THE HERO'S MASK
Originally published for First North American Serial Rights, in a slightly different form by FABLES, now only an archived magazine. Please note that the author employs Di'neh rituals poetically as a work of fiction. It is not meant to be an accurate depiction. Please go to the embeded links, and the links below the story, for a more accurate understanding of Di'neh (Navajo) culture, mythology, religion, society, and history.
Hogan, the traditional home of the Navajo (Di'neh) - represents their cosmology
(image courtesy of American Indian Art & Photography - Pinterest.com)
Dedicated in honor of R. Carlos Nakai, Navajo-Ute musician (see video below)
From the hogan's roof a thin tendril of smoke snaked into the rosy chill of an awakening high desert sky. Within the cedar log home, the Dineh mother sang an old harmony song to awaken her child, evoking memories of her own childhood.
"Mother, why didn't Father wake me?" he asked from beneath a thick, woven blanket, rubbing a web of dreams from his small dark eyes.
She briefly wrinkled her wide brow, and then forced a smile. To the boy, her missing tooth enhanced the beauty of a smooth round face. Her fingers played with the frayed edges of the colorful blanket she kept tightly wrapped about herself. "Son, Auntie's coming." She bit her lower lip. "It was not easy yesterday? When the men in the suits came to Father and Uncle."
He gazed into the central hearth, trying hard to put on a disappointed face. But the slowly licking flames simply evoked years, perhaps ages, of peace-instilling memories. As far back as he could remember, his mother and that central fire had been his significant reality. Disappointments and joys all seemed to burn and transform from within it. Cooking and ceremonies, the same; mother and aunts, uncles and father, the clan... and the sun. A lick of flame broke free from an ember, briefly danced in the air, then dissolved into a puff of smoke. He couldn't help himself; he grinned.
She laughed and lightly patted his face. "Up, dear son."
Auntie entered the hogan. She walked a clockwise path around the hearth and took his mother aside to whisper something.
He rose almost defiantly from beneath the blanket, demanding, "I want to hear also."
Auntie shook her head, silvery hair dancing around a creased and intent face. "You wish to know everything? And at once? What if I were talking about monsters?"
"Monsters?"
Auntie threw his mother a look, who nodded her head. "Come, son," said Auntie. "Come on a walk with me. We'll have breakfast down by the river."
He dressed quickly. Minutes later, he grasped Auntie's gnarly, comforting hand as she led him out the narrow, east-facing entryway into the crisp morning air.
"Do you know the story of Creation?" she asked, vaporous breath washing across her bronzed face.
He briefly grimaced, but as he sat down to tie his worn sneakers' shoelaces, a warm beam of sunlight struck his ruby-cold face. It had the same effect as the hogan's hearth, and tempered unmet wants with a more ancient sense of presence. Still, he answered with an edge of impatience. "You have told it, and so has Uncle. Everyone knows it."
He tried understanding the roots of that brusqueness. Such eruptive thoughts were unusual, except at school sometimes when that blond-haired student teacher from off the reservation came and seemed to be the embodiment of unmet wants, and now those men in black suits.
His aunt caught the tension that came with his words and escaped from his eyes. It reminded her of what her great aunt had told her, of Great Aunt's Great Aunt who had sat with the White Men From The South On Horses, who had told them that they must have a religion because they had none. And an elder had said: "Every breath we take, every word we utter, is like your religion; we just don't glorify nailing a Hero to a tree. Why can you not see that?" And the men on the horses had gone on to torture some of the valley-dwelling Hopi, just like the hero they prayed to...
She flung off those thoughts like a flame breaking free of fire when the boy tugged on her shirt to gain her attention, seemingly out of the blue.
"It is how we came into this world through the hole in the sky after the big floods," he finally said. "The good creatures showed the way, but some bad ones followed."
"Where did these bad creatures come from?"
"In the other world, the fathers raped mother."
The old woman frowned. There were a hundred ways of telling the story; this was one way.
"So you know of Dinehta?" she prompted.
"That's our home. This land."
"Who is that, peeking his golden face at us from behind that butte?"
