*The cities of my mind*
That is an art piece that speaks volumes of our present condition. Especially mine.
There is a chapter in Black Amethyst that I especially love, It is the end of the story where everything comes together.
After we travel with Clive Dawson through his pain, his joy, and we realize there is something wonderful at the end of the adventure, He says something that will forever be true and I tried to recapture in the art piece.
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Chapter 10
Queen of Spades:
Utopia, peace for the common man, prosperity of the Elysian fields, honor to the individual who fought the good fight, compassion placed upon the man who finds himself covered in soars from the black leaches of his environment. Absolution to the sinner, Tolerance toward the intolerant, rebirth of a city whose pavement remains spackled with the black mar of the burnt offerings;
Ashes, dust, death to the willing worker. The very worker, who slaves over the needs of the many.
A cycle of life created by a world too afraid of the steps hidden by their own overcasting shadow,
Individuals too lazy to demand more of this world, that when talks of ones, Right of Passage,
Freedom of Thought toward actions, Commitment to a better world, Belief in anything greater than what we can physically hold, is set upon the table;
:Immediately we declare the speaker to be one living in a fantasy.
Deluded by his or her own duality, Inferior to the Superiority of reality, Not pious enough to take the words decreed by the Gods and divine as the truth upon faith alone. A sacra less individual
plagued by demons, assured a painful lonely death. Due to your need to be accepted, Thousands have sold their very minds. They have sold their potential to a thankless corporation, who’s ever waking occupation is designed to leave you all spiritless.
Now, my little monsters, those of you engrossed in the tale of the alcoholic writer, may have deemed the Dreamweaver, to be some kind of savior of humanity. Like so many before him who have died to prove their worth, in this world, to be elevated upon the courts of the celestial realms, he would tell you not to follow or worship him. Neither Idealize his mission or believe that his path will not lead to the death of millions.
Through the flames, the all purifying breathe of enlightenment, will be Revolutionized thought ending the tyranny of those in charge of our Final Fantasy. ~Clive Dawson
The black ink bleeds upon the sand paper-brown lines of parchment. His very last few tries to open the eyes of his city.
……
Patrons of the Nightingale continue their mindless deluge of intoxicating liquids. No change can be read upon the ignorant faces as night becomes day. The Yaksas sing praises as they mill
around the dejected, thanking the Gunas; Tamo, Raja, and Sattva, for such kindness as to allow
the souls of humans to complete the cycle of entrapment. Without the separation or worlds, good and evil could not exist. One feed into the other. Humans are simply pawns; who due to their inferiority in the cosmic scheme of things are simply designed to perish with no hope. Well no hope, other than to grovel upon the feet of Faith.
Clive, and so many others, growing up as outsiders, vagabonds have always wondered what will happen to the worlds when a human makes a god bleed. No one ever mentions these things. Most try to shy their children from such dangerous line of thinking. ‘say no to drugs,’ they say, ‘Marry a good man or woman, have some kids, work by the sweat of your brow, save your wealth no matter how meager, never covet what does not belong to you, love with honor, share with the needy.’ To do this and one will live forever.
Truly, in this dark piss filled realm living forever is nice; Don’t you just love living for the millions that are too greedy, lazy, or disgusting to lift a finger for themselves.
Prison life tends to crystalize a man. When the cinder block jungle becomes the home of a materialistic person the slamming of cell bars, steel vacuum sealed doors and war-hardened fists,
Very few adhere to the Laws of God. Human Nature becomes the Queen of Spades need to Shoot the Moon. Hard to imagine a man, serving incarnation, who goes out of his way to save the
helpless? There are a lot of helpless men in this world. For Clive and many others the ability to remain on top of the pile of bodies that made the surface of his battle for freedom, was a testament in that of its self.
So when Brahma asked his Oracle to find our elusive hero, she was more than willing to incline.
Amber Jones, leading psychologist for the criminal court system, was originally, introduced to the Dreamweaver, when he was nineteen; More in her private office on the seventeenth floor of a newly constructed corporate building. The monolith was an all glass and steel cube. Filled with
cut away cubicles meant to create the illusion of privacy, the young Clive sat directly in front of the older talented woman without as much as acknowledging her presence with the required
hello and greeting of salutations inquiring upon her day. The young seeker delved into the story of Alexander the Great and classical revolutionists like the Monkey King.
‘To be the very same age as the Macedonian King when he set forth an army to lay siege on the known world. One can only hope to aspire to inspire at such a time as mine. Always look to the standard of the Monkey King, the only deity to journey to the west gates of the Nine tails to stake
his claims upon those that deemed him inferior.’
She was going to sit and ignore yet another black soul coming to her for a spiritual exorcise neither she, nor the patient believed in. Only to find, as she peered over the rim of her horn
tipped wire frames, an overly confident MAN. Seemingly unaffected by—‘she shuffles through his file—newly opened upon her lap—‘says here you were convicted of heinous crimes against
Nature and the Natural order of things for the duration of a year and a half, due to psychological observation to deem you—fit for society,’ she pauses to look at his controlled and pleasantly handsome face.
