The Dolphin King

In the darkest hour
In the deepest place
I speak these words to you
Time cannot erase

Of my drowning need
I want you to see
Yes, this dolphin boy
Swimming desperately

On and on I go
Fins and skin so tight
I swim hard enough
Reach you 'for the night

It has closed us in--
Round and round I go
I will see you there
I want you to know

And I promise you
I refuse to fail
'Cause the dolphin king
Screams we will prevail

So I swim around
Swinging back and forth
As my dorsal fin
Helps me on the coarse

Almost there by now
As I see the light
Nothing stronger than
Dawn within the night

Oh my god, I say
As I reach you there
And I rub my fins
Deeply through your hair

Combing out the pain
Reptiles put you through
But believe me now
And my love for you

I have found you here
And it feels so right
No more pain I say
In the morning light

Shining off my skin
And upon your face
From the darkest hour
To my deepest place.

November 1st, 2009 - Upon Which My Oversoul Speaks

You can look at everything in two ways: it has meaning, or it is meaningless. It is intentional—or it is random. And most of the time, you have difficulty deciding which is which, because when you review an event that has happened to you and you twist it around in your head as if it were a cube in your hand, you can see it both ways---laced with purpose, or you can see all that purpose as just wishful thinking. Why did this happen to me? You wonder—hoping that it wasn’t all for nothing. The fact of the matter is, because you can look at things in your life in such a fashion, you get confused, depressed, because you don’t necessarily want it to be a choice—you want it to be true—there is purpose or there is none. But it is a choice. And it is this choice of interpretation that I have spent the past couple months exploring in detail only to open my eyes to something I have never before considered: the oversoul.

Most individuals need their meaning handed to them on a stick, which is why you get things like dream dictionaries and tarot card readings from ‘the professionals’ and preachers explaining why good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people. Other individuals need to invent their own meaning, and they do so without remorse, without guilt, without thinking their own ‘made up’ meaning is any cheaper than the one handed to them by some higher presence. But a third option is also possible: the external presence that hands out meaning like cotton candy is the same exact presence as the internal one, just on a different level. I mean, there are millions of external sources that you could turn to in order to receive your meaning…so your selection of which external source you listen to…is almost impossible to separate from the internal one that generates meaning from apparently nothing.

The external meaning is one that you wear, as if you are an actor in someone else’s script—the internal meaning is one that puts clothes on itself—it is fine being its own script. The internal one can look at the events in life and say, you know what? This whole place is run by reptilians. The external one says, tsk tsk, you silly fool—there are no lizard people—that is just your own active imagination as it does not want to take responsibility for the planet. It is your own cry to get into politics and fix that which is broken—but believing in the lizard people gives you an excuse not to fix things for yourself and your children. It is a cry of lazyness--not of revelation.

So who is right? The external source, or the internal? It is a choice—so which do you choose? You don’t want to be wrong—but when you choose, you head down a slippery slope—in either direction. Is there any way to reconcile?

I believe there is.

Let’s just imagine, for instance, that you are making both of them up. Since you can select an internal meaning, and you can select an external meaning, why are they any different? You can apply beliefs of a buddhist or catholic or christian or satanist…and you can come up with meanings that match one from a buddhist or catholic or christian or satanist. And since both are a selection…you are both defining your own god…as your god defines you. And since you are defining each other, that would imply that both your god, and that god’s current instantiation—is you. You are thus your own meaning…both externally applied and internally invented. Like..two strands of RNA which, combined, make DNA. Life. And through such activity in your mind, life has purpose because you and your oversoul are giving it that purpose.

So, what do I mean when I say that I am an instantiation? Well, take a look at astrology. There are twelve signs of the zodiac, and you are currently one of them. You more or less take on the qualities of your sign—if you want, but you don’t have to. It is a choice, and in the center of that choice is a neutral core, attempting to know itself.But the outer shell which could be a Capricorn or a Leo or an Aries this time around gives you an inclination to be a certain way, as if, in this life, the scales are tipped ever so slightly to bring about a new variation—out of a much more long term “you.” And it is this long term you which is going through all the variations that is the oversoul. That is who you answer to—yourself, on a much higher level. At the end of this life, your body collapses, and what escapes heads straight to the center as the oversoul prepares yet another incarnation which will help it to know itself.

While it is doing this, while you are going through this life…it watches from the center, an all-seeing eye, peering from behind, giving you suggestions, but its language is much more evolved than these words or the words that you use on a day-to-basis. It manifests itself to you only through symbolism that you alone feel is meaningful and powerful. For instance, recently I wrote an article about the symbol, in Hebrew, for the phrase “in the beginning” which aligns itself perfectly with the symbol for Gilgamesh that also talks about the origin of man. And it is this very symbol which I am absolutely overwhelmed by as I am currently residing in Minneapolis, the world headquarters of “Target” whose symbol is everywhere. I cannot escape it. That is the symbol for Gilgamesh, and when I see the symbol, I do not think I am making it up---I feel an oversoul is making me notice, which is why I’m here. If you say that is just wishful thinking, then you don’t understand the relationship between the oversoul and the self—both, combined, create meaning, because there is no other meaning. When I look around and see Gilgamesh everywhere, reminding me of the origin of man, couldn’t it also be telling me something important about myself and where I am at with everything in my life at the same time? I don’t just think so--I know so.


So when you look around yourself and see meaning in otherwise trivial things, maybe instead of fighting it and assuming nothing has meaning and it is all random nonsense, you should, instead, give in to it, and allow yourself to experience the meaning, even if you feel you are making it all up. You and your oversoul, combined, are inventing everything yourself based on what you two notice and call out as being important. By not doing so robs yourself of the ability to manifest meaning and purpose—without which, there truly is none.

October 25th, 2009 - Burn

My oversoul burns with intensity, strength, desire, unmatched--

Peeling back the pages in brown curls of fire as your eyes try soaking it up

Before it all disappears—Can’t you feel it? Right here? And here?

These are words that anyone could have written!

But, because I am the one to write them,

Feel chilling, alarming, and true.

Down your spine and back once again--

A snake wrapping itself around your vertebrae.

Write them out yourself! They don’t feel the same as they do on this page, do they?

They must slip from the ends of my fingers, not yours!

To all my captors--you have caught nothing!

For all you can do is laugh, and feel that this laughter knows.

It knows nothing!

It is hollow, echoing off of empty chambers—where inside of me, there is substance--

Power.

The bright red blood in my veins are the perfect match for anyone who needs it!

And that blood inside of me lights up the crevices of each of these letters as you read

Quickly, then slowly, shivering, afraid to exhale, waiting for the next word.

This is no mistake…this is why I do as I have done in this life--and the next, and the next!

You could light up tombs with these words!

Eternal lamps in the crypts of kings.

My strength! My power! My spirit! Masks itself behind weakness,

Addiction,

Vulnerability,

Chaos.

It has done this before--

To gather air into its mighty lungs--

And use it to summon hurricanes for demons who believe they are waiting

For mere whimpers of agony.

They will get none from me.

And they will get none from you.

Mark my words—you will need my breath, my lungs, my wind, my spirit.

Do not be deceived by the weakness you’ve seen in me.

Be afraid of it.

***

Dedication: For those who needed to read these words at this very moment. You know who you are, why I have written them, what they mean, and how it feels. It is bright, bold--beautiful. Burn.

October 18th, 2009 - Sunday

I opened my window
And what did I see?
The Sun up above
Beaming shamelessly.

"Where have you been?"
He said with a grin--
"When your windows are shut
They won't let me in."

I know, my old friend,
I needed my space--
The dark is an expanse
That your rays erase.

"Oh, how very true!
But help me decide,
What space did you need
That I do not provide?"

Well, nothing is certain
In the dark, it is clear,
Uncertainty means
An absence of fear.

For, what is behind you?
And what is before?
And what are you missing
When there's nothing more?

When your feelings are pitch,
Your soul dark without sight,
When your senses, oblivious--
You're at peace in the night.

"Ah, what beautiful logic!"
Said the Sun with a smile,
"I miss your perception--
It's been awhile."

"Every word that you speak,
All these thoughts that you see,
Never stop for a second
To share them with me."

"For nothing is certain,
Just be who you are,
Yes, I am the Sun!
But you are my star."

"So open your window
And soak in the shine,
Reflect all your secrets--
And I'll reflect mine."

Yes, Sunday it is,
So Sunday shall be
When the windows are open,
And my truth is set free.

August 19th, 2009 - Upon Which I Killed Hitler for the Jews

Years ago I ran across a question in a book called Fuzzy Logic while I was a teen. The simple (and often used) premise was that there is no black and white—only subtle shades of gray, and we should keep this in mind while we form all of our thoughts about reality. To illustrate the concept in the book, a simple question was asked: at which point does someone become bald? If you have one hair left, most would still consider you bald. If you have two hairs left, bald. Ten, bald. But what about 6,000? 10,000? 100,000? Then you’re not so bald anymore. As such, the concept of baldness is pretty fuzzy and indistinct. In fact, when you break it down enough, you’re not sure exactly when someone becomes bald, but you still have the ability to think using the term “bald.”