He jumped up. "Can we go, Auntie? What're we going to eat?"
"But who is that?" she insisted calmly, pointing a crooked finger to the southeast.
"Auntie!" he said. "He is my ancient father, Sun Bearer."
"And such he has been since we emerged from the underworlds. We..." She began to walk toward the trail that led to her hogan at the bottom of the canyon by the river. "...have lived here in Dinehta longer than in any other world. Do you know why?"
The child had run ahead of her. "Because Monster Slayer, the Hero Twin, killed most of the evil creatures."
"You will wear me out too quickly! Come, walk by my side."
The boy grudgingly turned around and again took Auntie's extended hand.
"Such a cold hand you have," she said. "Are you dressed warmly enough?"
"You're just like mother, always worrying"
"I am your mother."
The boy smiled. "You know what I mean."
"Of course." She took a deep breath as the trail opened to a broad, sloping canyon. An eagle, high above, screeched.
"Son," she asked, "who is that?"
He looked at her and wrinkled his nose. "Auntie! You know. It's an eagle."
"Is that all it is?"
The boy put on an air of intense concentration, then he smiled when he saw Auntie nearly burst into laughter.
"It's special," he finally said. "Isn't it?"
"But why?"
"Auntie, can we go. I want to see father. He's down there with the sheep, isn't he?" The boy pointed a fat finger toward the canyon floor.
"Son, why is that bird special?"
"Oh, Auntie!"
The woman stared at her nephew and smiled. As the oldest "aunt" in her clan, she was considered "mother" to many clan children, but this one was her special one.
"Come, son. Let's sit on that rock for a moment."
The two walked to a large boulder overshadowed by a gnarly evergreen. They looked out to a spectacular red-rock, shrub-dotted canyon. The sky had turned to that deep shade of blue that gave wind to fancy.
"Tell me, child, who are the white people?"
"You mean those government people and the ones from the mining place in the shiny black car. --Auntie, they said awful things to father yesterday. I don't know their noisy language very well but I was afraid. Their eyes were mean."
The woman tussled the boy's thick, black hair and pulled him into an embrace.
"Oh Auntie, will Monster Slayer return?"
She took a deep breath and looked down at the lowlands, remembering the first time her Aunt had told her of the old creation legend and its heroes.
"Son, what is home?"
"The hogan."
"And?"
"Mother is home . . ."
"And is not all of this . . ." She stretched out her wrinkled brown arms. "Is this not your mother also?"
The boy made a long, drawn out sound. "Auntie, I'm hungry. I'm tired of sitting." He jumped to the ground and held out two hands. She took one.
As the two slowly walked hand-in-hand along the canyon rim, she abruptly stopped. The boy looked up, showing his impatience.
"Did you know," she asked, "that it was Spider Woman who showed Monster Slayer how to be brave?"
The boy became interested. "Uncle never told me that. Do you think ...? Oh Auntie, I hope he will come to kill these white monsters."
"Son, do you remember how cold it was only a short time ago."
The boy nodded.
"A very long time ago, right after the flood and our emergence in this desert, Cold was our enemy. But Monster Slayer tamed Cold; he didn't kill him. Cold now brings needed rest to corn seed and snow to the mountains to fill our rivers when it's time for the seeds to sprout. --Remember that eagle we just saw?"
The boy nodded impatiently. He pulled on her tattered jeans to urge her forward.
"Once, that bird was a monster who ate humans every day..."
"--And Monster Slayer changed it into a good creature that lives only to help The People."
He smiled proudly when he saw how impressed that made her.
"Do you know how he did this?"
"I bet with pollen. --Auntie, you're walking too slowly!" He wrinkled his nose when he saw how that made Auntie wistfully looked up to the sky.
"Yes, Spider Woman taught young Monster Slayer how pollen can turn a troubled heart peaceful. Pollen is pure. It is filled with harmony and the promise of life, all locked up inside something so tiny..."
The boy remembered something. "Auntie, what did you whisper into Mother's ear?"
That brought a coy smile to her face, he saw.
"When did I do such a thing?"
"Auntie--!"
