a story by Reverend Yonko
The clouds were perfect - if odd. Rounded slanted boiling cylinders, it seemed. Strangely high in the sky. Almost too high? No, it had to be an illusion. After all, there was no atmosphere in space! Right?
What makes them that way? She wondered. It didn't seem like it was going to rain. It was just another perfect fucking day. The trippy clouds were a bonus. She was happy. She was high. And she was milking a goat.
"Thank you for your milky milk, Puppy-Goaty!" she gently hollered, switching teats. "I love you, Puppy-Goaty!"
Puppy-Goaty said, "meh!", which was not really that odd when you considered that she was partly raised by hippies and dogs and had been named by a young lady called Shortstuff.
Nothing was ever wasted. Every anomaly was a lesson, each surprise an opportunity. This multi-slice of probability juncture had as much to say about creation as the next previous and the last next. We all pretty much agree on that! But what do you want to do tonight?
What would almost surely be experienced as oversimplification by some was, as certainly, the first comprehensible explanation for another - and another waited patiently.
One did not.
Before Satan was born, his father had very carefully explained to him that he did NOT have to go through with this if he did not want to. In fact, he himself was against it. But he didn't make that case very strongly at all. He was, he muttered again, "Like everybody else at the time." He was high on his little slice of creation. This was not at all unusual. But it really bugged him because it was so typical. Just another proud father.
Lucifer was sure, however, that Satan would turn out differently.
Shortstuff had never actually lived on the farm. She rolled through when she felt like it - dispensing treasure and crap in probably equal measure. She was as likely to clean the cupboards as clean them out of everything they contained. This endeared her to and infuriated the "actual" occupants of the farm as they changed over the years - each new farmer having his or her first ever epic encounter with the legendary Stuff.
One such tale, Gentle Reader, is rather close to home - in case you haven't guessed.
To speak of all of recorded history, in the first place, causes problems. There is reasonable debate. There is resistance, to be sure. Otherwise the Island of Paradise would be a very crowded place! It does no good - eventually. Ultimately? Who might say? AND there is resistance.
We speak of what we know at risk of being purified of yet another misconception. AND who knows of another case like this? A full court press, as it were, by all Creation. To no discernible avail.
He does not blink. He agrees to disagree.
Satan worked through the night. The prince was sure, bound in fact, to follow Lucifer's instructions. But it was the WAY the thing was done - how it was revealed.
He had a message to deliver.
With milk froth on her lips, Stuff went up the stairs to the road and walked down the mountain to the little town of Copanda Tango - wiping her smile on the way. Stopping for an organic smoothee, which she paid for with quarters from the big pocket on the front of her dress, she continued down the road on foot avoiding commuter traffic and taking her life in her hands at the two points she needed to cross the narrow mountain highway to avoid boggish puddles on the shoulders of the road.
Tonight she was working at The Club.
So, having attempted in every known language and way to reveal the truth - consequences of short term individual strategy impact Creation in Eternity, so to speak - AND failing to move comprehension of said into that individual's consciousness, AND knowing that the individual has already and recently contributed to the suffering of the eternal legacy of ONE planet, AND in light of that individual's demonstrable unwillingness or inability to GRASP this, let alone begin to purify the complex of damage, we choose to isolate this individual as much as possible.
But is it enough? What else do we do? After all, Heaven is growing by leaps and bounds.
It is suffering enough to wonder at the fate of an entire planet! This is, as near as can be known now, unprecedented. What of creation? Who would have contemplated such a thing?
AND it must not happen again.
We all pretty much agree on that!
The No Name Band is playing tonight, Shortstuff thought. With only one bar in town - except for the restaurant which closed at eleven - public party hours almost only ever happened at The Club. The No Names had made a genius by playing at The Club on many masterpiece nights.
I mean this is a place you can come and get your dog high.
The water outside is trickling. The others are sleeping. A short space is calling to a long-john. Paradise is empty, save a wave or two, lapping pleasantly on the soft, fine sand. There really is nothing like sand, is there? No. No there's not. The sand, wet and shimmeree 'neath the , um, perfect moon.