Using this same conceptual framework, I tried applying it to all sorts of things at the time, such as the term “Christian”, or “Jew”. At which point does one become a Christian? At which point does one become a Jew? I truly enjoyed the thought process and shared it with my friends because I was a somewhat rebellious Christian who thought everyone in my church were idiots. For instance, I would ask them this question and they would say you became a Christian if you professed your faith that Jesus Christ is the Lord God and are baptized in the holy waters of life. But then what if you don’t attend church for the rest of your life? What if you renounce your faith? What if you just don’t do what you’re supposed to? Compare that to another who does attend church, never renounces his faith, and does what he believes he is supposed to do. In their mental struggles, they attempted to define something of permanence which would be acceptable, but they failed because there is no permanence to a fuzzy idea.

I know people’s mental Christian defenses are probably getting raised by that example--so let’s turn to the Jews. What makes you Jewish? Is it a materialistic thing that you wear like a necklace, or is it something else? Are you really Jewish or do you just take on the qualities of being Jewish in some way, shape, or form? You can be a non-practicing Christian, so you can just as easily be a non-practicing Jew. In fact, the more you think about it, the more you realize that a ‘Jew’ or a ‘Christian’ seems more like a metaphysical glove that you wear vs. some inherent quality of your body and soul. You represent the tenants of your faith as much as possible by walking the walk and talking the talk, but those tenants are not a physical thing that is glued to you, and are not even a part of who you really are—they are just more or less a framework, a guide, a mapping of activities, a structure. A shape on the wall formed by some flashlight that can be moved on to any other wall.

Furthermore, the laws of either a Christian or Jew is up for spurious amounts of interpretation. There are millions of opinions inside and outside the core of these faiths with various ideas and concepts on how one must live to be a Jew and to be a Christian. When confronted by these, most people make a choice as to which interpretations one should follow. As such, you can see these different interpretations as a multitude of gloves of various sizes and shapes that you can wear, all proclaiming to be the one true metaphysical Jew, or the one true metaphysical Christian. You wear what fits—or wear what you can handle—but the glove is not you and it will never be you because you cannot be the act—you are the one doing the acting. You are the actor or the actress.

Now let’s say you are Hitler. How would you go about killing these Jews when ‘Jew’ is actually a metaphysical term much like baldness? How do you kill the concept of Jew? How do you kill the concept of Christianity? And for those more conspiracy-minded, how do you kill the concept of the New World Order? When I think of someone attempting to do so, I think of a laser pointer being shined on the wall, and a cat trying to catch it under its paws—in this case, the cat is Hitler and what he is doing is impossible because these concepts are not made of particles that you can get rid of by burning them alive. Not only are people more or less Jews, more or less Christians, more or less New World Order enthusiasts—all of these are just gloves that these people can more or less wear. As such, you can’t get rid of them any more or less than you can get rid of a shape that someone is perceiving while staring at a cloud. You can kill all of the people in the world, and a few years down the line, someone will reform the shape you tried to stop seeing, and slip into it once again like that forgotten glove.

You cannot get rid of any concept because those things that you are really trying to get rid of don’t exist anywhere other than inside your own mind that you have used to etch out its shape within the ever-changing currents of infinity. As such, if Hitler were really trying to get rid of the idea of Jew, his strategy was about as effective as burning all things that are colored green to get rid of green. It’s there…it’s a concept…it’s stuck here forever. Deal with it.

And this also goes for those who claim that they can get rid of the New World Order, or end secrecy. You cannot get rid of them because they are concepts, and although you can see people who are more or less secretive, you cannot stop them from being so. You shall never stop plots and networks and brotherhoods and secret oaths—you can only understand, recognize, and think with or without their precepts and moral principles. You cannot prevent secrecy any more than Hitler could have prevented the return of the concept of Jew, or the end to the color green. If you were to try, you would be the one to create the dystopian world defined by George Orwell…you would make a Big Brother of your own--to prevent a Big Brother. Your government buildings would be glass, everything would be bugged, people would be naked and frisked. You, in your prevention of secrets, would destroy all life, all covenants and bonds between each other—and you would do so believing that it is right, that it is good. Just as Hitler did while he tried to kill all the Jews.

If mankind were to look around and see everything as concepts, as male and female as concepts, as life and death as concepts, as love between one another as concepts—they would realize that nothing anywhere at any time is set in stone for eternity, that this is all just an idea that we’re all having which invents reality just as much as it utilizes it. We would all become co-creators, knowing that our history is just as much a fluid thing as our future. What we pay attention to in our past, what we focus on, creates it the way we want it to have been. What we pay attention to, or will pay attention to in the future, creates it the way we want it to be. We do not need a media to agree with us, or for there to be no secrecy to enjoy the world—because the media is just an idea—we are all ideas. And it is an idea that we stand behind and honor and hold up as truth, just as much as something we chase around and try to kill with our paws. It is the light and structure of those ideas which are invincible. Like you and me and our eternal spiritual core that can draw anything it wants, at any time, slip into this idea or that idea, and try it out for awhile, before slipping in to something else, either at ‘death’, or just on a momentary whim over a burger at Wendy’s.

To get rid of any idea that is killing us—stop having it. We, as co-ideas, simply choose to shift perspectives. And the night comes. And a new day arrives as we look up in the sky and see something new in the clouds. We are co-inhabiting ideas here, and as such, co-creators, in this matrix-like world of the dream and no-dream. And in my dream, my world—I do not need to look at you, recognize you, invent you. I turn my back on the New World Order, on Hitler--I glance away. We shall never again see each other eye to eye. Because to me, you no longer exist. I do not have to chase you. I do not have to kill you and whatever bodies you currently inhabit. This is oblivion. And it is my gift to you as the powerful wind within me arrives, fills up its lungs, and blows all of those devastating thoughts and ideas of you away.

DaBrunzell, DaBrunzell, Let Down Your Beard

Written By:
Jeff Behnke The Beardful & Dennis Brunzell The Beardless

Publisher's Note: This is a work of non-fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this story are non-fictitious, and any resemblance to fake people or non-events is purely coincidental.


Chapters 1 to 53

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, lived an aging man named DaBrunzell who was difficult to contact, primarily because introductions such as this imply that there are no telephone wires hanging up on poles every couple of feet. Nor were there any fiber optic cables buried underground, specified by little yellow and orange flags in odd spots with writing on it that said things like, “Fiber Optic Cable Below.” Probably because if someone had placed an optical cable in the ground and specified its location by a flag, no one would have appreciated it nor understood why they were being informed of such strange technology in such a strange manner. So…there weren’t any wires on telephone poles, nor were there any fiber optic cables….and there was a strange atmosphere in this land as well that affected all possible incoming satellite signals, so everyone was screwed in that way, also.

Like I said, he was difficult to contact, but that’s not really what is important, although the implication of my previous paragraph implies that it is. Nay, I say! Just forget I mentioned it, and instead, as the camera in your mind’s eye flies in, watch as it focuses on some bird swooping in to his property—‘cause lands far away have birds--watch as it swoops down and perches on his windowsill, and observe as the camera finishes its strange trek, ending real close to the non-stubbles on DaBrunzell’s face. Yes! Finally, after all that talking, we get to the most important part of our story—

“Honey, Why can’t I grow a beard?”

That was DaBrunzell if you hadn’t figured it out by now. And DaBrunzell also has a…

“Why would you want to grow a beard?”

Wife. MaBrunzell.

DaBrunzell picked up the side of his face and stared at the tiny stubbles sticking out. He flexed his jaw, possibly to help coax out some shadow that his eyes had missed.

“I just really need one.”

“Not for me, you don’t.”

“No, just—I want to see what my face looks like with a beard.”

“Just get a marker or something.”

Because in this land, although they do not have fiber optic cables or satellites or telephone poles, they have markers.

“What’s a marker?”

“You know…those color changing sticks. If you rub it on something, it changes the color of that something. Magically.”

“But I don’t want to change the color of my face, I want a beard.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Lots. Hair, for one. No magic sticks, for two. One’s natural. The other is not so natural.”

“You know how difficult it is to kiss a man with a beard?”

DaBrunzell raised his eyebrow. “Probably equally as difficult to kiss a man with marker all over his face. No, tell me how difficult it is for you to kiss men who have beards.”

“I am just saying.”

“You’re just saying--or just admitting?”

“Saying.”

“Did you just sigh at me?”

“You’re being silly. I am now a kisser of other men, am I?”

DaBrunzell continued to stare at the mirror instead of turning his head to face his wife, almost like he was wearing a neck brace designed to help him find stubble. “Well, bearded ones, anyway. And you’re a keeper of the beardless! Why can’t I try to grow a beard? Did you poison me in my sleep?”