She patted his head. "Last night, all of the uncles and aunts to whom you were born met with your parents. We talked about old treaties and other problems. As a clan we made a very big decision about you."
The boy's grin grew very wide. "Tell me."
"It'll mean a lot of hard work at school."
"I got an A in arithmetic last week. English is harder, but that new white teacher..."
"I know. We are going to save a lot of money and when you are old enough, we will send you to the best school in the whole country."
"No, far far away. Near the Sun Bearer's eastern home by the Great Water."
The boy put a foot down hard. "Oh, that's too far away. I could never make it home in time to help father with the sheep in the afternoons."
When she smiled, he leaned into her bosom, and the sudden weight in his heart lightened as she pulled him even tighter to her.
"Uncle Wolfclaw will make medicine to protect you." She placed a hand under his chin. "And Aunt Waterhole has even given you a white name to make you invisible."
He looked up to her and swallowed hard. "I want to stay here, with my mother and father and you..." He put his arms up to her neck and tugged, feeling ready to burst into tears.
"Don't cry, my little one. It won't be for many years. And if you don't want to, then that will be up to you. But we will make you invisible with the white name, James Johnson, if you decide to go."
* * *
Feeling more peaceful, maybe from the effects of the bitter tea, James Johnson recognized most everyone gathered around the licking, crackling flames in the hogan. He felt bathed in warmth. And not just by the ceremonial fire and gnarly faces it illuminated. The wafting of earthy scents, guttural chanting of the Singer, chirping of crickets outside, and even the clay and cedar log wall rising like a shadowy presence behind the singing shaman, kindled powerful feelings deep inside. It was good to be home.
The roadman chief, from the earlier ceremonial with the peyote and tobacco, threw handfuls of cedar chips and sage into the flames. For a moment, the fire dimmed. Then thick, redolent, eye-smarting smoke enveloped him. Had hours passed after drinking the foul brew from the bowl that had been passed around clockwise, or minutes, he couldn’t tell. He'd been told that this was not how the Native American Church did things; this was special for him, and only because Auntie had insisted on it. Feeling sick to his stomach, he started to stand up.
A hand touched his shoulder. Auntie. She wrinkled her furrowed brow. Her eyes told him to sit still. Soon, fire enveloped the herbs and the smoke disappeared up into the hole, the hole symbolic of the hole at the top of the world.
James' eyes still smarted as he again looked to the gathering. Their faces, many of them gaunt and old - some very young - no longer roused the quaint memories of his youth. With frightening clarity, he saw pain etched in their faces. Looking a little deeper within, he saw in their faces a reflection of his years of trying to fit into an alien world while at the university.
Sweat poured from beneath the Singer's colorful headband, streaming down the deep crags of his desert blasted face. To James he said, "Sit on Creation and let the Heroes transform your wounds."
His heart reeled at that statement. He didn't like being singled out. But the old man then said, "--As everyone gathered here has been hurt."
James' mother and father gave him quick, encouraging glances. This was not the peyote ceremonial -- that had been the earlier purification -- but was in fact a part of the Yeibichai Night Chant, a nine-day healing ceremonial. The Singer led him to the vibrant dry painting, showing him where to sit on its colorful and intricate design. First Man and First Woman stood side-by-side in the design, neither of them overshadowing the other. The Hero Twin arched between them, across the sky's dome, his face equal in size to all creatures, connecting the heavens with the world and The People. The four directions - the four jewel gifts - all of them perfectly equal to one another; nothing was all bad, nothing all good. Every aspect in the dry painting had equal significance.
James squirmed. The ritual seemed to conflict with what he'd learned at the University. He wondered if it might not have been better to have accepted the lucritive offer in Boston, after his MBA, and to have sent his family great sums of money instead of coming home with his degrees. Even the dirty Boston air, its angry people, and the honking of cars at the bizarre traffic circles seemed oddly comforting now, in contrast to this ritual.
Someone lightly tapped his head with a bundle of corn stalks. In the next moment, another helper sprinkled corn pollen over his head. He shook his head. His mind reeled, then swiftly receded into a swirling confusion. Out of the smoky confusion by the fire, a masked dancer burst forth. James gasped. Heart pounding, he looked down on the painting.