The place was pretty much empty.
SatanSatanSatanSatanSatan's ship had arrived in the skies over Copanda Tango about the same time Shortstuff had gotten to the farm to milk the goat. This location seemed to exist in the futures of most of the probability incarnations of Urantia that he could check. His being able to check them was an indication, more or less, that he occurs in those probabilities, so, by accessing the time tunnel from this point, here in Copanda Tango, he would be able to "thread the needle", in a way, and sew the changes he was going to make with the prince back in Urantia's past - sew them to the future probabilities where he occured as well. So, (as Lucifer had explained) he'd be able to enjoy them.
That was the plan.
The basement of The Club was nice and quiet. There was an occasional drip into the pump well. That was about it. Unknown to all but the most knowledgable, there was a tiny access route from the basement of The Club to the entrance to the time tunnel. This hidden route happened to run beneath the upward opening celler doors - which happened to be open.
From her vantage point 'neath the opening, Stuff looked again at the cloud she had seen from the farm. It's roiling shape was distinct, if further away seeming. A nice, white, roundish cloud.
To say Heaven is surrounded by Paradise sounds like an anomaly, since Paradise is at the center of creation. AND this is so. When further dimensions are represented in the map, so to speak, it may begin to seem quite plausible. For almost everybody, this is not the case.
Dimensions which are unknown are the trickiest to describe. Not only is this effect conventionally exponential, it is exponentially exponential! Into dimensions which are unknown.
This can seem to be quite a quandary without the necessary focus, AND, expanding exponentially exponentially "into" dimensions which are unknown, "foci", as in the plural.
The place is pretty much empty - and remember, Heaven is surrounded by Paradise - anywhere one looks.
Satan waited. When it got later, he would park, get to the time tunnel, and go back and meet with the prince in the early mists of Urantia's two-legged history. He would deliver Lucifer's message, and convince the prince to open the gates early, freeing the multitude who had bred with the altered star people (and aquired the adamic blood), release them before their number had reached a million behind the protected walls of eden - and release them onto Urantia to mix with all the other, non-adamic blooded tribes earlier than planned. This chaotic mixing of adamic and non-adamic two-leggeds would create an unknown result and foil the certainty of The Consensus. This he knew because when he stepped into the time tunnel in a little while, he would be traveling from a world, a Urantia, where he had already done it!
He was good.
In another time in her life - though not so long ago - Shortstuff had known she was destined to fall in love with an Irish man, rove with him wildly ‘till the end of her days, and bear him, the both of them, a lusty brood of snapping-eyed, intelligent, musical and delightful babies. These would grow into brilliant artists and musicians, healers and teachers, to heal the earth and it’s troubled kin - the humans. To be sure, she felt her kids would be really nice to all the other animals, too.
This was a bit of a sore spot with Stuff. How could people, she wondered, assume that their linear thought processes, their reason, and their use of tools, somehow made them superior to other life forms which had been around longer than human kind, could jump eleven times their own body length, could smell or hear a truck a mile away, and could run around naked in the snow without freezing or needing to wear shoes? It was the utmost of arrogance! Weren’t synergy, integration with ones environment, and the capacity to live free and happy without tools, without having to carry a bunch of stuff about just to survive - weren’t these things, perhaps, an indication of a superior life form?
Shortstuff thought of all animals as persons.
She was not thinking of this now, however. She was going to visit her friend, Boomer, the nice lady person who was a P-I-G pig. A very glamorous, black pot-bellied pig, with arresting pink pig-nails (Larry, the man-waitress, painted them every other week or so), who lived in a splendid pig-coop outside The Club.
“Boomer!” she hollered, as she, cat-like, approached the coop. “I have a delicious thing for you! I have a yummy bowl of beer-apple!”
Boomer grunted her alarm and approval with a gross pig-whiney which seemed to simultaneously declare “Hey! Get away from me! Step back! I am a very dangerous pig!” and “Christ on a bike, you hairless monkey, what took you so long? Give me my beer-apple pronto!”