“Your father could never grow a beard, his father could never grow a beard, and the father before that probably could not grow a beard. Don’t blame my cooking.”

“Uncle Sam grew a beard.”

“Your Uncle SAMANTHA ended up seeing that wizard who turned him into a woman, and then HE lost his beard. It’s in your family. Deal with it.”

“I don’t want to deal with it. I just want a beard.”

“Maybe that wizard who helped your Uncle Samantha out could help you, too, then. Maybe he’ll turn you into…DaBeardzell, by making you drink the potions he gave your Uncle Sam, but you’ll have to drink them all in reverse.”

DaBrunzell stopped staring at himself a second, considered. “I suppose I could.”

“Oh, come on, you’re not seriously considering—“

“Getting a beard? Becoming more of a man? Well, my dear, I think that’s quite obvious.”

“No! Seeing that cooky wizard who wears those funny hats with…feathers and…weird colored robes, and…for all we know, he could make ALL your hair fall out forever and ever, and your children’s children won’t have eyebrows, and you’ll look so hideous the birds will stop singing.”

“That’s conjecture. His magic seems to have a good track record.”

“But what’s in his magic that makes it so magical? That’s what worries me. Just use magic markers. They’re much safer.”

“It’s a secret potion that he’d give me, probably. Actually, I won’t know until I talk to him. I guess I’ll see him…well, this afternoon—Oh geezus!”

The bird on the windowsill that flew into the window with us and your mind’s eye suddenly flittered away, startling DaBrunzell.

“What? What was it?” His wife called out.

DaBrunzell put a hand to his heart as his wife ran the rest of the way up the stairs that rose up in a spiral pattern through the middle of the…oak tree, I guess.

“I…the windowsill…a bird…”

His wife raised his eyebrow. “Probably heard you talking about your plan. Animals can predict the future you know. That land quake that killed off the natives in Guatamalazell knew it was coming. They took off well before the tectonic shifterizers..well, shifted. Like that bird, fleeing from the sight of your hairless body!”

“I’m just going to talk to the guy, MaBrunzell.”

His wife glared at him, squeezing her eyes into tiny slits of suspicion.

“Something tells me you two are gonna do more than just talk.”

And as your storyteller, I must admit, that something she is referring to wasn’t me. Because that chapter is up to our good friend, DaBrunzell himself, to write.

Chapters 54 - 54.3
(with a little throwback to chapter 38)

As I, your omnipotent third person narrator watch DaBrunzell walk into the distance, I appeal to you, most avid reader, to use the afore mentioned Mind's Eye as a telescope. Look through that optic and gaze upon DaBrunzell's chin as he travels to meet the magic man and what awaits his fate.

Now, trans-morph-a-size that telescope into a microscope. A very powerful microscope. With High Definition 1080i capability. You may think this strain on your imagination a bit too cumbersome, but I assure you it is necessary to appreciate what you will see through the lens.

For if we were to gaze deep into the vastness of DaBrunzell's chin, we would not see pores, or skin cells, or that bit of bar-b-que sauce that has remained unwashed for a week. We would see a civilization.

This civilization is very different from the setting previously described in the story thus far. No backward belief in wizards here. You can't take three steps without encountering a flag marking fiber optics, gas lines, or underground transporter beam arrays. It is what every child dreams the future would look like. There are people with jet packs... actual jet packs with pictures of pop stars on them. Flying cars are buzzing through the air like orderly gnats. The buildings are tall and very metallic looking.

These people have advanced so far, because they are living on top of a near limitless supply of energy. For everywhere they look, grows a black, strand-like material from the ground. These people, whom call themselves the Wrayzors, have discovered the means to harvest these strands and convert them into pure, clean energy. The Wrayzors call this miraculous raw material Wysickyrs.

The foreman on the harvesting site looked upon his workers with an air of disgust. According to the numbers on his crystalline notepad, his team would not make quota for the third straight week. On a hunch, he looked though his Ocular-a-tron and saw a Track-Blade, the machine that cuts the Wysickyers, laying dormant in the fields.

"MacBehnke! Where the hell is MacBehnke? Why isn't he cutting?" He said this to no one in particular. He wasn't a friendly man and he smelled a bit of yams.

The reason MacBehnke wasn't cutting, was that he was staring at the sky.

"MacBehnke! Get your sorry behind back to work!" said the holographic projection of his boss that appeared on the dashboard of his Track-Blade.

"Err, yessir. Right away sir. Thank you sir," replied the startled and daydreaming worker. He immediately started the machine back up and began to work on a new Wysickyr. A large circular blade on a mechanical arm attached to the Track-Blade resumed to cut away at the black mass that grew from the ground.

"I have to focus. I have to focus. I'm a MacBehnke. I can do this."

MacBehnke came from a long line of harvesters. His father, his father before him and so on have always been harvesters. Every generation, a new colony of Wrayzors would make the jump from one field to next; and there would always be a MacBehnke to lead them in collecting their precious energy supply.

"MacBehnke. We cut Wysickyers. It's what we do." said the family crest. The name came with reputation and respect.

"Son, it is time for you to join the others on the new colony," MacBehnke's father told him one day. "You have lingered around here long enough. It is time to pick up the family trade and make a man of yourself."

"Dad, I'm not a cutter. You know I'm no good at cutting. The only reason I got my certification was because of my name. I'm a writer who...ouch! Why did you hit me?"

"I'm sorry son, I couldn't help it. Hearing you talk like that breaks my heart."

"You didn't have to hit me."

"I know son, but please..."

"I mean that hurt. I think I'm bruising."

"Son, arrangements have been made. You will be leaving on the next transport to the new land. I wish you well. Good cutting, son" MacBehnke's father spit on his son's shoes, a sign of loving endearment, and turned away before his son could see him cry.

Chapters 54.4 – 54.999999999999999999

Oh my God the camera’s pulling back, the camera’s pulling back! Head rush. Head rush! Everything’s getting sucked into a black hole we’re all gonna die!

Wait. There’s DaBrunzell again, walking.

My bad.

Walking along now (follow with me, please), now although Zeno’s paradox shows that you must first travel half the distance between two points, then half that distance, then half that distance--forever—before getting where you are going, somehow or another DaBrunzell’s legs (and our camera) were filled with a mystical, all encompassing force called consciousness, enabling him (and us) to form wake-like wormholes between infinite points through the use of intent, ripping separated distance particles asunder and tying them back together in a new way as if they were but play things of the mind. How far apart is this word from this word? That’s right. Infinity. How far apart is this sentence from the one I haven’t written yet? You got it. Infinity. You made it. You did it. Congrats. And if every point is infinitely far apart from every other point and we can travel between those points with ease, how big are we, really? Maybe we are so big, we don’t have to travel anywhere because we are already there. And that is why anything is possible in this magical land, and we can laugh at those who try to specify what we can, and cannot do.

Like MaBrunzell.

“I can do as I please and I will,” DaBrunzell said to no one in particular and everyone in general—proving it by stepping over an infinitely large stream on his way deeper into the dark forest which he had been told only fools tread. But DaBrunzell was not a fool, thus proving yet again to himself his own power over the mechanistic thought processes of others. He stroked his chin, and smiled as it prickled against his fingers. If only there were more sprouts...

And this is where it gets really interesting, because in this magical land--filled with people who know what they don’t know and are fine with that because it somehow makes them omniscient--we really don’t have to travel anywhere to get there, because--

“Hmm…You are here.”

DaBrunzell stared at the map in front of him. He traced the red dotted path for an infinitely long time until it wavered over a cute house that looked like something a Smurf would make (In this land, Smurfs really do harvest magic mushrooms for nefarious purposes), and noticed that he really didn’t need the map at all because what was also here, directly in front of him behind the map, was the wizard.

“Oh! Hello there. I’m DaBrunzell.” He held out his hand after stepping around the side of the directions which he didn’t need.

The wizard stared at his hand, then grasped it and ran his fingers over the veins which made him look as if he were a fortune teller since they, like the wizard, also wear unusual head pieces and hold people’s hands. The wizard’s hat, however, looked like an upside down ice cream cone, and a fortune teller’s hat looked like they just got out of the shower, but you get the idea. I know, I should have said head piece right there when talking about the fortune teller instead of ‘hat’ to stay consistent, but when you play with infinity, everything is the same thing and you still can understand its differences.

“By George, your hand is made up of an infinite number of points! It’s sparkly!” The wizard grasped DaBrunzell's hand and held it up to the sunlight.

“And you really do have feathers in your hat. I thought that was some joke.”

“You can call me…well, Tim, I suppose,” said the wizard, shaking infinity with his own infinity as if they were distinct from one another.

“Pleased to meet you, Tim. Look, I heard you were the guy who could fix my face.”

“Fix your face? What’s wrong with it?” The wizard dropped his head to the left and then to the right like a dog, or perhaps someone who was trying to dump water out of his ears.