The colorful rainbow-hero arced across the top of the sand and bark-dust drawing: the path of the heroes. Monster Slayer stood poised to descend from the sky above the image of an antediluvian Dinehta - Home of The People - a place filled with alien challenges.
He looked up to the dancing figure. The dancer took off his mask and placed it over James' face. The echoes of the drums, shrilling from an eagle bone whistle... and the chanting... gently faded. His cousins and elders melted away. In another moment, he was alone with the dancer.
And in another moment, he was totally alone.
Briefly.
For suddenly, the voices of unseen entities made themselves heard from a distance. He recalled the stories of Crushing-Rock-From-Trembling-Mountain, Cold-that-brings-ice, Cactus-That-Tears, Sand-That-Devours-Humans, and even Humans-Who-Kill-Humans.
But that didn't make sense. All those hungry monsters had long ago been put to rest. They were just dreams now. Part of the creation legend.
He looked down. There was no painting. He looked up, high up. There blazed his father, Sun Bearer, the sky that shade of blue that gave wind to fancy.
From where she was tending her sheep, First Woman - or was this Auntie? - screamed out, "Monster Slayer, Son, watch out!"
He turned and saw a terrifying creature swooping down from above.
"I am the hungriest of all!" it screeched as it dove on him on silvery, roaring wings. Upon touching the earth, the creature changed into a gleaming beast whose large flat claws tore the earth, heaving plumes of stinking clouds into the air and leaving ugly scars in the soil, finally turning the air almost too hot to breathe. The demon approached threateningly. It mutated again, becoming very tall, as tall as the highest chrome-and-glass structure he'd seen in his James Johnson Boston dreams.
"Who are you?" he bravely asked four times.
"I am born of rape!" it screamed icily.
"Rape?"
"Silence fool!" it screamed. "I am born of mother-rape." In its anger it again changed, now to a large, low-lying, ugly, and smoke-belching citadel. Into the flame-spurting portals of its mouth entered all manner of rocks, trees, rivers and people. "I devour everything! And give birth to vengeful demons."
Another transformation occurred. Before him towered a person, sporting a crisp pin-striped suit. A diamond studded Rolex gleamed from one wrist. The other hand held a leather briefcase and Ethernet-connected notebook. The tall monster looked down on him and then to its watch, and roared, "3 P.M.! Time for the Market Report."
It looked down to him again and took a giant step, about to place a shiny black shoe on top of his clan's hogans. As the foot descended, the creature glared one last time at him.
He froze. The monstrous face staring down on him was his own, in the form of his invisible identity among the White People. From above came the booming voice of his father, Sun Bearer: "Monster Slayer, have you already forgotten Spider Woman's boon?"
He shook his head - Auntie?
Sweat flew from his long, dark hair as he took a deep breath, and screamed, "Put your feet down with pollen! Put your head down with pollen! Your feet, your hands, your body, your mind, and your voice are pure as pollen. The trail is beautiful. Be at peace, monster!" Four times he shouted the ancient incantation as he threw pollen from a leather pouch.
The creature hurled itself upon him. He threw up his arms to avert the fatal blow and closed his eyes. But instead of pain he felt a warmth permeate his heart.
He opened his eyes. Day had turned to night and dream to reality. He was sitting with his clan on the dry-painting. A helper pulled off the mask that had briefly been fitted over his face. It was the mask of Monster Slayer. For some fleeting moments, he had seen through the eyes and heart of the great Hero Twin.
He looked around, sweat streaming from every pore of his trembling body. The dancing flames of the crackling fire clarified the simple joy spreading across the many faces staring back at him. His old uncle gave him a knowing look from where he stood by the fire. The old man even managed a rare toothless smile. Auntie, sitting next to him, winked an eye, much like a spider at night that has caught the moonlight in her eyes while weaving her web.
Sand-bark painting
***
Navajo Creation Story, as taught by a Dineh instructor
Click on this image below to go to Medical Anthropology Quarterly, "The Navajo Healing Project." Research articles "dedicated to understanding the nature of the therapeutic process in contemporary Navajo religious healing."
