The Rector

((Short Sketch UNCP) (2012 A.D.))

The Rector was working in his office. He appeared to be very glad to see me. We sat down beside one another on separate sofa chairs, and talked a little on the award, the Doctor Honoris Causa, the University was going to give me. A reporter from Channel Five was taking a movie, as was a University Staff. “This is the rector of the University,” he said “and the poet who is going to get the Honoris Causa! Oh how do you do, this is history in the making?” he said. We booth stood up by a table, and a person came in with juice for us. The University committee, he told us—my wife and I, and the Channel Five reporter and a few other University Staff in the Rector’s office, “The poet is a very good man I believe,” he said, “and has re-freshened our Wanka heritage, here in the Central Region of Peru—and the committee unanimously has approved his Doctor Honoris Causa.”

A few weeks later, he had taken us out for a late afternoon lunch. Myself, wife and a female university staff member. “They stole 200,000 soles,” he told me, “we could have used that for the professors.” He said. He had taken the university culprits to court, and the judge said, “It was already dismissed.” Case closed. I think he did right though, although it didn’t do any good. Of course the great thing is in such an affair—in Peru anyways—is not to get killed over such dealings, and he seemed a little unwell about the matter.
It was a very cheerful afternoon. We talked for a long while on this and that. But like all Peruvians, he wanted to go to the United States.


#884 (3-5-2012)
For JP

Long Ago Life (The Arboreal Ancestor)

The Arboreal Ancestor


From my dreams, or perhaps I can call them visions, if not mental pictures, I try to reconstruct for you, my little friends here and now, a show of that vanished world in which I do believe I’ve ventured into a thousand times or more. Perhaps even lived parallel with; one of my two worlds—who is to say which one was more real than the other—now in my old age, I do believe it is the other one that is quieter, that is to say, deader, waiting to live, to rise like the tides of the sea. Perchance it is all made of ghosts. A world full of years for me; maybe I am the only creature with two personalities merging, or about to at this time.
I was living these dreams you see, in this other world, a far-off world; all I can say is that I saw man’s existence in those far-off days—what we are becoming, or I expect—shall become. I’ve also discovered I live in what they call, ‘the mid-Pleistocene’ Yes, I’m from the trees, that part you all know, we are all from the trees, here. The best I can do with this is to call it a mental state and I’m sure they’re many. I have learned I am a remote ancestor, to them. They are right, when they say I live in trees and clutch branches—how they know this I don’t know, but I know where they live, and they live in what they call cities, and some of the city’s structures that I’ve visited, the very ones they live in, are in part, made of trees. Hence, when I am with them, I am asleep, as if falling though space. When I awake I simple remember I am their arboreal ancestor—and usually back in this here tree, where I fell to sleep, where it all started from.
I am part of the new race, my tree dwellers, my little friends, I know you do not, cannot understand this, foresee this, but through me, and those like me, the race will live on, I am assured of that now. How I acquired this reasoning—wherewith, to see light where once there was none—to explore what to me is the unnatural world in my sleep, where it takes charge of me—is still a mystery, perhaps always will be, maybe all one is allowed are strained fragments of truth—so the voice of my mind tells me this.
This all makes me a freak of nature of course—like a two headed rat: for that is what he is, because that is how he is—and in a similar manner, that is what I am, because that is how I am—if that makes any sense—we are what we are, yet we can become more; with good judgment.
Dreams can protect one, and in a like manner, they are what they are—; for some, like me, dreams also seem to process my fears, and allows me to I live in a binary world one needs to be guarded in—and so in the long run, that other kind of dream-fear, keeps me alert; even more-so while in this other world I speak of. You see, we must take advantage of all the assets we have, all the opportunities we are allowed. That is why I have allowed myself, year after year to venture into this other world. At first it’s more difficult to step into this binary, then it becomes easier and easier. When I say binary, I mean in essence, my mind consists of two parts, or components. Twofold: by and large, it is a system of numeration having as its base, me. Again, let me repeat, my being lives in two sections, having two subjects, perhaps we can see this in the stars, likewise.
These other dreams I have are simply more pronounced, deeper, and stronger, than those of my kind—you, the tree people, and some of those we call the fire people, and the stone dwellers. Yet I run like they do, but from the large snakes, the gruesome bears, the opened mouth lions: they of course have them but they are in cages; in my dreams when I go to that other world, with the cities, they have different monsters, just as deadly—yes indeed, some deadlier, I will explain in a moment.
I am a freak of heritage—yes oh yes, of some perhaps birthright, bequest—some legacy in the makings. I do not believe I have lived before, I simply have visions—the mind sees and develops. It roams through time—as if it had ripples, unto this world far-off which it has selected for me, that becomes my present, what I see is a fragment of me, parts of me. I am the ancestor of these parts. I wonder what I’d see if I could go in the opposite direction—would I climb out of the sea.
Anyhow, they call me in my dream world, ‘Long-ago life.’
To get into this dream state one must let go of the present, perhaps we can call it a stage of disassociation; blue visible echoes seem to surround me until I’m submerged while in this awkward word called disassociation. I’ve heard that word someplace—disassociation, perhaps I should call it: detachment or disconnecting: for me it means to cut off from one world to allow myself to venture into the other—if that makes for any logic.
At any rate, conceivably I am picking up transmitted memories, meaning we have already lived before we’ve lived—if this is a possibility. It all sounds corny doesn’t it? Fine, say what you will, but here I am, real and alive. I am that, which has learned the raw beginnings of my race are now, I am it, and like it or not, you are part of it.