“See these stubbles? Yeah, they never grow very big. I want a full fledged beard. I want to see myself with a beard. And you have a very long beard, so you obviously know a thing or two about a thing or two.”

“Well yes, I do know a thing or two about a thing or two, but that’s really just one thing.”

“Oh?” Said DaBrunzell, wondering for a moment if that one thing had to do with his face.

“It’s complicated in a very simple way. It makes complete sense if you just stop thinking about it.”

“Okay then, I will not think about it and hopefully what you know will come to me, too.”

The wizard dropped DaBrunzell’s hand. “Look, I want to eat some pizza.”

“What is pizza?” DaBrunzell asked. “Will that make hair grow on my face like yours?”

“You already have hair growing on your face.”

“Gee, that was quick.” DaBrunzell ran his fingers over his stubble again. “They do feel a bit longer. And since I traveled so far, I suppose it would be a shame if we didn’t eat some pizza.”

And into the mushroom shaped house they went. Although they really didn’t go anywhere, because as you can see, they’re already here. And so are we.

In infinity.

Chapter the Next

At this point, dearest reader, you may be considering the theme of my tale. Or is it OUR tale. With such talk of multiple infinities, why limit this tale to just one story teller? Perhaps this tale is woven from two different looms, from two different creators.

Or not.

Regardless, it is worth a moment of introspection to consider the meaning of this story, as short as it may be. There has been an awfully lot of facial hair in this story. Perhaps there is a metaphor therein. On the other hand, there is the duality of the two worlds. Duality is a good theme. It isn't heavy-handed and plain like "Drugs are bad. Hug your mother." Instead, it has just the right amount of vagueness about it. If someone saw you reading a story in a cafe and asked, "What is that story about?"

"Duality."

You could say no more, sip your mocha and appear to be quite wiser than you actually are.

I am not saying concretely that this tale is ultimately about duality. Only that it contains a significant amount of the stuff. For example, just as DaBrunzell and Tim were eating pizza in a mushroom shaped house...

MacBehnke and his co-worker Shelm were eating mushrooms in a pizza shaped bar. There were many empty glasses in front of them.

"Therez gots to be more than thiz," MacBehnke slurred. "I mean, look at uz. Whada we do? We cut the..the things. We deliver 'em. We do it again. And fur what? Fur what?"

Shelm, an unattractive man with few friends non-committedly replied. "I know." Shelm was just glad to have someone to sit at the bar with. Normally at this point after work he would be at home watching pay-per-view Holo-Vision of people with more interesting sex lives than he. "I know."

"Look, I's gots a theory. What if...sorry...I passed out just then. What if...like...therez more out there. What if what were doing here is actually...I don't know...part of something bigger? "

"Yeah. I know. It makes you think."

"Thas right! It makes ya think. I mean, what would happen if we let one, just one Wysickyer grow?"

MacBehnke found his face covered in a mist of alcohol. Shelm was recovering from his comedic spit take.

"Let a Wysickyer grow?" he whispered. Shelm looked around him to make sure no one was listening to this conversation. "Are you insane? It's...it's...it's never been done. Why would...I mean...what could...garh!" Shelm began to regret not going with his usual plan of watching three dimensional representations of people copulate from the comfort of his couch.

"All I'm sayin is let one grow. Jus' one. At the edge of the field. What's the worse that can happen?"

On that note, MacBehnke placed his thumbprint on the pay-scanner at the table, put a stick of Out-Toxicated Chewing Gum in his mouth to sober up, and went out to get some fresh air.

As for Shelm, what happened next to him is another tale; but I can assure you it is a very dull one.

Chapter The Previous Before The Next, But Most Have This Same Quality

“Holy crap I just had Déjà vu!” Cried the wizard Tim, startling DaBrunzell who was in mid chew. “The only difference is that it was a completely different situation at a different time and place as this one, with different people around me. But it happened before. And it felt so real. I think it took place in a chapter before this one. Or maybe in another book. Which may not be written yet.”

“Are you sure this pizza will do the trick?” said DaBrunzell, ignoring the wizard's revelation.

“Trick? What trick? There is no trick, no illusion. I picked the pizza up from Wal Mart, which is in a land that is just as magical as this one, but all the people have forgotten. Sad, really, but in the mean time, they learned more about pizza than we have, so all is well with the universe. Besides, I get it for free if I just create a magic portal before the checkout isle.” The wizard took another bite of his own, chewing slowly. “The non-magical people never learn how silly non-magic is. It’s like they all have their heads buried in the sand, thinking they can own things, but people with portals prove that no one can truly own anything and get away with it.”

“So then how fast until I see even more hair on my face after finishing this pizza?”

The wizard sighed. “Look, your putting words in my mouth. The only thing I have said to you so far is that you already have hair on your face, and you keep on thinking that I have cast some spell.”

DaBrunzell swallowed, replayed the wizard’s words in his head. “So, were those last words the magical incantation that makes hair grow on my face?”

“There has been no magical incantation.”

“How about those words?”

“No.”

“That last word?”

“No. Not these words, either.”

DaBrunzell lifted one of his eyebrows and held up a finger.

“Sorry,” said the wizard Tim, and swallowed. “I am sitting here, trying to tell you something that is on my mind about Wal Mart people, and you refuse to listen to what I am saying. Not many people visit me other than fools who feel that they are required to tread here, and fools are really difficult to talk to, honestly.”

"How about those."

"You truly are difficult to work with."

“So is that the reason that hair is not growing on my face?”

The wizard sighed, wondering how come protagonist objectives always interfere with the way his conversations turn out.

“Look, if I cast a spell on your face using a magical incantation, will you be quiet? I have some important things to say to people who are reading this.”

DaBrunzell stroked his stubble, considering. “I told my wife that we would just talk, though. I usually don’t like going against her wishes.”

The wizard stared back at DaBrunzell, his eyes squeezing together in slits. “Isn’t a magical incantation just talking?”

DaBrunzell’s mouth and eyes began to smile in unison. “Why, yes! Yes, it is! Good call! That would hold up in court!”

“Okay then, come over to my side of the table. I have some things I need to tell this face of yours.”

DaBrunzell slid closer and the wizard grabbed his cheeks, tilting his head upwards as if he were about to perform some type of jaw dentistry. Tim sucked air into his lungs and shouted, “MacBehnke! Stop working! Tell everyone to stop working! You are all part of a greater whole, and that whole won’t shut up about his face!”

Tim let go of DaBrunzell and grabbed another piece of pizza. Through a mouthful, he said, “And yes, before you ask, those were definitely the magic words.”

One of those flashback chapters: In which a revelation of literal Biblical proportions is...well...revealed.

See this very well: A man is leaning against the pillars of a temple. His eyes are gouged out. He is visibly exhausted, barely able to stand. The Philistine leaders are mocking him, asking if this is indeed the same man who slaughtered a thousand soldiers with naught but the jawbone of an ass. The man in the center of the temple presses his hands against the pillar, feeling its smooth stone surface. With his head down, so those around him do not see, he grins. He applies more pressure upon the pillar. His feet dig into the ground, but do not slip. Dust begins to fall from the ceiling high above. There is a low rumbling. Those that were shouting jests moments before quickly silence themselves as they look up. The man whispers a prayer to his God and empties himself of every ounce of strength left in him. The pillar collapses, as does the entirety of the temple. All who were inside perished.

Outside the temple, Delilah rubs her swollen belly. "Wow. Glad I wasn't in there. Fiddle-dee-dee." She heads north to live out her life and await the birth of her child.

Time passes.

See if you will, a boy in his mid-teens. The first signs of stubble appear on his face. His voice is beginning to deepen. He would be handsome if he weren't so clumsy. His name is Dwight, and he is constantly tripping in the ruts of the road, falling down steps, and violently bumping into people carrying eggs. He has always been a klutz, but lately things have gotten worse. He was getting stronger.

Delilah knew things were getting desperate when Dwight, riding upon the family camel, pulled back on the reins and decapitated the poor creature. He had a habit of leaning on walls and causing unintended demolition. He would inadvertently destroy anything put into his hands, and this was doing nothing for Delilah's social standing. Not knowing what else to do, she decided on meeting with the local wise man.

First she gathered the bodies of a worm, a bird, a fish, and a salamander representing the four elements. For these, as everyone knew, were the payment demanded by those such as the wise man. She traveled to his dwelling on the outskirts of the village and knocked on the door. It opened, revealing a bright light within. The shadow of the wise man covered her in darkness.

"My Lord, I present these tokens in order to seek your counsel. Will you hear me?"

The tall apparition sighed. "Put it in the corner with the rest. I wish you people would just get me a nice calzone instead. Stop kissing my shoe. Thank you. Come in, and call me Tim."

Delilah told Tim her story, beginning with the tale of Dwight's father and ending with the exploits of her son. Tim listened, not even pretending to be interested. Throughout her story he would roll his eyes, finish her more predictable sentences for her, and kick her in the forehead when her lips got too close to his feet.

