter.  Although it has to be said that I also inadvertently bought an African statuette around the same time as she did find herself up the duff (I say inadvertently because until I got it home I had no idea that it depicted a woman with child) I was just drawn to it as a whole, something purdy for my new study... but spooky or what?  I have since then joked that anyone reading that poem will have a baby – ‘the fertility poem’ I call it.  Why not; if it works by stroking the brass hand of Juliet outside her house in Verona, why can’t my snappy little ditty have those powers too?

Anyhoo, some months ago, I was telling that story to one of my clients who had been on a domestic adoption list for only a year or so, and recited the poem to her.  Lo and behold, the very next day a baby was born and she got a call the day after that to say that the mother had chosen her and her husband to be the adoptive parents.  Now, you have to understand here, that it takes many, many years, usually, for the entire adoption process.  The proud new mum came to see me today with her four-month-old baby, James Francis (he’s the one with the dummy tit in his mouth here, the other is my Godson Noah Patrick, who’s ten-months-old now).   She couldn’t wait to tell me that story in person; convinced, because of that poem, that she was chosen – and not at all due to the fact that she is white and her husband is Chinese and so are the natural parents – which, somehow, is a perfect match for them all, I s’pose, in a baby puzzle game kind of way.  

Coincidence?  Maybe, but then these two stories are further connected in quite another unusual way too, and if I had sound effects here, I would record myself humming that Twilight Zone tune at this point.  Get this, my friend Vanessa, whose baby I am Godfather to, lives in Italy, but she is from Hull, Northern England, my client, Andrea, with no connection to Vanessa whatsoever, lives here in Vancouver, Canada, but she is also from... yes you guessed it... Hull.  Freaky or what?  But then for someone who consistently has the ability to put lampposts out when I walk by them, and with light bulbs popping around me all over the place wherever I go (and once... even the power to a full block when someone was telling someone the story of how lights flicker above me as I pass through rooms) well... small potatoes really, to hatch an egg or two.  Perhaps not Thee Creator, no, but maybe, just maybe, I’m a Godfather in the literal sense?   I like to think so.

Anyway, ubiquitous ability aside for the moment, here is the poem.  I initially wrote it, not only for Vanessa’s fried eggs, but also with a rather clever correlation to the birth of all things in general - hence the picture of the Milky Way that looks like a Denny’s breakfast  (even if Andrea’s was, well... kind of poached, it has to be said).   Careful when reading though, especially up at the Hull there, you might just find yourself in the same boat.  (See what I did there?  Again, holding my reader’s hands...  but I do... crack... myself up!)

EGG

A simple thing, somehow non-existent, but aplenty in youth

A minuscule thing, swimming, circling, wanting to be more

An impatient thing, insisting, sometimes nearly succeeding

A tired thing, climbing only half heartedly, no will to push

An aged thing, dwindling in numbers, no more time to waste

A helped thing, clinging to optimism, still hanging on in hope

A meant to be thing, a thing that will be, see and do great things