My first dream was something like this:
There was a large space between us, between my two personalities and the two worlds—which is really one world, time separated. I did not fear that space, but it did devour me—while in my state of dreaming. There were strong forms crashing, storms I feared at first, I was unfamiliar with all this you must understand, then I learned they were war machines, cars, planes all confusing I assure you at first. There were masses of humans, like ants. The future was as much a nightmare for me as our world is for us, which they call the past— When I awoke I was still in my tree—this being the first time, I was unsure where I’d wake up.
It was all at first an untidy heap, and so I shall not impose it upon you, no need to, it’s too difficult to explain, and surely more-so in understanding. When one dreams long enough, and goes back to the same location in time and space, everything kind of straightens itself out. Familiarity breeds many things, and I could at a certain stage piece together, in proper order: this and that of this other world, the world I am trying to reconstruct for you. The very one I seemingly lived in, while in my dream state—that is to say, my second self lived in. They know all about us—these people in this other world, it is only wise to know about them, is it not?

I understand I have not framed this into a comprehensive story in the least, but I do hope, you have some kind of an understanding of those who will come after you, for when I am gone, you will need to write this on the walls of the caves—like the cave dwellers do, so your children’s children will know what to expect.
Before I close, let me just say, I had never formed friendships on these so called trips: I never seemed all that interested in doing so, although I could have, I actually learned some words of their language, not just as they call—as we do—grunts.
I do remember, on all sides of me were buildings, tall stone structures, and as I’ve already mentioned, which I shall mention again in passing: they use trees, what they call wood, cut from the trees that is, likened to the ones we live in, for solid structures within those framed stoned buildings.
And what they called trains, their sounds were like grunts of wild boars—that’s not funny, it’s the truth. The trains I can never explain, ‘seeing is believing,’ in this case.
Those first dreams I sat in a park petrified, motionless—my instinct told me to do just that: observing, while curiosity fermented inside of me. I did scream once—to hear myself possibly, I don’t know why. It is hard to describe the reaction of the people—they ran just like we run from the wild boar. I even saw an old man once, he took his teeth out of his mouth of all things, snarling at me, and he put them back in. I just made grimaces like a chimpanzee, and it frightened him. These people involuntarily bunch themselves together and mosey about here and there, much like we do, although we are not the mass they are, we are a much smaller gathering. This took the breath out of me also.
Well, it’s time for you to go down and find some food, these branches are hard on the spine and the bump, if you know what I mean, and I know you know what I mean, by your chuckling and squirming about: I also know your parents think I tell wild and tall tales—but interesting if anything, and perhaps it is better left that way—but I know one of you will carry my wondrous words and gestures and dreams forward—which one, only time will tell.