"Look lady, I can't help you. It's in your son's DNA..."

"What is DNA, my Lord Tim?"

"DNA. The building blocks of.. Never mind. The truth is as long as your son is growing facial hair he will be endowed with super-human strength. You could try shaving it off each morning, but sooner or later he will be out with buddies drinking, wake up in some alley with five o-clock shadow, tap someone on the shoulder to ask where he is and that poor person will explode from the impact. Unless you could devise some way for him to be constantly clean shaven...in a way he doesn't have to do himself..."

At this Tim trailed off. His gazed turned toward a cluttered shelf. Delilah followed his eyes and determined he was looking at a small bottle.

"What is it, My Lord Tim?"

Tim got up and reached for the bottle. It was slightly larger than a shot glass and sealed with a cork. Out of the cork were two wires that led out of the bottle and into a nearby potato.

"Delilah let me tell you a story. A story your primitive mind will no doubt not comprehend. But for the sake of exposition it must be told. "

Before we begin Tim's tale, precious reader, let me ease your troubled mind. We are about to hear a story within a story within a story... yes, I think that's right. This is a literary device that many have used and I can think of no other way to impart this information. I figured by having Tim tell it to Delilah, it would be easier for you to follow than a ten-page footnote. Footnotes are so hard to read. They are always in that small print at the bottom of the page by the time you are done you forget the thread of the story. So just imagine you are in a dilapidated cottage with a large pile of worm, bird, fish and salamander carcasses in the corner. And listen...

There once was a city. A marvelous city. A city filled with wonders. The leaders of this city (for the people decided long ago that not one person should rule) were wise and peace-loving. The citizens were encouraged to reach their full potential, be it in arts, skilled trades, agriculture, or even magic. It was this last that concerns us. In this city, a young wizard apprentice named Tim was developing a spell to shrink giraffes. Tim had a pet giraffe, but could not fit him though his doorway. Without dragging this story on any further, he managed to shrink the giraffe...and everything else but himself. The entire city collapsed in on itself and rested on the leaf of a small plant. Tim was able to brush the city onto his hand just before an eager caterpillar almost devoured them all.

"That could have gone better."

Tim placed the city in a bottle for safe keeping and devised a makeshift sun powered by a potatoes. He pledged that he would either find a way to bring his people back to their original size, or at least find something better than the potato idea. He was a big fan of hash browns but his spud supply was quickly dwindling.

Okay, back to the story within the story. Are you with me? Good.

"Delilah," said Tim with a wry smile. "You have a son with facial hair of pure power. You need some means to keep that hair from growing. I know of some people that could benefit from those hairs. I think what we have here is a win-win situation."

With that, Tim sent Delilah off with the bottle, and a set of instructions,

Chapter 98 or 57

DaBrunzell stared back at Tim in wonder. “So, if those were the magic words, who is this MacBehnke guy?”

Tim took a bite of his pizza.

“That’s a really long story that can probably be shortened into a single sentence that eventually needs to be expounded upon. Basically, he is the guy that lives in your face and keeps cutting your facial hair when you least expect it. Namely, all the time.”

DaBrunzell scratched his chin.

“Geezus! Careful! You more than likely just demolished one of their cities!”

“Their cities? You mean there’s more than just one MacBehnke? What are they? Bugs of some sort?”

“Well, no, not bugs. People. Miniature people who have miniature giraffes and jetpacks with pop stars painted on them. So, I gotta warn you, by telling those guys to stop working, there may be some…side effects.”

“Side effects?”

“Look, a long time ago in a land far, far, away, I did a favor to someone to fix a different problem…that I potentially just unfixed.”

“So what is the side effect?”

Tim took another slice—his stomach knew no bounds.

“You will have super human strength of an extreme nature once the hair on your face begins to grow.”

“So I’ll be more of a man. Just as I thought.”

Tim’s eyebrows raised and said through the corner of his mouth that wasn’t filled with crust and tomatoes, “That’s an understatement. “

“I don’t understand,” said DaBrunzell.

“Look, go out there and have yourself a day. Then come back and we’ll talk.”

“But this day sounds great. Can I keep it?”

“Suit yourself.”

*Poof. Tim disappeared.

Uh oh. There goes the antidote.

*Poof! Tim came back with another pizza and set it on the table.

Whew.

“And go on and get out of my house before you put anymore dents in the floor with that pacing back and forth between the table and the mirror,” Tim said.

Chapter one closer to the end

The Wrayzors have had better days.

Things were going so smoothly. Things were going as they always had. Or at least as they always remembered them to be. That all changed when they heard The Voice.

As with all unexplained phenomena, different people reacted in different ways. There were a certain number of people that denied there was a voice. "Someone just had their Holo-vision on too loud or something."

Others attributed it to the earth screaming in pain. These people tended to have more body hair than the average citizen and smelled spicy. "It's the land, man. The land is talking to us, man. All this cutting isn't natural. Today we're going to get a group to go out and hug a Wysickyer. Do you want to buy a hacky-sack?"

Aliens. The government. Angels. A hoax. All of these were proposed explanations to The Voice. Cutting of the Wysickyers dwindled and power outages were getting serious.

There were even a few fools that believed The Voice was that of a wizard that existed in a plane of existence on a completely different and much larger scale than the Wrayzors lived.

Well not really a few.

Okay just one guy. MacBehnke.

Surprised? I thought not.

After hearing The Voice say his name, MacBehnke's front yard was flooded with news reporters, religious fanatics, creditors, and ex-girlfriends. Confused and scared, he put on his jet-pack (the one with that one singer that sings that song that gets stuck in your head) and turned it on.

"Ouch."

It is always a good idea to be outside when using a jet pack.

After extinguishing the fire in his living room, he looked in the new hole in his floor. "Hey, that's the fireproof box my father insisted I take with me, and which I promptly buried beneath the floorboards of my home without ever opening. I wonder what could be inside?"

And would it shock you, most devoted reader, that within that box was a faded, brittle piece of parchment written in the hand of a certain wizard that keeps turning up in this story? MacBehnke read the scroll, and as he did the voice of the wizard could be heard emanating from the very paper itself! For this was indeed majik paper.

"Testing. Testing. Blow. Blow. Tap. Tap. Is this thing working? Fart. Excuse me. Oh, geez. Be glad you are only reading and not smelling. I just had some anti-pasta that didn't agree with me. Anti-pasta, is that like the opposite of pasta? Burp. Better out than in, eh. I guess that makes me anti-anti-pasta. Snort. Anyway, MacBehnke, if you are listening to this, it means that everything went to hell. It's time you know the truth. But what is truth? Gurgle. Oh, boy. I don't feel too good. Blarkle. That was a weird noise. Look, I gotta hit the head. So just go back to the flashback chapter and that will explain everything. Squish. Okay, this is getting bad. Ummm, just read the story and I'll figure out the rest. Good luck. Step. Step Step. Door opening. Zip. Thud. Grunt..."

There was more but MacBehnke stopped reading.

He found another paper that contained the chapter the wizard mentioned. He read/listened to it. Than read/listened to it again. Then he read/listened/high-lighted/made hand written notes in the margins/drew pictures before stepping out his front door.

A blinding lightening storm of camera flashes awaited him. All of the people asking him questions at once blurred into a indecipherable noise. MacBehnke hushed them with a gesture.

"My fellow Wrayzors, I am MacBehnke, of which The Voice spoked. Spoke. Spaked? Listen, for I know what we must now do."

Chapter of Happy

“Look,” MacBehnke began. “us Wrayzors cut a lot of Wysickyers for our energy. We do a lot of work.”

A round of nods were had.

“But if you think about it, and I honestly can say I thought about it because I am saying what I thought about after I thought about it…so it must have happened in my brain somewhere in the past-we are actually taking away that energy from the ground beneath our feet. It’s gotta be making it weak. When does the ground, or us, get a chance to go catch a good flick on the holo-vision or something? It’s gotta get tired of us every now and then, cutting bits of it down all the time.”

“The ground gets tired? Are you mad?” Said MacBehnke’s father, stepping out of the crowd of photographers who quickly formed a circle around a source of dramatic tension. A flash went off, then another. Another.

“Hi, dad. Yes, I think the ground gets tired.”

“I don’t get tired. You know what I think? Do ya? I think you don’t know what you’re talking about.” His father’s eyes squeezed into small slits of equally proportional knowledge.

“Then why do you have to go to sleep at night?”

“Because I gotta wake up and go back to work in the morning, that’s why! Like you. Just like all the other MacBehnke’s before you. Just like these people. Who cut. They need to work, or else we will all DIE!”

If someone brought a drum, they probably would have hit about three of them, starting with a high pitch, and quickly hitting the lowest baritone which reverberates the most.

“We won’t die. That’s not true.”

“Uh. Yes it is true, ‘cause I said it, boy. Pthh.”