Navajo/Di'neh Culture (comprehensive with links): http://navajopeople.org/navajo-culture.htm
Navajo migration from Canada: http://www.sjsu.edu/faculty/watkins/navajo.htm
Athabaskan language base and genetic bottleneck: http://www.nature.com/gim/journal/v1/n4/pdf/gim1999159a.pdf?origin=publication_detail
Navajo/Di'neh matrilineal/matrilocal system: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Navajo
and http://sc2218.wikifoundry.com/page/Division+of+labor+in+Navajo+society
Black Mountain Mining issue: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Mesa_Peabody_Coal_controversy
Navajo/Di'neh Long Walk, enslavement and relocation: https://www.nlm.nih.gov/nativevoices/timeline/332.html
History of violence, torture, and genocidal efforts aganst First Nations people, including the American principle of Manifest Destiny: http://childlaw.unm.edu/videos/ICWA2012/documents/History_of_Victimization_Issues.pdf
and
http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1527-2001.2003.tb00803.x/abstract?systemMessage=Subscribe+and+renew+is+currently+unavailable+online.+Please+contact+customer+care+to+place+an+order%3A++http%3A%2F%2Folabout.wiley.com%2FWileyCDA%2FSection%2Fid-397203.html++.Apologies+for+the+inconvenience.&userIsAuthenticated=false&deniedAccessCustomisedMessage=
and
http://search.proquest.com/openview/b4458f608b63f54cd997b2ba0fa8672a/1?pq-origsite=gscholar and
Manifest Destiny and Other Crimes Against The Native American Nations: http://www.californiaindianeducation.org/student_works/manifest_destiny_crimes/
Online book from Multicultural Foundations of Psychology and Counseling, Columbia University
Compensation to the Navajo/Di'neh by Obama: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/a-hard-won-victory-for-the-long-suffering-people-of-the-navajo-nation-as-us-agrees-554m-payout-9756454.html
Flute music of R. Carlos Nakai
NRA HENCHMAN at the PEARLY GATES
(Wayne LaPierre is the Executive Vice President of the National Rifle Association nal Rifle Association <NRA>)
ST. PETER: So, you suffered from anachronisticdenialitis, did you?
LA PIERRE: Anachro – what?!
ST. PETER: That's when you lose the ability to recognize the passage of time.
LA PIERRE: I don't follow you.
ST. PETER: That was your problem; you couldn't follow the calendar, either.
LA PIERRE: What do you mean?
ST. PETER: Well, in the 21st century, you were still insisting on following to the letter a document that was written in the 18th century. Sounds like anachronisticdenialitis to me.
LA PIERRE: Oh, you're talking about the Constitution of the United States! Now I get the joke.
ST. PETER: No joke. Because of your temporal intransigence, you have increased my workload like you wouldn't believe.
LA PIERRE: What do you mean?
ST. PETER: Because of your it is-thing and the weight of your influence on a whole nation, you have allowed people who knew only of primitive firearms to dictate in a world that has weapons capable of obliterating all life on earth
LA PIERRE: Oh, I get it – you're one of those Commie lliberals. aren't you? I thought I was through with them.
ST. PETER: Actually, you are. There won't be any where you're headed.
LA PIERRE: What do you mean? I thought this is where I was going.
ST. PETER: This is just transition. You don't get through them pearly gates over there until you pass muster. And the way it's looking, Buster, there's only one way for you – and that's down – unless you can give me a better explanation for your actions that increased my workload. I'm listening.
ST. PETER: That is very noble, relatively benign and temporally bucolic. It was 140 years ago, as well. It has absolutely nothing to do with the ultra-political nature of today's organization. The NRA holds sway over both major political parties, and the fringes, too.
LA PIERRE: Yes, our large membership does express itself through their elected representatives. They are very cautious that their gun-owning rights not be infringed upon.