As I say, when you leap, be careful of the overhanging branch with your hands. Never forget, the boars have clashing tusks, one instant they are there, the next they are not. At any rate, I must remind you of this, lest your parents blame me for not informing you—we are only a dozen feet from the ground, I’ll have you know. Hold on with one hand, onto the branch, and drop to the ground in safety. Sometimes when I tell these tales you get so very excited, forget what world you live in. I am not scolding you, just so stop gnashing your teeth, there are no angry beasts to peer down upon as of yet, and I am one of you. Unless one of you have saw one approaching, and you have not indicated so.
What’s that you gesture?
I failed to describe these apes?
No we are the apes; they are—oh well, they are nothing like us, and we are nothing like them—oh, I suppose I shouldn’t say nothing like us. But they are not anything on earth or under the earth, as we know it to be.
Describe the old man, you gesture?
Well, let me try quickly, if in fact I can: he was large; the old man was large, much larger than us, perhaps two-hundred pounds, in comparison; as we are no more than a hundred and thirty pounds at our most. Our faces are broader and flat and our eyebrows hang over our eyes more than his did. Yes, it is the eyes, or much of it I should say, is in the eyes. We have a very, very little nose compared to them, or in this case, the old man. They have a nose like a beak from a wild bird. It is long and pert near reaches their mouth. Don’t laugh; this is what your future children will look like. We have no bridge for the nose; they have a bridge you can leap off of. And how they breathe through those little nostrils, I’ll never know.
The forehead you gesture how is the forehead? That’s a good question.
Yes, that too is a trying dilemma to describe, but I will try: it is not slanted like ours—not slanted back from the eyes that is, and they have big, and I mean big heads, for such skinny necks—they are like big busy trees with little stems on them. How they balance them is surely a miracle. But perhaps the air holds theirs in place somehow: thicker air perhaps.
On the other hand, we have thick and short necks, in comparison. Gosh if they couldn’t walk erect, they’d have to carry those heads from here to there.
They are if anything, small shouldered beasts, clean looking, although the old man was not, but I doubt he represents the majority of these advanced people, without beauty, and little strength.
We are much more hairy than they are, but they live in framed structures, we don’t, they don’t need a hairier body, we do. And their legs are longer than their arms, unlike us. That is perhaps because of the trees, and the stretching we do. They walk flat on their feet; it is hard for us to do this, in long periods. Their toes, believe it or not, are in line with one another, especially the great toe. This is perhaps why they can walk flat.
On another subject, I would miss I guess, the leaping from limb to limb, if I had to live in their world for any length of time.
I can see the old man now, waking up on the park bench, walking under the trees as if he was once, one of us, howling from that drink he drinks, called alcohol: howling like we do, when the boar chases us. Yes, he drinks the blood of the boar. And then he is like us, with rage, pausing now and again to beat his chest with his clenched fists, again much like we do. But he hesitates, unlike we do, and he is at a loss of what to do next, unlike we are, we cannot afford to be like him—unguarded.
Now you all must move your muscles, the surge and thrill of the leaping is required. You’ve kept me much too long in the tree talking.
You ask again, what do the children do?
I think they swing axes and chop down trees. To be honest, I’ve never seem them to much, I just made that up, they are for the most part lazy, but that is the way they are taught.


#885 (3-5-2012) Written between 10:00 p.m., and 1:26 a.m.) Couldn’t sleep; morning reediting, 10:30 to 12:30 a.m.

The Granulate Hotel Episode

(Abysmal Terror, in ’99) Written in Lima, Peru, 1-10-2009; based on similar events taken place at the time
(Rewritten as ‘Resurrecting Jonathan’, 11/2011)



He had listened to the voice without interrupting. He was speaking to him slowly, and as his voice faded, his body seemed thicker than a wall, and the man’s voice sent back an occasional echo.
He regarded himself as frozen in place; thus, the young man was forced to listen—; consequently, without embarrassment. Otherwise, he’d not been able to tell the police the part of this story he endured. The rest of the story the girl across the hall, and the police would fill in upon his resurrection.

