Tuesday, December 6, 2011


Now Lailah, the fifteen year old daughter of the pious Armenian cleric had been in the presence of the sound beings for a certain period of time. Don't ask me how long. Things are not finite in the universe. Existence itself depends on fluctuation and change. But she felt things and she saw things. Were the sights she viewed really there? I told you. What difference does that make. It was her reality. It was her truth. And in no way less valid than any other.

She saw a radiance, a nebulous globe, spinning first one way and then another, it's axis constantly changing. Tiny points of light swarmed 'round the luminous orb. And she knew that she was one of them. Upon approaching, she felt a heat that was not heat, but rather an all encompassing peace. Music eminated out from an indistinct surface. At least it was music to her. Now the orb was like a mountain and she but a little goat. Moments later, it enveloped her and the music stopped. She floated in the midst of utter emptiness. No light. No sound. No air. The space seemed infinite. Lailah wanted to scream, but she was to. Quiet, she must be quiet, like a mouse in the midst of a cavernous house. And she existed like that for thirty five human heartbeats.

Then a needle, an unbelievably thin needle came down from a region  far above her head. Another approached from an unspeakable distance away, tracing a line right toward her navel. Four heartbeats later, they intersected deep within the core of her being. And she felt nothing, as both were wrought from light. An instant later, identical shafts pierced her from every possible angle, till the interior of the void was ablaze in omni-colored prismatic illumination. Then she heard a sound, like the thick, felt warmth of an old, victrola turntable, spinning and spining forever. It lulled her, or the 'her' that existed within that space,  to sleep. And she knew when she awoke, she'd be safe.

Her father went into a small cellar chamber. The Old City had many of those. He quietly locked the thick cedar door, with a rough, black, iron key dating back to the time of Saladin. Then he approached a table, more a solid stone platform, and kneeled before it, fighting the arthritis all the way. An object occupied the center of the platform, it's contours hidden by an old velvet cloth. He reached out, intent on removing the covering, but reconsidered. Then he leaned forward, hugged it in his arms and laid his head  down upon it. A moment later he began to hum...just some old Armenian folk songs from the mountains near Lake Van. Tears ran down from his eyes. And when they hit the fabric, they smoked and sizzled for an instant, before solidifying into tiny puddles of gold.


thank you for reading this. please click on the SHARE button, so others might know our tale. scroll down to the bottom of these postings and relax at our beautiful koi pond. 'click' in some pellets. feed the fish and watch them swim about...... some useful links rest at the bottom of  out 11/17/11 post.


No comments: