Crossroads of the Loa

January 11, 2011 at 8:51 pm | Posted in spiritual rantings | Leave a comment

 

The Shop Keeper’s spirit meandered down the dusty road like an abandoned cur, stopping here to look at a dead person alongside the road. His feelings were
like something soaring out of nightmarish dreams. Shading his eyes from a tremendous January sun, he peered off to the right where a wounded psyche lay being baked into something calloused and hard and no longer part of the poor soul from whence it had come. To his left, where he didn’t have to shade his eyes because the sun was hot on his back, stood a huge mountain of broken walls and windows. Tears the size of his hand tumbled down its weathered slope to drop into a swirling vortex of death, which reprocessed it back to betrayal, forever recycling the sadness of man’s treachery. The Shop Keeper, closed his eyes and sighed as old Sol began its final plunge behind the broken spine of Port Au Prince, the whole of Haiti had become a Wanga, the result of Petro magic perpetrated by the white devil. “I can’t do this.” No answer. The Shop Keeper expected none. But it wasn’t silence which greeted his declaration, not at all. Faint moans of anguish could be heard over the tormented pleas of a small child. Male? Female? He did not know. It mattered not. The pain was real. Yes. He withstood the sound better by keeping his eyes closed. He realized that the faint moans were coming from himself. The catastrophic events were familiar. He had never been here, though. Not in this life. That was the thing, then. Since everything here seemed twisted, the whole world upside down, the Shop Keeper had to ask the question

 

. “Am I going to die like this?” Far away he heard shattered hope screech. “Will I get out of here alive?”

Raucous laughter issued from wickedness. The shopkeeper had heard it before. Wickedness never showed its face. Coward. Instead it played out it’s evil game through the sonic booms hitting the ocean floor. The reason you can never see it is because it is the darkest side of you. This rather unusual event was familiar in an obscure, unfamiliar way. Since early this morning, or was it yesterday morning, oh, no matter. Since he’d found himself suffocating in this place, he recognized certain . . . things.

 

Nothing he could put his finger on and say, “Look, I remember this from . . .” No. Nothing like that. There was a surreal quality about certain things which defied definition. Although some of the things he knew he had never seen before but  still, he knew what they were. Like the stench of thousands of bodies, swelled in death, baking in the streets. Was he next? Then he wailed as loud as he could and stopped with a wimper as the dust filled his parched lungs. He knew not why he was naked nor where his clothes were. He shivered. It was approaching nighttime and he recalled it had gotten cold last night. The shopkeeper swooned in and out of consciousness. Soon he came upon a wooden bridge built over foaming, raging rapids. He stopped, fearful of crossing the bridge. He took a tentative step. The bridge creaked, gave somewhat to his weight. Another step. Groans from the timber. He froze. After a deep breath he took five very fast steps and was about in the middle of the bridge when he heard them. He stood, naked, afraid, and alone. Debating whether he should go back or go forward. Instead of doing either he placed his hand on the bridge’s railing to keep his knees from giving way and causing him to collapse from the terrifying dread. He leaned forward trying to steady himself and the noise became ferocious. He knew he should not, but still, he looked into the rapids. But actually, the foaming water was not rapids. What was probably a languid little stream normally, was foaming and churning because of the drowning libidos and accompanying egos, a cacophany of raging souls caught up in the electromagnetic field created by the vortex of souls, ‘gro-bon-ange,’ being forced from their clay bodies, by the ‘bitter loa.’

“Please, what do you want from me?” He stared into the horrible scene as hundreds, no thousands of perishing libidos screamed out for one more chance at life’s breath before being taken into the void. Defiant and lustful to the absolute end is mankind’s absorption with ego against skin. The Shopkeeper lingered his eyes on the tempestuous torrent below because to not do so he would have had to look into himself. Taking a few quick, very intense mouthfuls of air, he leaned further over the railing and stared into the turbulence below as if he were seeing the very last thing on earth. Rank odor emitted from the air, an odor which could mean only death and decay. All of a sudden he saw something scurrying from the stream. Then another. And more. Egos were making a mad dash for . . . where? Where  could an ego go if it had no body to prod and to push? Still. They were leaving the earth by the thousands and they looked so comical that the traveler laughed in spite of his own dire situation. What had been fetid odors wafting from below gave way to a different fragrance, the lingering smell of all the lovers he had known. The combined smell was at first pleasant and satisfying. Taking the Shopkeeper back to better times and the sensuousness of women’s caresses. Faces flooded his thoughts. . “See?” The Baka spoke. “I am your lover, can you not see that? I am the only thing you have ever loved, I am you.”