It was a stranger’s path he had crossed that afternoon, in a bar, in Miraflores, Lima, and an American male with two Peruvian friends, feeling no need to shoo away the company. He didn’t know he’d be wrapped in the anonymous cloak of a strange scheme; these three were up to something. And when he’d cast off the cloak of darkness, removing the unknown, such things are never brought back to its normality, and life never the same.
The waiter informed the young American, pointed out to him—one of the three men put something into his drink, then they all three up and left the bar. What the waiter did not tell him was that there were three other persons, a man and two women also interested in him in the bar (not knowing of course their intent).
The two women were rather on the hefty and broad side; they had blue jeans on, both had a medical bag, both under thirty years old. They rather looked alike, yet didn’t clash.
The man had his back turned away from the waiter, and Jonathan.
“I thought it would interest you,” said the waiter, “because I heard you speaking English, with the two Peruvians.”
Involuntarily Jonathan exchanged a glance with one of the two hefty women, followed by a look of near stale indifference by her, as if she couldn’t care less. He then looked cautiously, peering around the room in all directions, and within his head, the voices within the bar, seemingly turned into whispers, innumerable near silent exchanges.

Within the following fifteen minutes, He discovered himself at his four star hotel opening up his door to his room His head in miseries.
It was imperceptible, impossible closing of his eyelids. He heard voices over him—without the slightest sign of interest to his moaning.
“We know who you are,” said a woman’s voice, “bring me smaller seizers,” she told her female accomplice, as she continued to do whatever she was doing, calmly.
“Where’s … (a pause) said the first voice to the accomplice, making a gesture.
“He’s guarding the door,” said the accomplice.
They needed less than an hour in the apartment; dusk had fallen, and the windows and curtains had been closed by the male. Also the man by the door had turned off all the lights, all but the one by the bed, where Jonathan lay paralyzed as the operation took place.

Had anyone rang, it wouldn’t have mattered, Jonathan couldn’t have answered—but Georgina from across the hall had seen all, everything, and called the police, but she knew it would take them hours to come, if they came at all. They seldom took such calls serious (and more often than not, they were not the solution, rather part of the problem).
For half an hour she sat waiting, listening to the sounds from across the hall. Immense feelings of dread, loss came over her, helplessness, it wasn’t painful I mean, more like a dim shadow creeping over her from under the door across the hall, into her room, she felt as if she wanted to swallow up the police for not showing up. That whatever they were doing to him, they could do to her, to anyone without regard for their liberties.
And in the mist of all this, Jonathan, in helpless desolation, became empty inside, weighting less than before. And the next step would sink the scales of repair probability into the sea, forevermore lost.

“Fill them up with gauze!” said the hefty surgeon, to her accomplice.
The man was half asleep leaning against the door, wakened by the sound of voices on the street, and then they disappeared into the entrance of the hotel.
“Be quick,” said the surgeon. “We can go now,” she added in the second moment.
“We’ll meet in San Juan Miraflores,” said the man, “I left my suitcase there at the Hostel, near the ‘Cristo Redentor’ church and park next to it, around the corner, under the name Garcia.
“Pay your bill and go to another hotel, call me on the cell then,” said the Surgeon.

They went out the back door of the hotel unseen, except for the eyes of the neighbor across the hall. The police showed up, a warm feeling came over Georgina. She opened the door, the layer of paleness that had stretched out over her face, stilled showed, but her eyes sparkled.
“Something was going on in that apartment, I saw one man and two men enter and leave, they’ve been in there for a bit over an hour with a young gringo, what took you so long?” she questioned, knowing she was not going to get an answer, and just a stare which
The police did not reply as expected, as was normal practice for them, and knocked on the door as she the young female kept talking, as if the whole matter involved a murder. Then the door opened, it hadn’t been locked.
A foot inside the door she muttered words that sounded like a prayer. When the police turned on the lights, she held her breath; the young man was laying on his bed, on his back, bandages over his eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” she questioned the police.
They knew now what had taken place, it didn’t baffled hem, as it had Georgina.
Jonathan, druggy, slow in motion, trying to get his senses back, life his body upward with what strength in his hands he had left, said, “Whose here, what’s going on?” Then leaning his back against the backboard of the bed, his mind reactivated from his hour long, and slightly dimmed hangover, came out of his dilemma. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded and shouted; now feeling the gauze over his eyes; Tarring the gauze and its holding tape out from his eye sockets.
“Please calm down young man,” said one of the officers, he new what had taken place; it was a new kind of business going on.
Georgina fainted, the surgeon had stolen his eyes, they would within a short period of time sell them on the black market.