With a deft twist of her still (somewhat) stoned visage, and a wee flip of her hairs, Stuff poured the last third of her warming-er Guinness Stout into Boomer’s pig-bowl and drop-splashed an enormous mooshy apple in amongst it with a barely audible “hoo-ya.”
As Boomer protested, crunched her apple, and gacked and vomited in her haste, Stuff reached in to caress her piggy ears and declared her love for the squat, bristley pig-girl.
“I love you, Boomer!” She declared. “You are a very nice person who is a pig.”
Boomer, her mouth full of beer-apple, whatever her level of appreciation, snapped at Shortstuff with her piggy snout and said, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhh!!!” With the wavary, robust oink-like voice of a porcine drama queen. It was sheer torture, I tell you, to be carressed about the ears whilst one was busy devouring a foamy bowl of yummy beer-apple in the sun.
There was not a cloud in the sky.
Freedom requires the freedom to be wrong, to make mistakes.
Satan's Mom is Venus - his Dad had stolen his name from her. This is how it went at most of the higher circles. Everyone was named after their Mom. The womb, it turns out, does not lie. Not so men or women.
Lucifer is a Latin word made up of two words, lux (light; genitive lucis) and ferre (to bear, to bring), meaning light-bearer. Lucifer appears in Greek mythology as heosphoros, the "Dawn-bringer"; it is used by poets to represent the Morning Star at moments when "Venus" would introduce distracting imagery of the goddess. "Lucifer" is Jerome's direct translation in his Vulgate (4th century) of the Septuagint's Greek translation, as heosphoros, "morning star" or "Day Star," literally "bringer of the Dawn", of a phrase from Isaiah 14:12. From the viewpoint of the Christian tradition, Lucifer is seen as having been second in command to God himself; he was the highest archangel in heaven, but he was motivated by pride and greed to rebel against God and was cast out of heaven, followed by a third of the host of heaven. He became the Devil, and his fellow angelic rebels were known as demons.
Modern astrologers identify the planet Venus as having been known by the name Lucifer in Roman astrology before being given its current name.
Stuff had been a regular person in school. Not really - but that was how it appeared to most folks. She had moved with stealth and grace and shame amongst the various cliques - burnouts, nerds, brains, and jocks - without really belonging, it felt, to any of them. With emancipation from the mediocre hell of beurocratic public education, she blossemed unto the unique individual she had always been - just like everybody else.
Abundance - the word has dance right in it.
As heaven grows by leaps and bounds, many folks - this is a very inclusive word - have moments of a kind of fear. What if there is not enough room? This might be the predominant varient. Or - perhaps even a bit more frequently - what if I am not noticed sufficiantly? What if the multidude drowns me out?
After all, things are happening so fast.
In heaven it is not cool to think too much about yourself. Creation is enormous. Everyone is in heaven. More opportunities are presented for exploration and understanding than any individual can imagine. The interconectedness of every multiplicity of congruence precludes the individual intent. Going with the flow is valiently exemplified by the true heros who overcome their awe at the enormity of creation and dance about in heaven.
His cloud parked safely over Dodger stadium, Satan had made very good time flying back to Copanda Tango and landed on the s-curves above twin-poles. The time tunnel was very near...
Now where was that cloud? It had drifted away. It was nowhere to be seen.
Stuff scraped some pig turd off her shoe and looked about and, seeing "nothing", turned into the celler and up the stairs to the kitchen of The Club.
If anything, we have a tendancy, at times, to concur with concensus too much. Those paradigm shifts of understanding, it seems, come about in spite of the multitudes who agree with the erroneous model. These shifts are driven by freaks and crazies- in the eyes of the falling order - and seem to be universally absorbed in no time flat once they are established.
The holy grail of Paradise was known to be accessible to a very select few. Heaven's heirarchies deliniated a schism of multitudinous proportions. What could be a more basic right than understanding? It was not too much to ask for a fucking explanation.