 

The Shopkeeper screamed. Then he ran and ran and ran, the road abruptly becoming as straight as it was crooked before. He could not escape from himself, though. He understood that. The woman thing was gone but it still lived as surely as he took the next gasping breath, and it did so because it was him with all the warts. A forlorn, solitary howl interrupted the Shopkeeper’s perverse musings. Such a sad and lonesome wail could only come from a horse. The shopkeeper took it as a warning. A cautionary howl for strangers who walk among the remnants and distasteful ingredients which make up mankind. He needed to shelter himself from this pale beast.

“Why?” He startled himself with his question. Shelter because he was, or would be, cold. Shelter to hide his nakedness. He was ashamed of his slightly rounded stomach, his slightly sagging breasts, his slightly receding penis. Shelter to hide his imperfections. Oh, my. The pale horse was there with him, pressing his cold, wet nose against his bare leg. Oh, my. The horse walked ahead of him. He was, of course, not a horse A beast though. He was that. A beast that spoke. “I am here to take you there.” Actually the shopkeeper did not see the beast’s mouth move when it talked, but he knew that it must have.

“Where?”

“Follow me.” The baka loped off but the shopkeeper did not run after it. Soon  the horse was out of sight. He did continue walking though. What else was he to do?  There was no where else to go. As he walked, he was met with ghostly images from his past. Only they were not spirits. Unless spirits could touch and feel and bleed and sob and scream into his face all manner of fearful words and screeches and claw his backside and frontside and attack his genitals, especially his genitals. He could not defend himself because somewhere without him being aware, his arms had become paralyzed. So, he was at the mercy of these agonized, brutalized entities and they went about the job of making him pay for his indiscretions. Still, through it all, he walked, and as he did so he found that he desired to forgive his persecutors even though it seemed they had held onto their grudges. Now he understood. He knew now. They were all gone and in their wake, left the parts of themselves they blamed the shopkeeper for destroying. Hearts, broken hearts were the most prominent but there were also minds unstable and potential destroyed. Potential destroyed was the most awful of them all. He had heard of potential his whole life and had never known exactly what it was. Now that he was looking at potential destroyed it was all he could do to keep from screaming. Potential destroyed was a dreadful thing to behold. Potential destroyed was a small golden sphere approximately the size of a small green pea when it fell from those now gone. When they touched the ground there was an audible gasp and then no more sounds. The golden sphere morphed into such a lovely child, a child of no particular sex but a child of innocence and a child desirous of guidance, someone to attach to and grow into love personified. It was not to be, however, because the lovely child’s skin began to peel from its body and as it did its eyes stared straight into the shopkeeper’s and the eyes said, “I never had a chance to grow into my potential,.” Then it turned into a caricature of an old hag, the kind you see in fairy tales as witches and melted back down to the pea size it used to be, then melted back into the ink dark ether of void. When that happened, the shopkeeper had to turn away, the horrible stench and penetrating stare was just too much for him, as his senses were assaulted by the Marasa, the contradictory forces of the universe. He stumbled down the road, half running, half walking; stumbling. A huge, intense, bright light blinded him and caused him to lurch sideways and finally collapse onto the sandy road, and just before he passed out he heard the moans and shrieks and screams of all the broken bodies suffocating under the broken structure that was once his home.

His eyes opened to the loveliest woman he had ever seen. She had been wiping his forehead with a cool, moist rag. She smiled, the world smiled too, and was happy. The shopkeeper was in bed. Not his bed. She poured a sparkling glass of water and touched it to his feverish lips and before he sipped from it he knew that it would be the best water he had ever drank. It was. She sat the glass on the small table and stood to leave.

“Oh, please,” the Shopkeeper said, “don’t go. Where am I? What is your name?”

The Zanj smiled. The world smiled again. “You are here. My name is Over.” With that she turned and left him alone. But no. Someone else was here. The Shopkeeper sensed another presence.

“How do you feel?” The voice, like the girl’s, just saturated him with breathtaking sensations. A rich baritone voice full of wonderful . . . ambiance.

“Tell me what I am doing here, please.” “My name is Cross,” the voice answered. You are being prepared.”

“Why, am I–”

“Yes. You are dying, . You are in the hospital room in the city where you reside. We have been preparing you for the transition.”

“Oh.”

“Fear not, we will treat you kindly.”

“But the crossroads, and oh, the people and all the–” “That is part of the transition, an unkind part to be sure, but necessary.” “Why? To show me my past sins?” “No. Everybody thinks that. It is a cleansing. Not everyone gets caught up in the vortex, you did not, because you were a good person….” “But the earthquake, all those people trapped, then being caught up in that  torment…I witnessed it….” “you are dead now. My companion and I will assist you the rest of the way.” The young woman appeared beside the bed. “Take her hand, now mine.” The shopkeeper saw the voice standing beside the ‘Hounsi’ they both wore long, flowing white robes many thousands of departed children were hanging on to them, and when he took their hands he understood the significance of their names. Cross over.

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