‘Do you deem yourself a danger to society?’ Amber Jones is known to be pointed. For seventy-five dollars an hour she can afford to be anything she desires.
“The only danger posed to society are those that cannot come to terms with the responsibility of their own actions, As you sit there and compare me, the man, with my life, You have to ask yourself, Do I look like a MAN that has trouble with Conviction?’ The smirk on Clive’s face in contagious. Amber cannot help to find herself smiling with him.
“I told the courts I’d take any punishment they deemed me worthy of, They are still disputing, they allow me to fly all over the country because they trust me to adhere to the rules. Son of a military officer, I am the picture of honor, My word is my bond even if I am a Convict.” Mrs.
Jones is unconvinced, “That is how you define yourself? Brave man, in this town criminals are given no such respect. Most fear the labels, shy away from terms that signify where they have
been, Yet you own your black marks. Care not for your Reputation in society, what may be left of one?” Clive is angered by her question, “Reputation is the mask the individual of gentries wears
to disguise the fact that without it he is no different from the beggar that harps on his ankles for a quarter. I have never lived off the chimes of purse I could not earn off of my own merit. Though
being a man of few words what Reputation could one like me truly have? Now do I care how the world perceives me? Well that is a different matter.” Collecting the loose files she barely looked
at in the hour she was granted. Amber begins to write her private number on a card. One can only
imagine the elicite thoughts running in the mind of this mother of three. Married for three years, happily contemplating what another meeting with Clive Dawson will reveal. Handing the Dreamweaver her card she asks, “How should the world perceive a man of your caliber? I’d like you to take a look at these questions, answer them honestly in the comfort of your home, we will discuss them when you return.” Her hand lightly glances of his callous warn knuckles.
……
“When the world sees greatness of any sort, it should cultivate that beacon of light. Mold that individual to lead others by his or her example, we can not function in this world believing what is told to us. Someone must take a stand against the congested minds that wish us to
continuously repeat our fruitless existence. Judge me as you will. Before warned my righteous vengeance will stand the test of time. When and if you ever find yourself at rock bottom,
remember my words to you. the strength of your will is not determined by the length of how long
you remain in the sky, it is determined by the number of lengths it took your blooded fingers to reach so high.” ~DreamWeaver~
“Has he been found?” demands the God of Passion. A tone that accents his inpatients, “I’ve always kept close ties to the DreamWeaver, as it stands the one you seek remains in a heated battle with Kesi, you demon of doubt. They have teleported to the Other world. He has developed so quickly in these short years, it is becoming harder to remain focused on the tether he maintains with the physical realm.”
“If you know exactly where the weaver is to be found, tell me so that I may intercede,” demands the God, “He is in the home of the Raksasas, be thou as brave as a man to step upon the soil of
the damned? Kesi dragged the Weaver there as an attempt to seek aid. Though the mortal wishes your death, you still wish to ‘interfere’ with his glory?” The glowing second sight of Amber turns upon the intentions of her employer who quickly refutes her gaze.
As he departs her chambers, a trail of disgust at the impudence of his present followers, Brahma sets his sights on Clive. More than eager to teach the God of Fire what happens when the kitchen catches flame.
Siva, after she was certain the lord of passion truly was no longer in ear shot, the twinkling of the bells resting on her sensuous ankles, proceeding her entrance, demands a moment with the
oracle, “How is it that a woman of your station, a clinical doctor, began to love a man like Clive
Dawson?” Amber is not shocked by the lord of ignorance’s perplexity, one set in an existence where you cannot love or trust anyone, would wonder what it was like to care beyond the
physical drive of nature. “I suppose the same could be asked of you, lord of destruction, how can a deity know what it is to find pleasure upon hearing the name of a mortal man?” The blood filled cheeks of Siva, is all the answer, her nonchalant demeanor, cannot deny.
“Come my precious lord of ignorance, together upon this tender kiss we will pleasure each other to the desires of a dream weaver we allowed to go amidst, the black amethyst,” beckons Amber Jones as her blouse pools at her feet.
…….
Lauren Shriller of the CNN news broadcasting station, ‘For the ten long years our nation has been at war with terrorism several questions have arisen that neither side of the fallen bodies can truly answer assuredly, when one discards the personal agenda, is the death of millions worth in comparison. After the smoke clears will you be satisfied that anything changed. Of
course not, all you hold on to is the worthless notion that God of any name condones genocide and pointless slaughter. That the gold and bullion of your fore-fathers, that neither of you will ever use or even truly earned a right to speak of, belongs in your greed filled pouch. That the color of your skin declares the testament of a long forgotten race, that the rules of you people
are better than the next even though the struggle of life is universal. As an observer, seeing no
difference made of the police state of one city opposed to another. That even as one crosses an ocean and upon the soil of foreign ideals, sex, creed, casts, all struggle against the very real survival of simply living. As a nation would it be so out of the way to elevate our vocabulary
when crass topics of war is discussed. For most ignorant individuals the thought of reading the
Quaran is unthinkable; even though the bible tells the same story. What I find in this world are schemers. Bored individuals who feel the only way to assert their lives is to gain control of
anything. The man that owns a business, his wife, children, home, car, his material is in control
of his kingdom and the moment the wife’s head is turned by the over indulgent intensions of the
‘pool boy’ or family friend who visits only during back yard barbeques, she is found consummating her infatuations of the attentions previously ignored by the complacent husband. Then heads are made to roll. Rage takes over and her sinful nature is laid bare. Yet such temper tantrums are the erratic responses of the very same Neanderthal that could not write as elegant as the husband or you and I.