Lucifer was pissed.
It had started as an inkling. As all things do. A fractal seed of dissonance, which, like all dissonant forms, would have died out long ago, had it not been encouraged, nurtured, some would say fanned - as a flame.
He had fanned it. And he was truly a rather extraordinary being.
As was his son.
There was a fight at The Club. It got pretty ugly fast. But it was over quick. Larry was fucked up - but O.K. John was out. Cut off motherfucker. This time that was it.
Stuff hustled drinks as the group regrouped and set out agin to have a good time at The Club - at The No Names show. The guys read everybody's minds and launched off into some obscure R & B song or something that teased the back pages of your awareness until you finally flashed out with "This song! I don't believe these guys are doing this song!" Or some variant facsimilae.
The "dancefloor" filled up and the guys settled into the song.
Remember. Onward. But Stuff hated fighting and that stuff didn't happen here, really. And what the fuck is up with John? She danced a little sadly as she smiled at Larry, now laughing weakly - a little cleaned up. A little dopey. A little drunk. Off the clock. On the house. He was going to hurt tomorrow.
"Buenos Noche, Larry." she sputtered as a freakish spit-bubble in her own mouth took her totally by surprise and Larry's eyebrows shot up in response - too startled to hide having caught it, perhaps in the face - and then both of them laughing uncontrollably.
In place of the personal, something unpredictable occurs. It's like a dancefloor. Or those experiments they did with different numbers of people in the same elevator. And flocking behavior. There is a - well, "unspoken" isn't really the right word - there is a mysterious reorganization of individuals in proximity which, while predictable on the whole, over time, and within certain parameters, is essentially mysterious in the moment.
Which is why The Grateful Dead never played the same song the same way twice. Except for once...
The dance itself a mystery to the dancers yet of them. And sometimes they do bump into each other, too.
Is it getting hot in here?
The Time Tunnel appeared to be a culvert under a mountain road - a small mountain. It routed rain water under the road and deposited it, splashing out of its end (if it was raining), into the creek. Copanda Creek.
Satan was walking up the mountain, from the bridge where the creek switched sides of the road, toward the time tunnel. He walked uphill really fast. It started raining. He did not care.
A car pulled up and stopped. Going the same way. The passenger window rolled down electronically and a besmirched and be-suited harlequin dandy inquired, "Heading Up to The Club?"
Satan was not. But realizing instantly that this was his only chance to understand the pivot-world of this future Urantia at this point in time, he got in the harlequin's car. He had seen a lot from the air, but nothing resonated over time like specific personalities - in a specific time and place.
Stuff saw Satan come in with Clown Larry out of the corner of her eye and instantly turned into a total dork. Holy shit! Who is that guy? This lasted, as far as anyone could see, about a millisecond. She made a quick pass and sized him up in an instant. Darting back to the table where Larry the man-waitress was sitting, she indicated the commencement of a Copanda Safety Meeting in the basement to which he eagerly agreed.
Darting through the kitchen and down the stairs, while pulling out her glass, Stuff stopped only long enough to cram a sweet dank nug into the pipe's screen-less bowl. "Who is that guy, Larry?" she asked, lighting the bowl and looking over the flame at her friend.
Larry said, "Never seen him," as Stuff coughed at the expando and handed him the pipe. It was cool how Larry knew what she was talking about without having to explain everything. And he was helping her out.
Boomer made a noise.
OK. So we meddle. When you have the advantage of multidimensional telepathic consensus, you can get stuff done. Creation was not born yesterday, OK?
Satan had seen Stuff right away. She had wings. There is no way to hide or disguise wings - if they are real. That was all, he thought, he needed to know. This Copanda Tango at this point in time on this Urantia was going to be forever remembered as the place Urantia got wings. Those wings were on that girl and they were the first Urantia's two-leggeds had ever produced. That his and Lucifer's moment would originate from such specific and noteable circumstance was not lost on him. But there was something else.
He was in love.
to be continued...