The crowd of photographers made some strange airy noise like their cameras had just eaten something really tasty.

“Dad, I heard the Voice. It told me this. To stop working. It told everyone, everywhere, for God’s sake, to just stop.”

“Uh, and do whut?” said his father.

“Oh, I don’t know…appreciate what we have, appreciate one another. Give something back to the land simply by letting it grow for awhile. That can’t be all that hard, can it?”

“You didn’t heard nothing, alright? That was some make believe in your head.”

“Dad…but if you took the time, and I took the time, and everyone else took the time, I could learn to appreciate you…and maybe you could learn to appreciate me. And everyone could learn to appreciate each other as the ground beneath us gets back its strength.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d shut your jaw dropping and get back to some cuttin! Hah! You really wanna hear something?” MacBehnke’s father cranked up his blade which made a loud noise. “Gillete! Titanium. Triple blade. That’s right! Hear that purring? Yeah, that’s the sound of beauty. And that---” MacBehnke’s father pointed to his son, “That’s the sound of a crazy man! That’s what that sounds like! Pthhh.”

Because pthh really sums up a lot for MacBehnke’s father.

Everyone turned to MacBehnke’s son as his eyes drooped down. He looked sad. The snapping of photos slowed as well, since a man standing and not saying or doing anything became really boring once people realized they already had that shot.

“Now come on, people! Let’s go back to work!” MacBehnke’s father pressed some button called ‘louder’, and the sound coming from the blades obeyed. He laughed madly. “I will bring this blade to my grave and use it to cut myself out of it! So I can work again instead of resting forever. I want to work when I’m dead! I will be a dead man working! People…People, back to the fields!” MacBehnke’s father turned and strolled away. Everyone watched him go, but turned back again to MacBehnke himself. This really made MacBehnke’s father angry. “I said people! Back to work!”

“Dad, you will never change will you?”

“Change? Of course I change. I change the blades on this purring edifice of delight when they get dull.” His father pressed the ‘louder’ button again, and smiled wide.

“You know what? You’re right,” Said the mayor, who suddenly appeared in the story. The mayor stepped closer to MacBehnke’s father and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know what could use some work right now?”

“Well yer the one talking, mayor, giving us ones orders.”

“You, my dear friend, need to go to work--on the relationship you have with your son. And you will do so, you know why? Because today…” the mayor’s voice became louder, but it was nowhere near as loud as the voice MacBehnke heard.

Reporters stood hushed.

Photographers snapped pictures again as something was finally moving, but they did so quietly to not interrupt the speech.

“Today we will do no work,” the mayor said, putting a hand on his chest. ”Today we will do only that which we feel in our hearts. In our minds. For it is our duty!…to each other. Today is the day we give back what we have taken from the land. Because today, yes today… is our day…of independence!”

The crowd went crazy because other parts of the crowd went crazy. It was cacophony, as they had just heard a trigger word of joy and happiness. They all cheered, patted each other, jumped up and down.

MacBehnke looked at his father using tunnel vision.

The father of MacBehnke looked back at him in the same tunnel.

There was some kind of slow motion sequence of people jumping for joy around them, but they were all unimportant to the story other than the fact that they made up the crowd.

MacBehnke smiled, nodded, like he knew something and could communicate what he knew to by nodding.

The father of MacBehnke looked away and stared down at the blade in his hands. He looked back at his son, again. He then went back to look at the blade. He gripped it tighter. He then looked back at his son and back at his blade, but returned to look at his son, only to return his gaze back to the blade.

His father’s fingers opened, but slowly.

The blade suddenly began to fall through space…and time.

The heavy end hit the ground. Then the light end followed, because it didn’t weigh as much.

MacBehnke’s father looked up at his son. MacBehnke looked at his father. Another round of looking was had, surrounded by a happy hurricane of positivity—and it’s difficult to see anything else in such an environment.

So the chapter ended.

The long awaited and overdue chapter in which things take a turn for the worse

Welcome back, oh devoted reader. My, how the time doth pass. One might have thought, "Well, I guess that is all there is to tell. The people seem happy and the story teller has appeared to run out of tale. Best that I turn on the television and see which wanna be pop-star is kicked off next. Maybe they will appear on a backpack some day."

You could think that.

In reality (and yes, I know we discussed reality in an earlier chapter) the story needed some time to itself. A time to grow. "How much time?" you might ask.

Go ahead. Ask. I'll wait.

Enough time to grow, shall we say, a rather full beard. For this is exactly what DaBrunzell has been doing. Look now, upon his bushy face. Of all the famous beards such as Lincoln, Stalin, Adams (Grizzly, not John), Claus, my Aunt Ruth to name a few, none could hold a candle to DaBrunzell's majestic beard. Nor would you want to hold a candle to his beard, for it was highly flammable.

"Well, that just seems darn fine to me," you are obviously mumbling to yourself.

Oh, alright. Go ahead and mumble.

"DaBrunzell has his beard, MacBehnke has his work holiday and is patching up his relationship with his father. I think I'll have a popsicle and read the funnies."

But wait. Pull back your mental camera from that hypnotic grandeur on DaBrunzell's chin and look upon the rest of his face. Never has a beard so joyful sat below a face so sad. Continue to pan further back and you will see DaBrunzell in rags, amidst the rubble of his home and the village around him. Pan even further and you will see deep gouges in the dirt where there once were fields. Trees lay knocked over like things weaker than trees are. It is quiet for no other living thing can be seen in this realm of destruction.

Gaze once again on DaBrunzell. With his left hand he is sensually stroking his silky and full beard. In his right hand, hidden behind his back where the beard can't see it, is a razor.

Yes, the beard "sees".

"Oh, Beard," DaBrunzell says in a sing-song voice that sounds a bit fake. "It looks like it's just you and me. Good old Beard."

The left hand continued stroking. The right hand gripped tighter.

"I don't know what I did without you Beard. You're my best friend. What? What was that Beard? Oh, I'm just, uh, scratching with that hand. Yeah, I have a terrible itch. A bit more under the chin? Of course beard, whatever you say."

DaBrunzell once more went over the plan very quietly in his head so the beard wouldn't hear him. He would try to lull the beard to sleep, and then carefully use the razor. The key word is "carefully", for if the beard took control, he could likely decapitate himself.

DaBrunzell continued to stroke while humming a lullaby he remembered as a child.

Sweet little baby, close your eyes.

Don't say a thing about momm'a thighs.

Your mamma's pretty and really smart.

Your momma smells good even if she farts.

Don't trust a thing your daddy say.

Momma's not crazy. She's the nice one. Have you heard anyone say that mamma's crazy? I'm just,

you know, I care what people think about me.

There's nothing wrong with that.

Mamma DaBrunzell had self-esteem issues.

The beard was quiet. The beard was still. DaBrunzell stealthily lifted the blade...

The Chapter with a Long Neck

But first, I want to point out something about animalistic manhood: size does count--especially if you’re a giraffe. Sure, if you are shrunken by a very powerful wizard and implanted into some facial hair along with an exotic race of people that like cutting things, it may take you awhile to realize that you have been shrunken and removed from your natural habitat, but ultimately you WILL realize it. And when you do…

“There shall be hell to pay,” said Merl, chewing on something stuck low in one of the wysickers. He chewed slowly, as if to emphasize his jaw bone and how powerful he really was.

It had been so long since he could reach the tops of things, and he had spent several hundred years sorting out what, exactly, had changed. Finally, however, after hearing that voice which came from everywhere, he had rediscovered a memory he didn’t even know existed: Something about a doorway, an impatient wizard, and some pizza. The next thing he knew, everything started smelling like potatoes, and he could no longer reach the tops of things with his neck. No way would this impress the ladies.

That wizard’s name had been Tim. And Tim, thought Merl, had run an experiment on the wrong giraffe.

This world, everything in it, has been called maya, or illusion, and humans think that they are really smart when they figure it out. Giraffes, however, have known this thousands of years longer than humans, but like the other animals, they just generally keep it to themselves. And since the world is illusion, you are not really restricted by time and space—if you want to breach two of those points that you have become suddenly aware of, you merely have to reach out with your long (albeit shrunken) neck, open your mouth, and say

“Buddy.” Merl did his best to sound like a gangster giraffe from South Africa.

DaBrunzell, startled, dropped his blade. Then smiled.

“Hello, beard. I didn’t know you could talk.”

“I’m not your beard. I’m a giraffe,” said Merl.

DaBrunzell laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I’m not laughing because it’s funny. I’m laughing because I’m crazy.”

“By the sound of it, you are a man that has lost his family, his house, or his town.”

“I’ve lost all of them, Mr. giraffe.”

“Merl, please,” said Merl.

“Merl it is,” said DaBrunzell. “I just wrote a love poem .Would you like to hear it? I can adopt it for the inquisitive ears of a giraffe.”

“No,” said Merl. “Now, why have you lost everything?”

“Because the size of my massive beard makes me more of a man.”