How far we have come, to have landed on the moon, destroyed millions through the diffusion of atoms, crafted vehicles that assists us to see the skies, the birth of children is practically
painless; through, so many successful births it is a direct science that used to be magic. So far, to have not learned a thing, beyond how to dress better than the naked Neanderthal. These writings are not knew, Julien Vern had the same thoughts, Only no one read his books so the elevation
remains unrealized. Then they say, ‘How do we advance without ensuring someone leads us?’
The same question the children of Israel posed God while lost in the wilderness. We believe
Camelot fell because of the evils of human nature. The fall of man was man’s doing but we have deluded ourselves into believing that such pain is of our DNA. We are greater that our thoughts.
Loving Clive Dawson; easy for me because he has shown me that if I truly believe I can be anything I wish to be. You all are greater than the sum total of your flaws. I did not need Jesus to tell me that. Now it is up to you to create the world you desire. Thank you and Good night.
Chapter 11
Spirit Realms
The other world, our spirit realm is not as fantastic as those deluded by the miscreant ‘threemodes’ of existence are lead to believe. The practitioners need flowery words to intice the non-
believer. Who would care two Sundays from now, about death and life if, they were to know, to
an unaware soul, nothing, but everything has changed. The soldier who is in the heat of combat,
loses his life due to the sword in his heart. That instant, as a lighting shock, everything that he is, alive and kicking, knees upon the same earth, which only moments ago filled as a river with his blood, is green again, can see the whole of existence reflected by the social agenda rooted system of the Banyan tree. The relief is present, upon realizing he is still alive, yet he can smell it. The change around him; the sepia of the sun rays are not as warm to the touch. In fact, “touch” is
more comparable to the surface of a mirror. Sand, dust, when placed under immense pressure,
heat and compacted into a nice box, left to cool, produces the very same glass upon the wall of
you bathroom sink. This alchemic production can be applied to the process of the soul when it is
Trans mitigated to the other world. Through death the process is not uncomfortable. One feels nothing, yet through life, the separation of the worlds for one not used to the passage, can be
rather unnerving. Jarring even. So one can understand why a traveler, such as Clive Dawson,
finds himself on the streets of, Other world, commencing to beat and maim Kesi, the demon of
doubt. Though he remains changed by the spell the dream weaver placed on him. The unsettling effect of realm jumping fuels Dawson’s anger. Bon-jarring blows upon the face of the dark
demon seem to help even out his mind. So he keeps punching him. The eyes are the key to the soul; an unarguable truth, held by all those that has obtained any knowledge in the life time. Through the eyes we can gauge the awareness of the individual who as of present may be talking to us. Through his or her eyes we can determine the happiness of life or it’s sadness. Can read the thoughts that remain unspoken; when a loved one dies, the vacant expression of the eyes reveal to all that the soul has traveled to the Other world. This is the last bit of magic in the world that
no philosopher, doctor, atheist, etc.; can argue with. One can claim that the worlds remain closed. As of yet no one has come to tell us of the world beyond. As of now all talk of the otherworld is found in the fantasy section of libraries and in the minds of those locked away from society. The pressurized mind knows the truth and it is reflected through the eyes.
‘The roots of the spiritual world grow upward, forever reaching to break the veil into the material realm. Our dopplar~ganglers scratch the surface of the mirror seeking to finally know
what it means to touch. The homunculus of our souls forever remains trapped in the otherworld.
Humans, unappreciative of the gift of life seek absolution of the sins committed by crossing the veil. Gods and demons alike allow such occurrences because of spite and jealousy. An
embodiment that is as crystalized as glass, never loving, never experiencing the touch of a
woman. Imprisoned by the laws of nature; to cut down the banyan tree that holds such a system together is the mission of Clive Dawson. Of course he has his misgivings. As he looks upon the ancient rooted system he can’t help but to wonder if the lights of this entire creation will fall in on itself as the body does when a human dies.’ Or are these just the vocal doubts of the black puss that is Kesi? ‘Wouldn’t it be a spectacle to witness though? the destruction of our unified prisons and the final union of both worlds.” The punch is swift.
“I have told you time and time again, cutting down the tree without knowing for sure is not in the best interest of my city. Stop trying to feed your own agenda and tell me the final aim. Cut down the system, to what end. Death. I don’t think so.”
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I have just given you two chapters to a book that is set to blow your mind!
Tell all of your friends about it....ask questions of those around you...Seek and you shall find.
Thank you all for loving on Clive Dawson just a little bit more.
