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Mapping Simon

Here’s the passage in Alice that follows the full moon gathering.

xxx

“What are you doing?” asked Alice.

Christopher looked up from his task. He was in Alice and Evelyn’s garden, crouched between a row of cabbages and a row of fine hot serrano peppers. Fairies hummed in the not-too-distant woods and ladybugs flitted unobtrusively. Lying in the rut between the rows was Simon, his small deformed body naked to the sun and the sky and the sportive play of bugs. He was face down, but his gargantuan hands, his uneven buttocks and bowling ball head, all indicated restfulness.

“I’m mapping Simon,” Christopher said.

“Look at him,” said Alice. Then she leaned over and kissed Christopher on the lips.

“You have such a way of putting people at ease,” Alice said. “Sometimes I think your thing isn’t mapmaking but putting people at ease.”

Christopher went back to work with his tools and widgets.

“Why are you mapping Simon anyway?” Alice asked.

“John Wilson asked me to,” said Christopher.

Interesting, thought Alice. John Wilson never asked for anyone to be mapped before. He mainly just ran things, walked around and got input from the different New Arcadians, and then ran things some more. Why does he want Christopher to map Simon?

She received a clue to this mystery later that afternoon. Simon had come in and was in a warm bath. Christopher had gone into the room with Evelyn to rub her legs and possibly make love. And TOCK-TOCK-TOCK, John Wilson was at the door.

“Come in, John Wilson,” said Alice. “Why did you want Christopher to map Simon?”

“I don’t trust Simon,” said John Wilson. “Where did he come from and why? No one seems to ask the right questions around here.”

John Wilson seemed irritated, which amused Alice. Of course, he was right. No one knew where Simon had come from or why. It might be good to find these things out.

Later, after Christopher had returned to Freyda the white witch and John Wilson had returned to his live-in wing behind the communal hall, Alice lay in Evelyn’s arms enjoying the night – the smells in the window, the hum of fairies and other sounds of small birds and animals. Simon was sleeping on the box in the corner of the bedroom where she had propped him up. Where was he from? And why was he here? Where was he from? And why was he here? Where was he from?

She must have fallen asleep like her namesake who went through the looking-glass, because soon it wasn’t her asking the two questions, but a figure in the darkest corner of the room, a hooded figure, sitting in an old rocking chair that had come down to Alice from God knows when.

xxx

Ok, that’s enough for now. Just click the cover and buy the book before it’s too late.

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Uncle Jack’s discussion

For the radio podcast to go with the image of yesterday’s post per my novels, Hippies and Alice, click HERE. My bit is at 15:30-24:00 😊

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Alice: The full moon gathering

Here’s another thread in my soon-famous post-apocalyptic adult hippie fairy tale, Alice. Two bits here: one, near the beginning, just after the introduction of the white witch (which you can find here); and the second bit later but still in Chapter 1, where the thread picks up at the full moon gathering.

xxxxxxx

“Evelyn,” said Christopher. “Do you want me to rub aloe vera on your legs?”

“No,” said Evelyn. “I want you to go to the pond with Alice. She wants to show you something.”

Evelyn went back to the sangria, and Alice and Christopher walked to the pond. When they got there, they took off all their clothes, jumped in, and then lay naked on the bank in the sun for a moment.

“I forgot to cut the oranges,” said Christopher.

“It’s OK,” said Alice.

“What did you want to show me?” asked Christopher.

“The bushes there,” said Alice.

Christopher looked in the direction of Alice’s gesture.

“That bush in particular. That’s where I saw the thing move. That’s where the hum of the fairies stopped. I think it had something to do with the change in the cosmos.”

“Hmm,” said Christopher. “That’s interesting.”

“Maybe you should make a map of it,” said Alice. Christopher, as everyone knows, was the mapmaker.

She squeezed water from her brown curls. Christopher leaned over and kissed her. She liked it when he did that. Christopher had nice lips.

“There it is again,” she said.

The bushes rattled but the hum didn’t stop this time.

“Maybe they’re getting used to it,” said Alice.

A white bald head stuck up out of the bush. Youthful it looked, or timeless, but definitely white and bald.

“Hello,” said Alice.

Nothing said the head.

“Hello,” said Christopher.

Still nothing.

“We’d better take care of it,” said Alice. “It looks hurt.”

* * *

Simon was the creature’s name. He wrote it down for Alice. Apparently, he could not speak. Maybe he was too weak to speak. Maybe he was born that way. His bald head shone like a bowling ball. The presence of fairies would always make him weep. Even if Alice and Evelyn did not know that fairies were near, Simon would know, and then Alice and Evelyn would know, because Simon would quietly start to weep.

John Wilson was supervising the hanging of the streamers – purple, green, and gaudy gold – in the communal hall of New Arcadia. Tonight was the full moon gathering. It was no surprise then that the full moon shone over the tips of the pines just outside of the hall. The rain king, a senile old fellow with a long white beard and an important ceremonial function in New Arcadia that no one could remember, was already there, perched in a wooden chair at a wooden table.

So the cooks cooked, the servers served, and the tablers laid the tables both outside and inside the hall. Mostly outside, as the smell of fresh pine and new sage would keep many a guest under the moon.