#834 Originally written in 2008, and rewritten in a shorter version 11/24/2011, based on actual events taking place in 2006, in Lima, Peru, fictionalized here by the author.

Through the Eyes of the Dead (A Minnesota Story)

Opening: “I’ve held this story back somewhat, had put it into limbo for the most part, for most people do not know of my experiences in the way of Second Sight, or indeed of the phenomenon itself. Neither in Europe nor America does such a belief prevail (although they believe in a God they cannot see, and miracles of long ago, and the devil made me do it axiom). Most folk’s think, something has turned the brain, when someone shares such an experience. Therefore, I shall not try to convince the reader one way or another, let it rest under science fiction if indeed it gets better reception. But nonetheless, I shall place it under fiction, for my own journals. I shall try to write it in a form of poetic prose, thus allowing the reader to feel the depth of the story.” Dlsiluk


The Story


I could never again by closing my eyes, have seen anything of which the eyes of my soul had rested upon, and they were open, it was death.

It was strange indeed. It all seemed composed of dark patches of fog like crystal. In and amongst the trees I rested, the darted mysterious unexplained dark, moved ceaselessly outside my shell, within the bleak winter branches of a tree (it was December, 1963). I could not see–but rather feel and sense, even lightly hear, the water of the river below me, the wind above and the current below the ice—invariably, moving on their course. All was clear, as though I was looking out of a bubble. Every sound was laid bare; yet awareness sank deep into my mind.
It all appeared to be a dual consciousness.
Whatever I was before the accident was not plain and real. Yet not for a moment did I lose my identity: I knew I was where I was.

My automobile had crashed onto the thin, but solid ice of the Mississippi River, over rocks, down an embankment of thirty feet, through trees, now it rested on the river under a cliff. And my dead body lay halfway out of the crashed vehicle on the driver’s side.
There was some divine guiding element which had taken hold of the event; guided from the moment of impact—so I believe.
I took careful scrutiny of all things: the bright lights that passed, on the narrow road, to the far-off left of me, the very road that had brought me to this point in destiny, or providence, or call it luck—although that road felt evilly, and if it was, if the devil himself had planted that patch of ice the car slid on, and zoomed straight forward over the cliff onto the river, again I say, it was fate, saintly fate, that took over, it was a perfect outcome that is, for a deadly disaster.
The moon’s position, crude as it was with its light, likened to an oil lamp—with its thick smoky wick, made the night gloomy.
From this I passed forefront, that is to say, halfway outside of the dilapidated 1953 Desoto. At this point my body was lying halfway out of the front seat of the car onto the ice, and halfway inside of the car. To my far right, lay Ralph, my comrade, asleep, more like knockout. He looked pale and wan. It made my heart dreary to see his body crushed in-between iron and steel and fabric. The old Desoto was half the size it originally was. But there was breath coming out of his mouth and nostrils; fixed resolutions. Knowing him as I did, I cried, silently, “You’re alive,” burned into my lungs and heart. I did not need to guess.
His side of the door was locked. The inside door hinge or bolt, was stuck. The key did not open it. I would have lingered, but the cracking ice and the freezing cold, and the drifting snow compelled me to find a crowbar in the trunk of the car, forcing the door open. Whereat, I moved him out. He was of medium frame, with a light wound on his forehead.

