Resurrection

Chapter 33 : Parables for the Wicked

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

And miles to go before I sleep. – Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

The visual imagery of Robert Frost's poetry has often given me comfort and a rising sense of inner peace over the last few decades of the 21st Century. While I enjoy bringing on the fall of Babylon, or an apocalyptic renaissance without mankind, that does not mean I have no love for nature. What is there not to love about the beating pulse of the organic system of life in an all nurturing and self-sustenance for the living, breathing existence of being? Maybe the hippies, greenies, children of the earth and beatniks should be giving me praise, killing off more of the human viruses that plague the earth with their mass-consumption and blind ignorance and toxic living standards.

So that while at first gaze, you would see a naked man stumbling blindly through the woods in what one would assume would be a state of hysteria, this could not be further from the word. I assumed this was some test and they were hoping I would blindly run towards civilisation and call on the authorities. No doubt they had lookouts watching my every move to see what I would do.

There was still evidence of early morning frost slowly thawing away on the tops of each blade of grass or tussock of moss; this was not my chance to start emanating Walt Whitman but to understand that my host body was meant to be cold. I examined my surroundings closer and by the intricate pattern of dirt trails broken twigs and heavily soled footprints, could make out a common pathway for me to follow. Smoke from a campfire quickly rose up into my nostrils, triggering off a sense of the familiar...

May 10, 1933

I am surrounded by a number of students and swastikas as the smoke continues to rise up around us. Goebbels is up on his podium, whipping the mass crowd into hysteria with phrases like "Der jüdische Intellektualismus ist tot" and telling the swarms of dew-eyed students they had a "Recht, die Trümmer der Vergangenheit aufzuräumen" as we all stare in perfectly ghastly formation into the burning embers of the bonfire lavishing off the ashes of books at its feet. As I breathe in the smoke like it's incense, my fingers tightly clutch my prize: A playscript of Bertolt Brecht. Now I don't hate Brecht because he is a Jew. I just hate his plays. This so called 'Epic Theatre' is not very titillating to me and I prefer the works of Marlowe and Italian revenge tragedies, or even those from that hack from Stratford upon Avon to this depressing modernist drivel. I gleefully throw it into the fire, which is given a momentary round of applause. I can't help staring into the eyes of these sheep. Pupils ablaze as they lustfully dote with their stares at Goebbells, in the city of Hitler, as they continue to idolise. I have never been so jealous in all my life. After centuries of anonymity, I am still hiding while these devils are acting in plain sight. They are the modernist gods and each one of these books is the metaphorical sacrifice leading up to their climactic apocalypse. I feel like such an amateur.

The allure of smoke led me to a campfire, flames licked the air as coals had started to develop and glow. Suspended above it was an apparatus that would normally hold a kettle or maybe cook a spit but instead was a much frayed plain white robe that would quickly ignite if I failed to act. It certainly personified the word humble or meek in its appearance. I snatched it off the fire, allowing it to cool on the ground for a few minutes as I warmed my body by the smouldering flames. I hastily threw it over me, knowing this was part of the scavenger hunt they had set me on. In the distance, I could hear some ritualistic singing and chanting, a fusion of Gregorian like monk chants combined with some hillbilly shrieks like the sodomising rapists from Deliverance. Was this meant to frighten me? These changed into primitive whoops and calls, echoing around the valley as they pushed me on to their next feat.

I continued to walk the path, each step lumbering after the other in a pained method actor's momentous pose. I had walked for a few miles through the valley, the path laid out before me snaked down towards a river. My host's body seemed to be hungry, and though I wasn't, I recognised the importance of keeping up appearances. At the edge of this mass of coniferous trees, I noticed another fire blazing in the background. This time I would skip the flashback to Nazi Germany as I inhaled more smoke. When I approached closer, I noticed a small parcel of food laid beside the smouldering fire. There was a small sign next to it, with some clever calligraphy forged into it which read: 'Take, eat, this is my body which is given for you for the forgiveness of sins. For the faithful, eat this for the purification of sin'.

Instead of the usual ceremonial wafers, this offering of communion food or sacrificial body of Christ was a healthy slice of apple pie with a dollop of cream on top. To the untrained eye, this looked like a regular slice of American pie but to the initiated, this was interlaced with hallucinogens.

I couldn't help but grin. These dodgy puritan cultists were going to drug me! I couldn't help but be amused.

Of course, drug induced hallucinations were a popular form of ritual. This pastime dates back thousands of years and encompasses many religions whether it is an incense burner or drinking the peyote. Like most catalysts for seeing beyond the uber-real, I was a seasoned veteran of drug-induced experiences.

Appearances were important so I eagerly took a gaping bite and waited for the sky to fall in.