Along came Christopher the mapmaker and Freyda the white witch, Lonnie the kleptomaniac, and Alice and Evelyn and Simon. Alice and Evelyn brought the sangria, which was normally the big attraction, but this month every eye was fixed on Simon. Life was pleasant in New Arcadia, but news was hard to come by, and Simon was news.

Everyone started with sangria, and it was nice for everyone to see everyone else. After a few glasses, Evelyn stretched out in the moonlit grass so Christopher could rub palm seed oil on her long legs, the legs he would map someday. Freyda and Alice ate spinach pinwheels and swapped thoughts about the constellations and the spheres. But Lonnie the kleptomaniac kept her eye on Simon.

Lonnie the kleptomaniac had grown up in a cabin in no way extraordinary, unless it was extraordinarily ordinary. Like everyone in New Arcadia, they had had lots of vegetables, sufficient heat, sufficient cool, sufficient space, and a green field filled with gigantic toys for the kids to play in. No one knew why Lonnie became a kleptomaniac. Private property was not even really a thing. Sure, people had their own stuff in their houses, their kitchens, their living rooms. But things swapped around a lot. If the white witch needed something the rain king had, the rain king would say, “Take it,” and he knew he could find it at the white witch’s house. If Alice needed something Christopher had, Christopher would say, “Take it,” etc. What was the point of being a kleptomaniac with such an arrangement? There was no point, but that was Lonnie’s thing. She would not ask anyone, and no one would say, “Take it.” She would just take things secretly, so you never knew they were gone until you were looking for them. Sure, it was annoying sometimes, but that’s how Lonnie was and what could you do about it. One thing you couldn’t do was get mad at her because she had a smile as sweet as Alice. Her eyes set deep in her narrow face were sharp and beady, her hair straight black, her body all points and angles, but her smile, her smile, her smile as sweet as Alice.

So here Lonnie sat looking at the monstrous head of the little creature who came as the news. “I’d like to steal that head,” she thought to herself. “When no one is looking, of course.”

Lonnie walked over to Simon, who dribbled a little as he sipped his sangria. Sure, his head looked like a shiny bowling ball from the back, but from the front he had a heavy brow and a surprisingly long face. His hands, unlike the heart of the infamous Grinch, were two sizes too large. He apparently could not speak, but his sagging mouth revealed a pointy tongue with dots like squid suckers all over it. Lonnie loved everything about him. She talked soothingly to him while he gazed back up at her; she unwrapped his shawl and rubbed his shoulders; she stroked and kissed his beautiful bowling ball head.

But someone WAS looking. John Wilson, who made no maps and had no interest in Evelyn’s legs, who neither saw mysterious changes in the starry constellations nor heard the music of the spheres, had stayed inside the communal hall. John Wilson, who in his no-nonsense way kept things together and put a check to anything that made waves, saw Lonnie the kleptomaniac plant those peach-slice lips on the bowling ball head. And at this moment, he, John Wilson, realized the unrealizable. He, the organizer, the manager, the one who keeps the calm in the storm, he, John Wilson, was in love with his nemesis, the disorganizer, the one and only wave ruffler in New Arcadia, Lonnie the kleptomaniac.

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Alice free now

FREE instant download for the next few days. A post-apocalyptic adult hippie fairy tale by two-time Faulkner-Wisdom Prize finalist, Gary Gautier.

Get it HERE while it’s free. Read it later. Tell your friends.

#1 Bestseller on Amazon’s Metaphysical Fiction (free) list
#2 Bestseller on Amazon’s Literary Fiction (free) list

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Why Alice left the museum

Some of you might recall the brief excerpt from my post-apocalyptic adult hippie fairy tale, in which Alice had discovered some video discs in the abandoned museum, with meanings that ripple forward and backward through the novel. Let’s skip to how and why she left the museum …

Alice looked at the disc. It was near the end but the remainder was damaged beyond repair, and the disc was stuck on the word, we . . . we . . .  we. Alice pushed the button to turn off the machine.

Interesting, she thought. Some insight into the bygone era of the historian and Jazmine and the hoarders or whatever they called them. The “divide and conquer” thing. Weighted by the atmosphere, Alice looked to the arched doorway at the interior end of the room. Something was moving in a niche of the wall behind one of the columns. Alice stood, took two steps, and stopped. How could it be? The museum had been locked, empty, desolate. But there, motionless, was a human figure. Standing in front of the niche. Not just a human figure. But a figure dressed in what looked like a marching band uniform – a bold blue coat with big black buttons and a hat with a yellow feather. But motionless. Alice walked briskly but quietly out of the building and into the belly of a man dressed as absurdly as the motionless guard inside. Another marching band uniform, this one featuring bold red. Behind him stood the man from the inside. Wow, he’s quick, thought Alice.

“Alice?” said the lead man, the man in red.

“Yes,” said Alice.

“You’re under arrest.”

“For breaking into the museum?” she protested. “I just looked around. I didn’t take anything. Ask him.”

She pointed to the blue-coated guard at the back.

“He knows.”