A fog hung thick over the top of the trees, was seeping downward, dropping to several feet above the ice, all around; the vast cold air, and the rising depths of the cold water below me, were freezing the upper and lower parts of my body, I had lost one shoe also.
So far as the mind can think, in such situations, possibilities lay open.
The floor of the river still under me, my iron and steel-bound automobile, my Desoto lying heavily on the ice, the ice cracking, making designs like a giant spider web, all such marked a bleak picture, perhaps an unwelcoming ending.
Then as I had pulled Ralph from the car, he awake.
Far away were several car lights—headlights. A few miles out, were house lights—windows lit up, like dots. Slowly we moved off the ice, a tide of relief, for surely the car would sink sooner than later. But that which drew my eyes, once on the road as to a magnet draws to iron, was the clumsily shifting, the zigzagging of smoke from chimneys. Outwardly, only a few hundred yards away.

#845 (12/29/2011)

Through Old Spectacles: The Jail (Poetic Prose)

There is a common compulsion (duress) to a floor of a jail (perhaps a prison). A tang or aftertaste, of the herded, and their smell: a craze caused by a drumming against a door, a crazed drumming: the compulsion of abandonment.
There is an occasional and stylistic strangeness about a jail cell, its iron doors, and its clang. Corridors are like alleys, rare passages that slowly decay the flesh. A new-world in pedigree, for the rare-breed, —it is all timelessness. You never adopt—to this drama (which often, too often, you may describe as a dream—count the days), describe as a story as it were, where exists a fifth wall to the room you’re in, which would otherwise be a stage (and is in your dream) with a backdrop, a deep one, where if only one had wings, could escape (and perhaps one does develop them for a moment for flick of an eyelash).
Here presents the on stage of enforced unnatural restlessness, movements regulated of the incarcerated. Here comes together inmates, people who would never by any other chance have got to know each other—; where resides no common bond, class or opinion that will be allowed to harden.
You battle down the nausea, avoid the hyenas. Better than this you learn your psychological limits, for in this environment: in its alleys and cells, and behind its never ending walls, there are all kinds of animals: the Fighters, the Judas’, Mr. Clean, the Fixer, the Bully, the man that peeks over your shoulder, to see if he can…seditious minds; many not susceptible to psychological analysis, too indefinable, the etcetera.
All in all, one becomes so utterly un-at-ease while just waiting for the axe to fall, or the door to open, metaphorically speaking.

#3362 (12/30/2011)

Marble Cold

(or ‘Grandpa’s Wooden Pipe and Gunsmoke’)



Grandpa Anton, he took a match and he looked at me (I was sitting on the coach, parallel to his sofa chair, eleven years old) and he looked me, then turning away struck the match on his shoe with a quick pompous gesture, drew heavily on his wooden pipe, then at last—shot a puff of smoke into the air— and then another and another until the tobacco was red hot inside the chimney of the pipe. Satisfied, he continued on, his right hand gasping the pipe, between his index and second finger, resting the side of his palm on the sofa chair, his legs now halfway crossed, his small body pressed backward into the softness of the chair, a wee unshaven. He mumbles in a confidential tone of one who relates to an unbelievable moment of quiet—the television in front of him, no more than four feet away, he’s watching ‘Gunsmoke’ (he loves cowboy movies); it’s nine o’clock in the evening. At this moment his thumb moves, he’s checking the stuffed burning tobacco in his pipe, so do I—but from a distance. I think he sees me from the corner of his eye, trying to see the red hot burning tobacco, it’s crimson in color a sharp crimson like volcanic lava, he’s marble cold about all this, he’d be a good poker player, now that I think of it.

He lowers his pipe, leans forward, stretching his neck, his eyes fixated on the movie, looking as if for the first time.

Of me, he asks no favors, only expects me to be quiet. It always seems so desolate when he and I, and at times my older brother watch late television together. Although I get a few little pinches and pulls from, and odd looks from Mike, he gets bored easily, and then grandpa gives the evil eye to us—woops, not us, to me, his favorite is Mike.
As I look back now, I remember gazing stupidly at him, grandpa, wanting to say: ‘It’s Mike’s fault!’ but I say nothing, he’d not believe me anyhow—plus, he’d become a jerky texture of muscles, who seemingly would like to eat me up for a snack during intermission.

