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Ghost Dance

Ghost Dance

By

Dean Moriarty

Copyright 2013

A tale of the unattached kind

Published by the epicity of the warrior on the field of battle

From The Black Books Shelf

Dedicated to Molly, no longer here but loved forever

Five clues:

The midget as small thinking

The warden as soured hope

The evil ones as you know who

The wall as the barrier

The shadow as the shadow

The builder in his tower

This book is written mostly in Gothic concepts, allegory, satire and truth wrapped up in disguise and is about the border wall, the evil ones and the consequences of opposing the old paradigms in their bastions of small thinking where theft and corruption is a way of life, and everyone else can go to hell. This is rendered in one tenth epic proportions and is a work of fiction.

Also by The Black Books Shelf:

Off the road

On the road

Advanced quantum metaphysics for beginners

Travelling solo

The spirit world

The dance of Zen

The dark night of the soul

God’s crazy parlour of sweet consent

Under a full moon

Bangkok, Thailand

A hole in the wind

Another book

Sleepless nights in paradise

The Warrior’s handbook

The daily wound

CQ calling, CQ calling

The Hotel with the Full Moon Room Service

A Brick for the Blind

FROM: THE WARRIOR’S HANDBOOK

Are we so brave then to become what we must from our defeat?

And if in our becoming we lose our fear for change do we not die a little to become more?

In our falling are we not giants with wings to tumble and then rise up again and become what we cannot lose?

When the sword falls, how much of our destiny sees us beneath it, and how much is it our choice?

Silence in solitude brings answers to the warrior who must dance this; but only after rising to claim it.

Those that stay fallen must be counted as lost and grieved when the time comes to do so, if honour is upheld.

Those ones who are lost before they fall must be cast from the circle when found or else doubt and defeat will come to infect even the strongest hearts.

If in the warrior’s heart the battle has already been won there cannot then be defeat for that warrior, for the war is not fought on the field, it is fought inside where the fear rises and if conquered there, then the greatest battle has already been won and all other battles will be but a skirmish and will be seen for what they are in the greater fight as but some darkness come to assail the light.

This will hold true even if the enemy takes wind of it, for only those who have won through can uphold this; all others will be but a noise to this truth and can be recognised in that.

To the warrior there are two types of friend: those who ally themselves to the fight and afterwards go home, but at a later date change their allegiance if the winds of fortune change, and those ones who have battled and won on that field inside long before the outside battle has begun. These ones meet somewhere on the battlefield and know that what they face is but another part of them-selves, and that battle has already been fought.

QUESTIONS OF OTHER

Questions of other abound and more come to be asked as the world begins to wake up and see the injustice and corruption of the ones who rule, and their masters, the moneymen who made the system and control it. But will it make enough of a difference now when still so many are swayed by the media that is biased towards those in power who own the media?

The world is in turmoil with their policies, and as soon as one crackpot dictator or government despot is replaced another takes their place and learns new forms of control with ever tighter restrictions on personal freedom.

The only recourse that people seem to have is to protest and vote someone else in when the time comes, someone who makes the promises to change the system from within yet never does.

This can be evidenced by the sheer lunacy of some in America who seem favourite the most corrupt liar ever to run to be their champion and fix things for them while all the while she laughs her head off at their gullibility, at how easy it is to influence them into feeling and thinking she is the great hope when really she is the heart of the corrupt system that they are electing her to fight.

Her track record for decades is appalling and yet is being glossed over with new promises that things will be different this time, and wonder upon wonder she is believed; if she just once showed her true face to the public she would be condemned by all as the evil witch.

On the other hand is the builder, and with all his faults in public life seems on the surface to be a far better choice than her and anyone in their right minds would not choose her for anything at all.

One can only hope that like Brexit in the UK that was seen as the underdog, the people will come to see what’s really going on and put their energies to benefit the people and not the system and hope that the system is not rigged to always favour the system.

CHINESE FOG WORKERS

The huge horde pushed through the gates and on into the factories where they spent the best part of the day servicing the machine in one way or another until the horn sounded for them to go home.

At home they spent their few free hours chasing the chores until sleep came. And the next day began all over again. Because the wages were so low most had to do overtime and the norm was a seven day week.