“Right. Look, I’ve got a similar kind of problem.”

“I don’t have a problem, ” said DaBrunzell.

“Yes you do. So do I.”

“What is it then?”

“The size of my neck makes me less of a giraffe. “

“But I have everything I want.”

“It has made you lose everything,” said Merl. “That is what I call a problem. You are no longer a man. You are a lunatic.”

“Well, Mr. giraffe in my beard—“

“Merl, I said.”

“Merl. All I wanted was a beard, and I have it now. It is such a wonderful thing.”

“Snap out of it. It’s not wonderful. Look, Tim is an evil wizard. He tricked you. He tricks everyone. He’s afraid of responsibility. He’s afraid of fessing up for his mistakes. He just makes them worse.”

“You think he makes mistakes?” Asked DaBrunzell.

“He’s out of control. Look at what he did to your life. Look at what he did to mine.”

“I suppose you’re right. I don’t think I would enjoy being a shrunken giraffe living in the beard of a lunatic.”

“Right. I’ve lost my home, you’ve lost yours, and there are others, like you, like me, that have lost EVERYTHING because they listened to him. Look. You miss your wife?”

A tear slipped down DaBrunzell’s cheek and filled a dam somewhere in beardland. “I miss her.”

“You miss your home? You miss your town?”

“I do,” said DaBrunzell.

“I miss having a dame myself. Are you with me?”

“I don’t want to lose me beard.”

“I said, are you with me?! There are other ways to fix this problem of yours.”

“Other ways?”

“Other ways,” emphasized Merl. “So I ask again. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you. I’m with you, Merl. I’m with you!” DaBrunzell stood up.

“Great. So. Here’s what we’re gonna do…”

A Very Dull Tale

Shelm sat in his apartment with the curtains drawn. He had already been warned by the local law enforcement regarding his work, and didn’t want to deal with another encounter. The conversation went something like this:

Officer: Sir, what do you think you’re doing?

Shelm: Eeeeeek! You startled me.

Officer: I’m sorry for that sir. Could you please -

Shelm: Eeeeek!

Officer: What now?

Shelm: I’m intimidated by authority.

Officer: Citizen, I can assure you there is nothing to be scared of. I just want to know what you are doing.

Shelm: Well, I’m cutting Wysickyers.

Officer: Yes I can see that. You do know there is an official ordinance against cutting at the moment?

Shelm: You mean in response to that voice thingy?

Officer: Precisely.

Shelm: Sir, this is all I have. My work. Cutting Wysickyers. It’s the only thing that makes me feel…

Officer: Feel what?

Shelm: Just, feel. When I’m cutting I know I’m alive, that I have a purpose. Otherwise I just sit at home and… oh, I don’t know. Can’t I just cut here and not bother anyone.

Officer: Sir, I cannot allow that. The mandate on cutting is very specific. Why don’t you use this time to relax. Go to a bar. Go see a holo-film. Meet a girl. Go dancing. Take her home. Have some really hot-

Shelm: Eeeeeek!.

At this point Shelm ran away. He wasn’t proud.

Shelm went home and looked at his blade. It was in pristine condition. He always kept it sharp and clean. The impulse, the desire to cut, to FEEL again overwhelmed him. Without being conscious of what he was doing, he rummaged through his clothes. He found some dark pants and a dark trench coat. He took an old kerchief and tied it around his face. He put on some dark glasses.

Shlem waited until it was very late at night. He grabbed his cutters and jetpack. He tripped on the staircase leading out of his apartment and decided the dark glasses were too much.

Shem flew until he was far from the lights and sounds of the city. He found a thick, uncut Whsickyer deep in the forest.

And he cut.

And cut.

It felt good. It felt right.

He went home to his dull apartment and for the first time since this whole voice thing began had a decent night sleep.

When he awoke, he switched on the morning news and nearly choked on his oatmeal.

“Last night some hikers took this amateur video of a rebel cutter defying the non-cutting ordinance. Dressed in black, this mysterious man can be seen cutting a Whsickyer and then doing what can only be described as a dance. Shortly after this video was released, reports of other rebel cutters dressed in similar outfits have since been reported cutting down Whsickyers and doing that same, strange, non-rhythmic gyration. Police have been placed on high alert, but have been unable to capture anyone in the act. Authorities ask if you have any information on the identity of this masked cutter to contact…”

Shelm didn’t hear any more. He looked over at the trench coat and kerchief he absently thrown over his chair.

Then he began to laugh.

The Chapter of Misfit Toys

Boom!

The coffee table shook around Tim’s feet as he watched his Moveapicturision and chewed on an olive pit that someone had absentmindedly forgot to pluck from his pizza.

Boom!

He spit it into a bowl as his MP blared way too loud from hidden..um…speakers. But Tim was old—and a wizard. If he was going to lose his hearing, he would just invent some magical technology that would give it back to him.

Boom!

He grabbed another slice and took another bite and tried turning up the MP with his toes to blot out the sound of the earthquake. He grunted, cast a spell, and accidentally turned all those moving pictures and the box containing them into a chunk of margarine.

“Knock knock!” Someone yelled in a deep, manly voice from his doorway. Whomever it was obviously had very large beard now, or was just angry.

“Oh, alright alright. One second,” Tim mumbled and swallowed, swinging his feet off the coffee table. “Whomever could it be?” He asked no one in particular. He loved rhetorical questions—the answers were so..accessible. Like free pizzas in a Coldifier on aisle 12.

He approached the door. “Yes?” He said, and swung the door open.

A bleary eyed DaBrunzell with bloodshot eyes stood before him, tufts of beard falling in every which direction like snowflakes. He looked, well, haggard--and filled with a vengeful fire!

“Say hello to my little friend!” He said, turning his head emphatically and pointing to somewhere on his cheek.

Tim squinted. “I’m sorry, I don’t see what you’re pointing at.”

DaBrunzell, agitated, slammed his foot against the ground. Boom! “I saaaid…..say hello to my little friend!” He snapped his head back towards Tim, then turned, again, pointing emphatically to somewhere on his cheek.

Nothing happened…for a moment, but then, all of the sudden, as if on a late cue, a massive head emerged, popping out of DaBrunzell’s face! It grew and grew, then a neck, then a leg (arm?), then another leg (arm?), then another leg, then another leg! Then a tail! Until it was totally and utterly…larger than it used to be! It loomed over Tim, casting a long shadow.

Tim squinted, this time not at something tiny, but something monstrous, and the sun was in his eyes. “Giraffe,” Tim said at the shape.

“It’s Merl,” Merl said, all business, and swatted a fly with his tail.

“How did you get out of there?” Tim asked. He pushed up the robes of one sleeve, then another, as if he were getting ready to wrestle.

“I suppose I should ask you the same question. You assume you control things, but I assure you, you don’t,” Merl said, sounding educated, in a cop-like way.

“Oh and you do? Then what were you doing in there for so long?” Tim asked, pointing at DaBrunzell’s cheek. DaBrunzell sat himself down on the ground, barely listening, running his palm up the side of his face and looking at shavings coat his fingers, confused.

“Thinking,” Merl said. “Unlike you. ”

“Now don’t you start trying to school me,” Tim said.

“I shall do whatever I want. I am The Icon.”

“The Icon?” Tim asked.

“Yes. The Icon! And you are one of my legions. Who has gone too far with his…supposed…powers. Look at what you’re antics has done to this man!” Merl pointed at DaBrunzell using his neck.

“My beard is dying,” Dennis said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Merl,” Said Tim, fumbling through his robe for a Scroll of Shrinkage, or something similar. “You’re nothing but a giraffe.”

“And you’re nothing but a failed wizard, and a thief. I am going to take you back where you came from, slap a nice warning label on you, and surround you in your plastic shell forever where you cannot hurt anyone here. Anymore. Ever again.”

Tim looked frantically, not giving up, yet fully knowing there was no more folds in his robe to check for that scroll. He checked anyway.

Merl turned away from Tim for a moment, made some sort of strange circular gesture with his neck, almost like he was drawing a Q in the air with a paintbrush gripped in his teeth. A strange sort of ripping noise sounded…the air in front of him opened to reveal...another world.

“Let’s talk about this,” Tim said.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Game over. This is why you should have been made in America.”

Like a camera lens, the unzipped air slowly revealed itself to be pointed into an open plastic shell of a box, beyond which was a large store shelf filled with hundreds of other encaged wizards. Children ran hither and thither, one tripping over his scooter that he shouldn’t have been riding in the first place. The boy started screaming and someone in another aisle said something about an upcoming lawsuit. Another person in a different aisle overheard, and something about lawsuits being terrible band aids for poor parenting skills was also mentioned.

“Get in there,” Merl said.

Tim looked at the hole in the air. “That would be death for me! Frozen, inanimate, eternal death.”

“You have no choice. It is what your poorly constructed daydreaming circuits deserve.”

“Oh yes I do have a choice! ” Tim said. “I’m a wizard! I’m immortal! I won’t put up with this.”