In any case, for this brief moment in time, Grandpa has escaped the natural world, and the entire world is better for it, especially me. Now he gets up, without a word—marble cold, ‘Gunsmoke’ is over, I’m sure you’ve already guessed that, and gets into bed—; thus, I have rendered to Caesar what is Caesar’s.

#847 (12/29/2011) cc

The Arms of Heaven

(From: "The Books behind Methuselah")((Written: 1656-years After Adam)


It is said by Enoch and Methuselah that men came into the world in the time of the shadow of the serpent, and they fell swiftly under his dominion; for he sent his emissaries among them: Azaz’el (Angelic Watcher), Lilith & Asmodeus (Lilith married Asmodeus, the king of Demons), Agaliarept (The Henchman of Hell or Sheol) Naamah (the angelic whore of heaven conceived while Adam was married to Lilith), Nephilim (decedents of the Watchers, the Giants of Old), King Og (King of the Nephilim).The Nachash
or, Burning Ones, Shinning Ones (equal to the serpents, originally from the Angelic order, a very High order, said to have had sexual relations with Eve, which produced Cain, and the seed that infected Adam’s line thereafter) and the Goat like Demon, to mention a few. And they all listened to this evil one and his cunning words, and they worshipped the foundation of the demonic world, and feared it. But there were a number of those who turned from evil and left the lands of their kindred, and kept their distance; for they knew of a rumor, that being, Yahweh was going to dim the world with the arms of heaven; these were the days of Methuselah, of which he lived 969-years.
The servants of the Nachash, pursued them with abhorrence, and their lives were short and hard, Enoch hid in caves, and Methuselah, the son of Enoch became king of those who followed Yahweh. And there was war among the Giants, the Sons of the Watchers, and war among the common men, and there were great deeds of velour.
And in those last days before Yahweh was going to dim the world, it was written in the ‘Books of Methuselah’ of which he copied from his father’s 365-scrolls, it told how at the last, victory of Nachash was almost complete, whereupon, Noah, the grandson of Methuselah, built a ship, and people laughed at him for how could he take a voyage upon the unassailable sands of which his ship rested.
Yet Noah desired to speak before the powers of the earth on behalf of Yahweh, that he might have pity on them. But he achieved not his quest after long labors and many threats, and their came a host of kings who had scoured him, for arrogant assumption.
Thus, the Great Flood came, and Nachash was overthrown and the earth broken and men fought to get into the great ship that Noah had built. Evil men, who were still untamed and lawless, refusing the command to cast away the shadow of the serpent, and the fear of the demonic world, but they stayed with their kings: forsook a time of grace, refused the summons of Yahweh, to dwell in darkness: and as a result, demons and dragons, and misshaped men-beasts, and all mockeries of Yahweh, perished, the whole lot of mankind unsaved.

But Yahweh put forth his Seraphim (The highest known rank of angels) and shut the Watchers, beyond the world, in the Prison House for Angelic Beings (beyond Orion), that is without, light, and they cannot themselves return again into the world present and visible, yet some fled to be enthroned, on other worlds, such as Enceladus (Saturn’s moon) Europa
(Contained by Aliens: Jumper’s moon), and other places among the stars. Yet the seeds that they had planted still grew and sprouted, after the flood, the Nephilim (decedents of the Watchers, the Giants of Old were still among the world’s order), bearing evil fruit, and many did tend them. For it was King Og, who hid in Noah’s ship, and guided his giant servants, moving them ever towards spoil and battle, the will of their forefathers, and Nachash, the evil serpent. And those after the flood, who did not follow, or obey them, were destroyed.
The kings of those lands knew full well, they had counsel concerning the ages before, and now after, Gilgamesh among them ((half human, and of half supernatural: born of the demonic race, a hybrid of the Watchers)(a Sumerian: and as most Sumerians believed in those far-off days, to be from a supernatural origin)).
And there was in that land a haven, know as the Circle of Refaim, where a caste of giants lived, as well as in Jericho, the clan being Rephaim (among others), whose name came from Rapha, a noble one among them, the father of many giants, faithful; he came to them and taught them, and he gave them wisdom and power and life a mortal race that possessed the sins of their forefathers.


#848 (1-1-2012)