It is hard to imagine what the soul has to endure in such an environment day after day for so many years, and although mindless automaton comes to mind when the horde of human beings is seen repeating endlessly the same tasks, still, the human spirit endures for the family, home and to be a good party member fully signed up and controlled in all aspects of their lives even down to how many children one can have.

The owners of the factories have no such restrictions and live a lifestyle beyond the imaginations of the fog bound minds of the workers and with the government make the laws and enforce them to keep the status quo as is for the benefit of the few to live in luxury.

For the ones that break out of this cycle of madness and are foolish or brave enough to speak out against the machine justice comes swiftly to imprison and brand them troublemakers to be re-indoctrinated back into the system to serve the machine, or if too far beyond their control to be eliminated and all knowledge of them removed from society, or at the least to be vilified and their families along with them.

Only obedient mindless slaves are needed, all others are dealt with harshly.

Enticements have been set up such as health care at a cost and other privileges to keep everyone bound within the system on fear of removal. For those who raise a voice of dissatisfaction the removal of privileges soon brings them back into line.

Law and order is a stick seen to be used that operates hand in hand with the political system that indoctrinates the masses through the medium of TV and newspapers and daily the message is the same to the fog bound to be good citizens or else.

Thus through fear, oppression and terrorism the authorities keep order and perpetuate the illusion to the masses to serve the machine, and the promised rewards will surely come one day if we all work hard enough and keep going until the rewards come of a better life made from the money that will trickle down to us all eventually.

But, the foreign subversives keep hindering our progress and so we must work even harder to make the machine bigger so we can counter their aggression with our god given brand of retribution and justice and although we have austerity measures for the foreseeable future to pay for it all we will win through against the terrorists that oppose our system and way of life.

And so the noose becomes tighter on the Chinese fog workers where internal surveillance daily becomes more secure to protect them all against the terrorism they must be protected from.

Hitler must be grinning from his grave and so proud of the progress made using his methods he employed to control so many in the last war that was lost to the freedom fighters who promised this would never happen again, and so have made the machine to look after us all to ensure we will all be safe and secure and live in freedom, peace and prosperity for all.

One must wonder how far back the plans for the new world order go and who would be responsible for their implementation?

And now we all can shiver in horror and be glad this is merely a fictitious story so far removed from where we live in the land of the free.

BOOK ONE

The border wall and climbing the mountain to the top of the hill…

The evil queen was pulling the strings of her army and sowing the seeds of doubt to cause great harm far and wide with wire-tapping, make-believe, corruption, death and all the usual things that went on behind her closed doors of doom.

While over in the tower promises were made to be kept.

Meanwhile, over in the panic sector the two-faced snowflakes were throwing up moral outrage wherever they showed one of their faces but in their death throws willingly went about in their cracked ways and growing ever deeper into the lies they told to cause deliberate harm and hurt to any that were on the other side and against corruption.

On the sidelines the time-wrapped pot smokers were lost in their illusions and made no sense at all and any comments that did come from them were lost in the wind of their lifestyle; but so long as they could keep smoking it made no difference at all.

And then there was leapy Lou who never smoked and would jump from one place to the next and was known as the shadow’s favourite dancer, and even though she’d put her feet on the couch now and then, she was allowed because of her great service to the country and unflinching loyalty.

Bus driver Han was on the siren a lot and making mincemeat of the opposition and though he made it sound simple, really it was complicated as all hell, and nothing is more complicated than that, even the ghosts on the hill could be relied upon to wail occasionally; such as the one stuck on the wall at the bottom of the elevator shaft, relegated there where it belonged to not frighten children or anyone else which it had a habit of doing when anyone came close.

But the ghost of the evil queen was never alone…there was Debs and Chucky who never stopped joking:

“Hussein goes by the name of horny you know,” said Chucky chuckling.

“Why’s he called horny?” said Deb’s seemingly appalled.

“’Cos he’s got a big trumpet,” laughed Chucky; and banging his tin dinner plate on the wall led off into another joke…

From the ghost of the evil queen words came:

“Another eight years of this and I’ll go mad,” said the evil queen and began to wail into her lonely gruel of failure.

STANDING TALL

When everything and everyone stands against you that’s the time you have to stand alone and be firm in your resolve not to give in.

This could be your finest hour and the time you show the world and yourself what you’re made of.