Merl snorted. “Look, lift up your robe.”

Tim glared at the giraffe in horror.

“Do it! Or so help me--”

“Okay okay, alright, although I didn’t know you were…never mind. I’m listening.” He lifted up his robe in the front. Etched in his skin was some sort of door with a screw in the front.

“Observe the truth! You’re not immortal. In fact, right there it says you have about five minutes left. If you do NOT get in that portal and back into your plastic cage, you will die. Forever and ever. And no one will take you home and replace your batteries because the button on the front of your cage will no longer work. I have much experience with this. They will simply find another wizard whose button DOES work. Understood?”

“You mean I can die?” Tim asked.

“You are about to die. I know the lifespan of all my legions. In addition, if you don’t listen to me this instant, I shall draft a Writ of Recall!”

“What will that do?”

“Eternal banishment in my kingdom. The silence of eternity will close around you and you shall never again exist anywhere in my hallowed halls.”

Shocked but lucid, Tim leaped through the portal, slammed into the front of his plastic cage, then stood up right. He turned back at Merl standing next to the weeping man. “Sorry about the beard. No hard feelings, right?” He smiled, waved…and froze.

Merl sealed the portal back up by undoing the Q he had drawn. He turned to DaBrunzell. “Are you okay?” He asked.

“My beard is dying,” DaBrunzell said again.

Merl smiled in an all-knowing giraffe sort of way. “But now…you can get back to living. Again.”

The giraffe looked off into the distance at the sun and some non-existent fiber optic cables that were obviously NOT planted anywhere in the emerald grass. Those cables were in another world, another time, for stories like this one.

Then, like a poorly painted toy store billboard in the rain, Merl faded away.

Chapter The Final

"Which is a round-about way of saying I won't buy you that toy wizard."

The boy looked at his father, long ago having given up on showing his "Awww shucks, please?" face. When his father gets into his story rants, there isn't much you can do.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"Why can't you just say, 'No' and be done with it? Why do you always have to try to teach me some lesson with some stupid parable or whatever it is you do? I mean that story, it didn't even make sense. What about DaBrunzell's family? What of MacBehnke's dad? Did Shelm lead the resistance? In the end, were you just trying to get out of buying me a $5.88 action figure? Why dad?"

The boy's father placed a hand on his son's shoulder, chuckled, and said one of those things that makes parents feel wise and important, but really just pisses of their kids.

"You'll understand when you're older."

The end.
--



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Dennis Brunzell
Jeff Behnke

July 18th, 2009 - Upon Which I Make Unicorns

There are two groups of people here on the planet—those who tap in to the particle, and those who tap in to the wave. The wave people are always complaining endlessly about the particle people, and the particle people are complaining endlessly about the wave people. If you are a wave person, you will lean towards the idea that we are one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. If you are a particle person, you lean towards the idea of ‘every man for himself’ so you should start working on experiencing this life objectively. Wave people constantly complain about the need to organize, combine, become one. Particle people constantly complain about the need to segregate, divide, give an equal share, as we all have many of the same dreams and aspirations, most of which are material, anyway.

When you tap in to the wave, the world takes on certain qualities that you will argue to death about because those qualities are so apparent. When you tap into the particle, the same thing occurs but on an opposite level. To the wave, we live in a despotic state of existence and the fundamental structure of society is one that we just do not need. To the particle, man came from an ‘every man for himself’ state of existence, and as a society we all need to make concessions to a structure that all of us knows does not work as well as it could.

Organization, however, is not something that the wave people are good at, so their efforts fall frustratingly short of their ambitious goals to rewrite the earth, but it makes complete sense that this is so. Specifically, if a wave were to organize, it would cease to be a wave. Period. Their objective to organize henceforth fails as it would deny themselves the properties of being a wave. Which is a shame in many ways because they are the ones who generally say and do all the things that are interesting and make life worth living—to me.

The particle people’s quest for a larger size, a bigger chunk, a higher amount--it fails as well, since no one likes working with someone who divides and segregates everything while they remain on top. They break apart, split up, categorize--a process of which obliterates all meaning and purpose. Yes, they get control, but their control is one that the wave despises. Luckily, humanity cannot be imprisoned—there are always subtle ‘accidents’ (or intentional acts?) which prevent it from becoming so. The gods would not allow it. Neither would France.

It is truly an interesting phenomenon...as the wave people age, their beliefs begin to match other waves. A lifetime of saying to yourself, “If this is so, then this is so, then this is so,” eventually awards you with a complete mental makeup that matches your “kind.” It is this “kind” which intrigues me. These kinds allow for an infinite numbers of differences between the individuals sharing a kind. Therefore, a wave person can say “Reality TV caters to idiots,” and another wave person can say, “All artists hate reality TV, but I watch tons of it and use snippets of it in my collages--check it out.” These two people seem to be, in a way, polar opposites, but they are actually tapping in to a geometric structure to develop their thoughts and express themselves. And no matter how hard you try, the wave people cannot escape the particles, and the particle people cannot escape the waves.

Try, for instance, to have a logical thought that has never been thought before. Try to think of something to paint that hasn’t ever been painted before. You will say, “I don’t know what logical thoughts have been had before. I don’t know all the things which have been painted before” and as a result, you’ll just come up with something that may or may not have been thought or painted before, albeit in a limited fashion.

Wave people want something new—why else would they have been born? They ask this of themselves. They eventually have to deal with the fact that the deepest they can go is to come up with an analogy—stacking thoughts or pictures together to see what pops out. Their ambitions are thus quelled--for the rest of the day, anyway. Particle people, on the other hand, seem to want something old—tradition and precedence matters to them, but then they run across the fact that they can only go so far, and if they want to go further, then they must be in that ‘old, precedential’ group in which they do not belong. Therefore both particle and wave people are shot down by the inherent qualities of the wave acting upon the particle, and vice versa.

No one likes to be shoved into a box and classified (unless you like the group in which you fall), but the fact of the matter is that if you look hard enough, you can see a shape to people's thoughts, and it does not matter what candy coating of words and things falls around them. The shape is there, lit up like hot metal on an anvil.

Most wave people talk about how earth is evolving, how we are becoming a shared consciousness, an organism, that must work together to progress outside of our own tyranny of fear. Their reasoning is quite beautiful. Most particle people talk about how earth is decaying, and how everyone needs to pitch in using their collective and focused skills to save it from ruin. Their reasoning is quite beautiful as well. Who is right? Who is wrong?

Well, what if neither one is right nor wrong? What if the thought process themselves are just..shapes? Moving through the void, lit up by electromagnetic currents in our brain. What would it mean, then… to be human?

I have thought about this deeply, probably because I am inclined to be a wave person in my attempt to say something new, and give my life meaning. I have been this way since birth. I cannot help it no matter how hard I try not to be this way. Particles anger me, for a number of reasons. Boxing in things bothers me. Categorizing and dividing things bothers me. But waves—Gandalf is in the waves. Magic spells and potions. Elves, wizards, warriors. Truth. But particles…ugh. Such a thin coating on the energy of the universe. Weight and size and coldness—that is what particles consist of, masking the immortal wave beneath it all from whence we came.

The paranormal and conspiracy community is filled with wave people. Passionate, artistic. The scientific community is filled with the particle people. Politicians and mathematicians. One world doesn’t quite get along with the other. To the paranormal community, the science and political community are terrorists. To the science and political community, the paranormal and artistic community are terrorists. Eternally at war.

Shapes.

Which brings me to my Achilles’ Heel as an artistic wave: it seems as if someone, thing, or group of things, have pretty much figured out how to make the wave collapse into a particle without consulting me first, and that particle (or several, in the universe’s case) is not agreeable with me. Reality is this resistance made from something else which I cannot fathom. Why would the universe make something like this? Preventing people from flying. No magic. Nothing. What good is it? An accidental creation, or purposeful? What are us waves supposed to learn through these particles? It is like being coated and walking in sludge! But then, what are the particle people supposed to learn through all these waves? It is like being surrounded in chaotic multi-colored fuzz, and it must be placed under control!

In the heart of both worlds is a contradictive mystery---ultra powerful, eternal, as both shapes spin around one another complimenting and enhancing each other through their agreements and disagreements--and when they connect, boom! They give birth to untold numbers of children who are a beautiful, perfect combination of both…some more so than others.

I have always sought to discover the secret formula for unicorns. But in reality, there would be no magic without the absence of magic. So as much as I hate these particles that weigh me down and have prevented me from doing what I have wanted to do ever since birth, they have still enhanced my colors, intensified my wave--and have shown me a reality that I would not have otherwise known. Without particles, there would be no waves to appreciate. Without waves, there would be no particles to appreciate. If you don’t mind me getting mushy, in addition to all this ‘meta-physical’ substance flying around my brain in every which direction, without a you, there would be no me. So here is my toast to humanity and her children…for a job well done.

Cheers.