ST. PETER: Our membership, my eye! That line of taurus excrementus doesn't work up here. Despite your deceitfully subordinate title, you are the iron fist that directs every move the NRA makes. For the last 40 years, the NRA has been the prime generator, purveyor and prostitute of the gun-manufacturing industry in the United States. Using craven notions of patriotism and exaggerated, quaint and outdated intentions of the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution, the membership has been bullied into accepting any pronouncement emanating from your parsimonious lips. They do not realize that you – and they – are
the chief promotors of the arms industry. It takes a lot more than their well-meant membership fees to control 535 members of congress. They do not realize that your grip is so tight that you will not allow legislation that might affect the manufacture of even one round of ammunition. After every shameful, public massacre of citizens, you hit the airwaves with your same, cynical, It ain't the guns; it's the people postulation – no matter how many innocent lives are sacrificed on the NRA altar of, Guns is good; the more guns, the gooder. You don't give a damn. As long as the gun industry flourishes, so do you and your cronies. You get rich, and the membership gets congratulated for upholding the Constitution. What they don't realize is that you and the leadership of the NRA have subverted the Constitution – every last one of its three main pillars! The congress is completely bought; the president is hog-tied; and the Supreme Court has been absolutely bamboozled – or worse! You are a force to be reckoned with – and, I reckon it's time to be a little forceful with you. Therefore, Mr. Wayne LaPierre, you are hereby denied entrance into the Pearly Gates. Ready with the trapdoor!...
LA PIERRE: (Waking abruptly and sweating profusely) Wow! That was scary! Maybe I'd better re-think things. What a dream!
ST. PETER: (In a stage-whisper) No dream, Bub – just a rehearsal!
Inner Dialogue
It's coming isn't it?
Why do you think so?
You know I hate riddles, just tell me.
What do you think is coming?
Can't you just say yes or no? Why do you always ask me questions?
So I can be sure. You know. You can see it too, can't you?
What do you see?
I can't see it, I just feel it.
Yes, that is the difference between you and I, you feel and I see. So what do you see?
That's a question. I don't like questions.
Then why do you ask them?
Because I want answers and you have answers.
I only see what is before me. What do you feel?
But you have seen this before, haven't you?
Now who is answering in questions?
Can't you tell me what you see?
You see what I see. Why don't you tell me what you feel?
A distant rumble, even when it's quiet, there is a rumble. Tension. I feel tension, in my stomach, in my head, in my back, in my legs. Its everywhere I touch, on people and even things. It's a vibration. Does sound have a sensation? I feel sounds. Loud and quiet sounds. Cries. I feel cries. That's why I don't go out because my skin is always itchy, the cries touch me and I try to scratch them away. If I could stop feeling I could be calm. I feel hands and arms pulling at me, all the time. Even inside my mind, pulling and jerking. Sometimes I want to scream, "STOP touching me!" My core is being squeezed, a hand that squeezes and tightens, squeezes and tightens, and never ever stops. Things that I see are pulled in and they swirl in my gut and my chest and choke me until I squeeze them out in tears, salt water and mucus into a rag that I can throw away. Then I have a few seconds, sometimes minutes, of peace but these sensations and feelings always come back. Don't other people feel these things? Don't they want them to stop? The rumble ebbs and flows. I want to hide from it but it finds me, even in my bed at night. Sometimes it wakes me up, the quiet rumble wakes me up. Or I want to dig a hole and crawl inside it but then I would miss the sun. The sun nevers stays long enough, the darkness is longer and in the darkness is peace but also danger. I can never get away from the noise and the crashing and yelling and burning and bleeding and hurting. It's always there. Pain. It's always there waiting to grab me and crush me. It's a cliff that I'm at the edge of, I can fall off of, always.... just..... right.... there. I hug the bushes to keep away from the edge. I can hardly get a deep breath. Fear. I feel fear and it has a smell, a sensation too. My pulse races because I am afraid. I can't look at the faces, millions of hurting faces because I could be them and I want to take them in but I can't because there is not enough. Not enough room. Not enough food. Not enough money. Not enough water. Not enough air. Not enough. And they come at me because they hurt. Animals look at me for food. Children look at me for love. I feel their pain and hunger and I have no power, all the while the rumble keeps murmuring, marching, and growing and growing. I want to push it away, close my door and lock it out but it creeps in through the cracks. I feel stabs of pain in my fingers, on my legs, on my back, little pin picks randomly poke me. There is no safe place. Fear and pain are coming- that's the rumble and it is getting louder. Louder.