This all usually happens when you stand up for something by getting so far along your path that you see a truth others not so far along haven’t seen yet.

There are ones who have other interests in opposition to the truth and so will refute you and all you believe in. There are also those that don’t want to grow and through fear of losing what they have, even though what they have is not worth the losing will defend it all the way to the grave.

There are also back-stabbers who will worm their way into your confidence and smile in your face as they sell your secrets and relish your death when it happens, and by the time you find out who it is, it’s too late.

THE SHADOW

The red herring hiding in the bottom of the wine bottle had nothing to do all day while it waited for someone to pop the cork and so stared out at all the comings and goings happening.

Lounging in a corner was the second-hand take-away short-cut at loose-ends and party dog to no one these days without an invitation, unless of course the weather changed and then all bets were off.

Across the street from this was another dreamer coming up from the ranks who believed in destiny, fate and other such things that go bump in the night and was closer to home than most people would admit in his tea-leaf predictions that cost a pretty penny if you had one, but any spare change would do just as well.

The convergence of these three lay-lines of interpretation was a happenstance waiting to proceed at the deep end of the well of dreams, or to the alternatives: the gravy yard.

But Gothic timetables are not all they’re cracked up to be and so a Mexican snowflake was called for to set to rights all the wrongs. But snowflakes have a tendency to melt in the sun as this one did. And that was that, and some said the revolution was over before it got started.

Sometime around noon on the third day when all was quiet, a report came in of a sighting which was put down to the shadow and forgotten about.

A number of snoozes later the spare emergency of an old alarm clock gave warning that time was ticking away and something must be done, though quite what was anyone’s guess. A number of ruffians threw a brick at an old tramp but that didn’t do any good at all so something else had to be thought of.

When the groan came from the shadow everyone breathed a sigh of relief. But the shadow had other ideas and escaped out the door and ran off down the street followed closely by everyone still awake; and a stray dog of course.

On a corner under a street lamp where the cats came home, a black one with a red collar was perched on a wall and looking down just in time to see the shadow pass by quick as anything and disappear down a dark alley.

The posse charged by and got lost somewhere else and still being followed by the stray dog.

Entering into all this came the man who’d stopped crying and with his red eyes and terrible thirst wore his long black coat up to his elbows, while down below his boots thudded his every step so that all would look up from what they were doing as he marched past.

Round and round the block he tramped until everyone was sick and tired of all the worry and went down the pub to play darts and drink beer.

The washer woman on her steps scrubbed too hard and wore a hole all the way down to her lip-stick and then went indoors and will be known from now on as: ‘er indoors’ to all and sundry except on Friday nights when bingo happened and then she called ‘house.’

The trappings of a small incendiary device with stockings up to her nick clacked along the pavement and turned any heads that were left over and for all intents and purposes was not going to take no for an answer and so kept on going towards her destiny even though whisperings came from the hidden places where the lusty dogs lay to trip over and curse in pausing.

The bell from the north east corner howled and then was quiet as someone with a coffee-cart pushed the coffee smell before it to brighten up the day and bring hope to the down-trodden in their hovels.

A huge flag on the government buildings fluttered in the breeze to say no lack here; and though it appeared to be busy there was no one there for they’d all gone on holiday again to play golf, or until the money ran out.

DISTURBANCES

Inside the deserted asylum where flowers never grew and joy was frowned upon as ‘too good for the likes of you’ the warden was preparing to fire up the boilers for the next shipment of interns and had got as far as the sports section when the bell rang.

“’G’day,” said the fireman as the huge door was opened creakily.

“What do you want?” said the warden, angry to be disturbed by a mere fireman holding a fire hose and ready to squirt it.

“We’ve come to put out the fire,” said the fireman eagerly.

“There’s no fire here, go away,” said the warden and closed the big front door and went back to his paper, muttering all the way.

A few moments of peace happened and then: “buzzum, buzzum, buzzum,” went the ding dong bell most insistently.

“I wish these firemen would leave me alone,” he said as he opened the big door again to find standing there in all his glory the whistling blower back from holiday with money in his hand.

“What do you want?” said the warden completely out of patience.

“I want to sell you some money,” said the whistling blower.

The warden could only look at the man holding out the money with a dumbfounded and perplexed expression on his face.

“Money,” said the whistling blower thrusting the money at the warden.

