“Did you hear that?” I overhead another camper at the site whispering to her tent mate. I’d heard it, but I didn’t want to butt in on their conversation. I’d already heard far more of their intercourse than I wanted to hear, and he was snoring, but that’s beside the point.
“It was an owl, go to sleep.” He replied dutifully, mid snore, and I heard her giggle, mentally saw him pull her close so she felt safe.
Listening to what the owl had to say was easy, soothing, something I’d come to enjoy. The talking books were getting a little weird. I mean, I’d known them all for so long, why hadn’t they spoken up before?
Volume II: Time Pressure
It was a book that told me that consciousness is such that we’re really all one, and love and unity really are the only way for humanity to make it. Some day, it said, a visitor from some future dimension will come to you and ask for your help in making humanity see it. There will be Time Pressure.
Spider Robinson had told me that years before, way back in 1987, even before the belly dancer showed up. It had been my first SciFi novel, at least post childhood readings of Jules Verne, and I’d loved it. It involved hippies and communes and sex and love and music and it made me laugh and cry and was magical.
When Spider sent me that email in 2015, two years after I’d written him, it came through the love wavelength. A guy from the Future had just paid a visit at the meeting I was attending, that’s why I’d been telling Liz about the book. Spider’s quiet little apology for bad timing boomed.
But the synchronicity with Spider was not what I’d been considering when the owl spoke up. It was another volume of SciFi that seemed to be speaking directly to me as I travelled through the Long Dark Tea Time of my Soul. That’s the one.
Volume III: The Answer is 42
I was considering emptying out the refrigerator of my guilt. Another story I hadn’t really gotten the first time through. It was fun, it was an adventure, but the wisdom of the Galactic Hitchhiker is vast, really, really vast, from this different perspective in the space time matrix, and I’d only just seen it. The owl had commented.
Who? Who? Who, if not you?
And really, the long dark tea time of my soul had started with the surrender to the Higher Power. The day after that surrender, way back in December, I stumbled across a book by a guy with a Messiah Complex. I thought it was about Transcendental Economics, that’s why I got it. It turned out to be a 12 Steps Program for personal Evolution, the day after I took step 1. Go figure. I got the audio book, read brilliantly by the saucy young sprite of a Messiah who wrote it, and he kept speaking directly to me.
Volume IV: You Say You Want a Revolution?
Basically, what the Messiah said was this: You heard what the Dragon told you, we’re gods. TM really does rock, it’s a direct line to the wavelength of your own personal godlike Higher Power. By the way, there are seven veils of illusion as described by that poet back in 1990, and it’s far past time to overthrow the Military Industrial Pharmaceutical Agricultural Oligarchy of Doom, so let’s hop to it, shall we?”
Not only had the young Messiah spoken, he was rocking the boat across the Atlantic. He had followers, people listening to the Gospel he preached.
Who? Who? Who, if not you?
It had been some time since I read that one, didn’t have it on hand.
The Young Messiah can do it. I’m old and tired. My soul is ready for tea time. WTF, the owl kept repeating itself, I figured I might as well answer it. I decided I’d read that story about Aunt Bea, I liked the idea of Opie fishing with Andy and some wild antics with Barney and the gang. That wasn’t quite what I found in the Story of B.
Volume V: The Auntie Christ
The Story of B:
“YOU ARE THE AUNTIE CHRIST!” It said.
“Humanity has really fucked up and you have a pretty good understanding of it, it’s kind of what your entire life’s education thus far has been about. You so totally get the faith angle being used here, you lost your own faith in science. You’re a courageous and raging bitch, and apparently very good at catching these waves that are rolling around. You are Aunt B! The Auntie Christ! Deal with it!”
Who? Who? Who, if not you? Owl was in on it, for sure.
Fuckity, fuck, fuck. The Auntie Christ.
“Oh yeah, I can see that.” The Cosmic Science Guy and I were discussing it.
“What do you mean?” I’d recommended the book to him, wanted to get his take on it.
“You’re a raging bitch. A ball buster, a head chomper, an emasculator, a bitch slapper, kind of an obnoxious know it all. You’re used to standing up and stating your thesis as fact and being ready to defend it to the death, it’s part of the trial by fire you got trained in in academia.” The CSG has social skills a lot like my own. It’s why we got along.
I sighed. He continued.
“It’s like the Hellhounds.” They’d shown up as real online, right when I was reading the one book that included them. I’d told him about my NDE and the Illuminati, that coincidence of a book, the one with the Hellhounds. “You’ve got some channel surfer in you, that’s for sure, you definitely picked up some Hellhound juju. I’m pretty sure you’ve got some of that voodoo woman from Belize in you, too. You’re B all right; B is for bitch.” He smiled at me.
I ripped his head off and set it down on the platter he’d brought along for the purpose before turning on the podcast we were about to listen to. Michael Rice had something to teach us about the sacred masculine.
Linda Brooke Stabler, Ph.D.