This is what you feel?
Yes.
There is the answer to your question. You already knew.
But I wanted you to tell me.
Does it make a difference if I tell you something you already know?
I just want to know if I'm right.
Everyone thinks they are right.
I don't want to be right.
Why not?
Because my being right is going to be very wrong.
That is what I see.
That it's going to be wrong.
Yes, it's going to be very wrong, you are right.
What's your name?
I have many names, one of them is yours.
You have my name?
Yes. And others.
If you see then why don't you fix it?
Seeing isn't a power, everyone sees. Action is power.
You see farther than I do.
True, I see in every direction. I see what you see. I see what you feel. As did your mother, and her mother, and her mother. I see what Lucy saw and her mother before her all the way back to Mother Africa.
What is your name?
Which one?
Why can't you give me a straight answer? All of them.
We don't have that much time, the rumble is getting louder.
You feel it too?
Yes, because I am next to you and I feel what you feel. I like the view here, don't you? We can see everything but see nothing.
Because the action is on the inside?
Yes, it's there but I don't have to see it.
And I don't have to feel it.
But we know it's there, don't we?
What's your name?
What do you think it is?
God?
Oh, no, my name is not god, or allah, or yaweh, or manito........ it is nothing. It is everything.
Is it Merlin?
It has been.
What is your name?
The past. History lessons go by many names.
You know I hate riddles.
Stories are as real as we are because they are told by real people.
I see.
Do you? I thought you felt.
I feel and now I see.
That is growth.
I can't do it alone.
You won't be alone, you aren't the only who feels.
KIM JONG el ÚN-ico
[In a flurry of obeisant response, Kim Jong Un enters a guided ballistic missile complex just outside Pyongyang City. In white-glove inspection mode, the “Great Leader” directs his conversation to any number of identical and appropriately terrified listeners.]
KIM: I find this incomprehensible; are you all a mere pack of incompetent boobs?! Just how much embarrassment do you expect me to withstand? I will not bear it alone, you know. If I am to be humiliated, others will share my shame.
Among the last four missiles launched from this godforsaken facility, only one can be considered even a half-ass success. At that rate, how on earth can I be expected to destroy the armada that Yankee Pig is sending here? I promised, I promised – and you incompetent bastards have left me vulnerable! I cannot live like this – you have no right, none at all.
LISTTNERS: (Thinking-) Yes, we know.
KIM: What gives with those arrogant Americans, anyhow? They have no consideration. They seem to think they can disrespect us – meaning, “me” – ad libitum. Did you hear what that grizzled old senator said about me? (Of course not; how could you?) Well, it wasn’t nice. If he were here... In a twisted sort of way, the disrespect shown to the publicly esteemed SOB by the president is kinda payback for me. Did they elect that bastard Trump because we have similar qualities? – in temperament, I mean. He doesn’t need lifts; but we both use hairstylists with a sense of humor.
LISTENERS: (thinking) Oh, that’s what “truth” is...or is it just, “venting”?
KIM: What is this, “Jighnna” shit – and, “Chairman Shi and I are such good buddies,” and all that? In the first place, it’s, “China” – and I like a good chocolate cake, too! What’s the matter; ain’t I good enough for Mar-a-Lago? I would go, too, if he were crazy enough to invite me – wait a minute – that’s the problem; you don’t know what to expect from that guy. I go through those gates, be charmed to death, and where the hell is my reputation? With Dennis Rodman, it’s different. At least we have something in common. But what on earth could I have in common with that self-important, power-possessed, social and political libertine?