Slowly and with great effort the warden shut the door on the world and all its offerings and resolved that come what may he wouldn’t open it again that day.

As he went back to his seat the smell of smoke began to permeate his nostrils making them twitch.

He sniffed a few times to be sure and said: “Smoke.” And then thought nothing more of it and took up reading his paper again.

IT MUST HAVE BEEN ONE OF THOSE DAYS

They say if you bend over backwards fast enough things might change for the better, just don’t hold your breath while waiting. But then there’s so many saying so much these days that if you believed all of it your belief system would be stretched beyond credulity such as scientists finding proof that god exists and then showing you a picture to prove it that makes you fall out of you chair.

When you fall out of the sky this way with barely an excuse left to hold onto it puts a crinkle in the perfection of your beliefs that’s hard to iron out.

So when the warden came to his senses he found himself lying on the carpet still clutching the newspaper and barely able to move. He lay there for a long time before he twitched, and with one twitch comes another so it wasn’t long before he was able to climb to his feet and stare life in the face again, but this time with a picture from the newspaper in his mind to prove god existed and was alive and kicking and over in Kentucky.

So without further ado he booked an overnight sleeper and set about preparing to leave from where he was. But it must have been one of those days for try as he might the more he tried the less he did until the time came to leave left him kicking and screaming that he wouldn’t get to see god and with all the money gone that’s how he felt.

“OMG,” he said and collapsed back into his chair and stared at the newspaper and the second hand grainy picture of god.

Over in the dark corner of the room where the shadow was hiding there came the sound of a snigger that went all of three feet before turning around and running back again.

WHEN TOMORROW COMES

When tomorrow came as it always does so early in the morning, the left-over leaves of yesterday shimmered in the slight breeze as the yeoman of the guards flew past on his bike yelling whoopee and woke everyone up from their dark sleep until they were all yawning and wishing he wouldn’t do that every morning.

Most of the hopeless and down-trodden woke up too and began to lay their traps for the day for the unwary to fall into and made it to their begging bowls before falling back asleep.

The huge border wall that had nothing better to do than hold up the sky trembled as the drug runners burrowed deep beneath it one more tunnel to the Promised Land. They never slept and like hungry dogs kept on digging day after day into their dreams hoping one day to make it there, but there was always another tunnel to dig.

So they died in their thousands in the dark and never made it anywhere. One such brawny roustabout was an old soldier left over from the war who’d fought on the wrong side and now didn’t know any better and so carried the lantern in the dark doom of it all and nursed the dead in their dying until they were no more.

The need’s knees of this or any other mercy was a shot in the dark to get through the pearly gates but they may as well have stayed in bed for the gates were closed on that side of heaven which of course caused much wailing that woke up the dead and set them to wailing too.

This was another reason to stay indoors for most. There were times when going outside was a necessity. The young and disillusioned had to report once a week to The Duffus Exchange to sign on and look for work; but the only work was on the chain gang and that didn’t pay much, so after the mandatory weekly signature was done they all made their way to the grave-robbers pub for a beer and maybe a job on the side for cash if they were lucky.

Such was life on the border town in the gap between things where there was no escape, even for the dead that could only wail about it and walk the streets after dark as ghostly apparitions.

The broad leaf philosophy of this was eagle claw fights tiger’s feather while wearing a shoe on the other foot of change. But inside there was a dread of their lives and it came out as the brave face with wide staring eyes that saw little and feared everything.

Soza the barbarian on the other hand liked nothing better than to play ghost and frighten the locals behind their locked doors with whooping in the night on the way home from the pub, and many years this went on until one night he fell down a dark well and this is why whenever anyone goes near the well these days whooping can be heard from its deep.

This added to the town’s legend as a place in question but which shouldn’t be confused with Hades which is another place altogether on the other side of the wall and can be got to by taking the number 37 bus that will get you most of the way there, or so it says in the brochures.

Now, when you add this to the soup of the day you can see why the inhabitants preferred home cooking and why the warden didn’t get out much and why the governor could be forgiven for not counting his chickens every day when the sun went down.

Not everyone had the same concerns though, there were some who had a vested interest in other things that didn’t have an expiry date, but these ones were few and far between.

