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Friday, July 3, 2015

In the Fog

The planchette moved beneath my fingers, back and forth across the board. What secrets would it reveal?  What mysteries would it divulge?  C-A-C-T-G-A-G-T-T-A-G-A-C-T. Magical strings of wonderful power, whispers in the ether. Merlin moves outside of time, meddling in the ages. A door opens and smoke wafts into the alley.

Do you believe in magic? Do you believe in complex atmospheric phenomena? Ice crystals in mystical suspension over puddles of rain-water and urine behind the dumpster. A vapor that appears for a time, then vanishes, a dew that disappears. There was a time of magic, once, when mist rose from the earth and watered the surface of the ground. But that was long ago, well before the double helix spun its spell of nucleotides over the universe.

“Ask it a question,” said Lee.“Ask it a question.”

“What kind of question?”

Lee sucked his lip, pondering. He slumped in his chair, then shot up again. “I got it!” He put his fingertips on the plastic planchette. “Come on,” he said and grabbed my hand. “Come on. Put your fingers here.” 

I put my fingers back on the heart-shaped pointer. The table bobbed and we both jumped.

“Did you…?” we both asked at the same time.

“Forget it,” said Lee. “I’m going to ask my question.” We repositioned our digits.

Eenie-meenie-chili-beanie, the spirits are about to speak.

With a fog machine, a spot light, and a camera, I can recreate the universe in my backyard – but only when it’s snowing. Fog everywhere, fog up the river where it flows across the whole Havila where there is gold. And the ancient gold was good.

“Is the AntiChrist alive today?” Lee asked.

“We make contact across the mystical, etheric plane, and that’s the question you’re going to ask?”

“Shut up, will you?” said Lee, glaring at me. “Now concentrate. Focus. Let the spirits speak.” Lee closed his eyes. “Is the AntiChrist alive and well today?”

The planchette moved again. I gasped. The pointer slid to YES.

“Is he European?” The pointer slid to the other side; NO.

“Is he an American?”

“O-F-C-O-U-R-S-E” the planchette spelled out.

There are people shouting in the street. Yelling. Angry. They are becoming violent. Enraged. The police arrive, armed with assault rifles and first strike capability; they begin firing into the crowd.  Screams erupt. Someone throws a Molotov cocktail. Smoke grenades. Within the cloud, flashes of fire, again and again, full automatic death. Smoke and fire and blood and fog. Baphometic shrouds of mist thicken in the streets. We are obscured.

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Muted Hosannas Muted Hosannas
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