Listeners: (too dangerous even to think) [crickets]
KIM: Now, back to these shameful missile failures of yours. From the pre-launch rundowns I’ve been given, you all are in agreement on all systems. That would appear to eliminate mechanical error. And, since you all run on basically the same DNA, it would appear to eliminate human error, as well. Wait a minute...you don’t think...no-o-o! They could not have compromised our systems, could they? Has anybody looked into that possibility? What the hell, none of you would admit it, anyway. Who the hell in his right mind would be asking to be put in front of a wall and be blown to pieces by anti-aircraft artillery guns? Guess I’ll just have to rely on the official reports.
Well, you’re not gonna leave a fella strung out here, with no satisfaction? Roll ’em out!
(A huge video screen is set up. When turned on, it shows a series of staged battle scenes. Missile strikes take out a U.S. aircraft carrier and cause the nuclear decimation of several U.S. cities.)
KIM: Atta boy! Go get ‘em! That’s the way! Blow ‘em outta the water! Bye-bye, San Francisco, Washington, D.C., New York! Ness with the Kimster, will ya?!...
The BILL and DONALD no-SHOW
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: Are you both ready for this conference call?
TWO VOICES, SIMULTANEOUSLY: Yes.
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: Then, we are agreed that no one called anyone, correct?
TWO VOICES, SIMULTANEOUSLY: Correct.
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: Fine. I leave you to your own devices.
BILL: Hi, Donald. What a coincidence...
DONALD: Coincidence, my ass, you big faker. What are you up to?
BILL: Me? Wh'ah, I haven't the slightest idea what you're talkin' about.
DONALD: OK, let's cut the shit and get down to business.
BILL: All right. Our operatives have explained the agenda to both of us. So, what's your problem?
DONALD: I don't know, Bill...I'm torn...
BILL: That's a bunch of crap. You've never been torn about anything. What's the real problem?
DONALD: Well, you know, Bill; I've been playin' around about running forever; but it's all been a big game. It gets my name out there, and gives me – you know – a little boost.
BILL: You mean I could start my egomobile by sticking a cable up your ass, right?
DONALD: That's a bit crude...
BILL: Crude, MY ass! You see the field so crowded with clueless Munchkins, and you think you can take all of 'em. Right?
DONALD: Right – but, if I'm wrong...?
BILL: That's politics, Baby.
DONALD: Come on, Bill; you can be more nuanced than that.
BILL: Look, Donald, you do realize that, even if you do get the nomination, that's the end of the line?
DONALD: What do you mean?
BILL: Have you forgotten about the general election?
DONALD: Yeah, well, that's a given – nobody on our side ever expected to beat her, anyhow.
BILL: Don't speak for the others, Donald. In politics you don't discount anything. Remember 2008? There are a few serious candidates in that bunch who could give Hillary a good run.
DONALD: But, I ain't one of 'em, your're sayin'?
BILL: Right! Only because you haven't prepared yourself...and under these circumstances –not a snowballs chance...
DONALD: OK, OK – but you are sayin' I could take the primary, right? 'Cause, I'm tired of playin' around. If I go in this time, I'm serious! Whaddaya say?
BILL: Hmmm. Well, you'd have to go gonzo on 'em. Start out with a big bang, no quarter – take no pity on any of 'em. You'd have to be slash and burn from the very start. That constituency is ready for a good swashbuckler. I suspect that would bring the numbers up right away. You'd have to keep the pressure on. If this fantasy works, and you can get up to 20 before the first debate, I think you'd have a good chance of goin' all the way.
DONALD: Wow! That sounds encouraging. But, I don't have an organization or anything – and I would have to make an announcement right away. What about the enthusiastic crowds, and all?
BILL: Well, Ted Cruz got a university to call a must-attend assembly. All you'd have t'do is stick yaw hand in yaw pocket.
DONALD: Wait – I'm beginnin' to see it! I descend majestically from an escalator in the Trump Tower. Waiting are all the adoring crowds that money can buy... Bill, you're a freakin' genius!
BILL: Ego and Filthy Lucre can kick Genius's ass any day.
DONALD: OK, OK, I'm on! See you on the campaign trail.
BILL: Lots of luck – until November of next year.
DONALD: Yeah, I get it. But, look – we never talked...
BILL: (Speaking to an aide): I thought you said there was a conference call on this line...-- Musta loss the signal...