THE LEFT HANDED MIDGET

The left-handed midget was selling newspapers on the corner of 59st and fifth and trying hard to look normal. This of course was a disguise and the shadow knew really the midget was spying on him, but quite why he didn’t know; if there was any treasure he sure didn’t have it on him; but maybe the midget thought the shadow would lead him to it.

The shadow looked around then and sure enough, scattered about him were the members of the midget’s gang, one-eyed cutthroats and ruffians all and doing their best to blend in.

One was doing a shoe shine act outside the Green Cafe and growling at the passersby. Another one was in the crowd and playing at pickpocket and was doing well as far as could be seen and passing his ill gotten gains to a grumpy looking dwarf who was wearing clothes that were far too big and gave the impression he’d shrunk down suddenly and was not happy about it.

The shadow flagged a passing cab to Penn Station and then subbed up to the park and got out near Strawberry Fields, the memorial to John Lennon where the fans still chalk the ground daily to mourn his passing.

He sat on a bench close by to pay his respects for awhile and looked at the Dakota building where John had lived and wondered why he’d choose that place to live.

And then the shadow heard a rustling in the bushes behind him. How they’d followed him to here he can’t say but sure enough there was one of the gang wearing a top hat that poked above the bush.

By now the shadow was beginning to tire of their spying on him and forever dogging his heels; he thought he’d left all this behind him in the town on the border where he’d gone looking for his lost friend. He’d heard rumours of him but he was nowhere to be found and after further searching and becoming lost in the desert of lost souls had found a map that said: what you’re looking for is closer to home so go there to find it. So the shadow took a flight back; but they must have got wind of where he was; and so here he was and here they were and what now?

The shadow took out the map from his pocket and stared at it hoping to find a clue. The top hat appearing over his shoulder alerted him to the midget’s presence.

“Yabba Dabber Doo,” said the midget and took off his hat and threw it at the shadow as a diversion. As the shadow turned to deal with him the left-handed midget grabbed the map right out of his hands and ran off with it to disappear amongst the tourists.

The shadow found himself alone on the bench and feeling too tired all of a sudden to give chase after the map which had probably told him all it had to say anyway; and so he sat back on the bench and felt free at last and also felt that maybe it was a good day to be in Strawberry Fields with nowhere else to be but here.

THE BRIDGE OF HIS DEFEAT

Well you can only sit around for so long before you just have to move and do something, but sometimes it’s not apparent on first glance what there is to do.

Sometimes you stand up and walk left, and then walk right, and then stare into space awhile.

So there he was staring into space on the bridge of his defeat with nothing to say which way to go.

It is at these times that you look for signs but if there are none then you just put one foot in front of the other and start walking in the direction you’re facing and see what happens.

Sometimes a door will open that will take you somewhere, but most times you just find yourself walking and walking until so much time has gone by you’ve forgotten why or how you came to be on the road you’re on.

Your preferences of course will lead you down side roads that most often go nowhere, and a lot of time can be wasted on these side roads.

Do all roads lead home?

This was a question that floundered around in the shadow’s mind until he grew dizzy with the thinking of it, and when he looked up he found he was still on the bridge of his defeat; but at least no one was chasing him, and that was something surely.

There are many tides on the bridge of defeat: despair, ennui, hopelessness, depression, doubt and many more and all of them can leave you with a sense of loss and without purpose.

***

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Ghost Dance

Are we so brave then to become what we must from our defeat? And if in our becoming we lose our fear for change do we not die a little to become more? In our falling are we not giants with wings to tumble and then rise up again and become what we cannot lose? When the sword falls, how much of our destiny sees us beneath it, and how much is it our choice? Silence in solitude brings answers to the warrior who must dance this; but only after rising to claim it. Those that stay fallen must be counted as lost and grieved when the time comes to do so, if honour is upheld. Those ones who are lost before they fall must be cast from the circle when found or else doubt and defeat will come to infect even the strongest hearts. If in the warrior’s heart the battle has already been won there cannot then be defeat for that warrior, for the war is not fought on the field, it is fought inside where the fear rises and if conquered there, then the greatest battle has already been won and all other battles will be but a skirmish and will be seen for what they are in the greater fight as but some darkness come to assail the light.

  • ISBN: 9781370621316
  • Author: Dean Moriarty
  • Published: 2017-07-28 12:05:08
  • Words: 25002
Ghost Dance Ghost Dance