The blue-coated guard turned red in the cheeks and looked away, as if he’d been caught in the cookie jar. The red-coated guard was unperturbed.

“Anyway, the door was open,” said Alice. “Almost.”

“Come with me,” said the lead man in the red coat.

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Alice in spikes

ALICE is featured on BargainBooksy today! Download an e-copy for $3.98 to help spike the numbers and move me up in the lists. Thanks!

Go ahead. Browse the free preview below, share the link, and and get your instant download.

#1 Bestseller on Amazon’s Metaphysical Fiction (free) list
#2 Bestseller on Amazon’s Literary Fiction (free) list

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Alice at the museum

Here’s a 3-page excerpt from my post-apocalyptic adult hippie fairy tale, Alice, where Alice wanders into an abandoned museum and stumbles upon some artifacts with meanings that ripple forward and backward through the novel.

xxx

Alice had entered the deserted museum, intent on exploring a little before leaving. As gloomy as the place had looked on the outside, sufficient light came through the windows for Alice to inspect the room she had entered. Opal was right. No one had been here in a long time. The place was in ruins. Two formerly elegant couches with dark-patterned upholstery were thrown about. Set in the walls were fine-trimmed niches that once held sculptures or paintings or perhaps some other baroque objets-d’art, but now all was damp and musty. The ceiling of thin wood slats had begun to disintegrate, and the room seemed hung with narrow wooden stalactites pointing down at the stray entrant.

Weighted by the atmosphere, Alice proceeded as quickly as seemed decorous, given the solemn aspect of the place, to the arched doorway at the interior end of the room. The next room was equally desolate but spacious. Four columns topped by groined arches ran down each side of what seemed the great hall. Concrete debris littered the floor. A dire-looking chandelier hung at the center, and under it was a simple folding chair and a large table. The table held some kind of old machine, and so what could Alice do but approach?

She sat in the chair and looked at the machine for a minute. Someone had been here. There was a wet circle on the table where someone had placed a glass or cup recently. There was a box of batteries at the far end of the table. The machine itself had a circular device with a button next to it, attached to a cylinder of some kind. Alice pushed the button and the circular device began to spin. She pushed again and it stopped. Three plastic discs lay between the device and the batteries. Were they pulled from a larger collection? Were they intended for some purpose? Or were they supposed to be hidden? Was Alice trespassing? Stirring up more trouble as everyone seemed to think she was doing just because she was a New Arcadian?

The last thought emboldened Alice. She put the first disc on the device and pushed the button. Spinning. So what. Then a flash from the corner of her eye startled Alice. The cylinder was projecting imagery on the wall ahead, where the rows of columns ended. The device itself made a continuous tapping sound that was a little unnerving, but the picture was clear, and Alice was now in no mood to stifle herself just because she was a New Arcadian.

* * *

A monk sat on a bench, engaged in a daily practice of reflection. Another monk approached and sat on the bench next to him.

“I am here, Brother Anselm,” said the second monk. “If you need me.”

“I know, Brother Hector,” said the first. “Thank you.”

Brother Anselm continued his practice, controlling his breath. Four breaths per minute. Three breaths per minute. Duckweed on the pond in front of the bench drifted like bits of green plastic clouds, forming slow shapes at the water line, breaking apart on the surface. Two breaths per minute. Drifting into transcendence. Time crawled to a stop. Alice could see all this happening on the wall-projected image. She could feel it. The gentle rat-a-tat of the machine continued.

But then she saw his anxiety. Time had stopped for the practicing monk. The rest of the world went on. There are things he should be doing. In his meditation, five minutes seemed like an hour. His mental images flitted across the screen. That was an hour that he could have spent baking bread with Brother Joseph or helping with the school play. Sometimes it seemed that the deeper the meditation, the slower his metabolism became, the more frantic he became that the world was flying by while he was idling.

Gradually, the whole thing flipped. The idea was not to slow oneself to a pace of contentment while the world rushed along in its course. In meditation, one could slow the world itself. When he slowed, his life slowed, the trees growing around the pond slowed, everything in the world slowed. He was not slowing down relative to the world; he was slowing down the world and himself within it. Alice could see it in the film. The eternal goalpost became more and more distant as time slowed. Like approaching the event horizon of a black hole. And then, as when one hits the horizon, time stopped and eternity was here.

Brother Anselm smiled. Alice could see in his smile that he had solved the problem of meditation as disengagement. It was not disengagement. It was a shaping force of reality. It had taken Brother Anselm many years of meditation, an enormity of reflection, to bring the world to pace. For Brother Hector, on the other hand, everything came in a flash. Alice could see into his mind. He didn’t need to think about things first. He didn’t need to go through all the hard work. He moved by quantum leaps.

“Funny thing about quantum leaps,” said Brother Anselm out loud. “No one can say ahead of time if they are in the right or the wrong direction.”

Then the camera panned back and Alice noticed something strange. The pond. It was her pond. A different time. Her pond. Mab’s pond. Maggie’s Hollow. But time passed. The monks disappeared. At the far end of the pond, a woman with long brown hair stood with her back to the camera. Then the rat-a-tat slowed to a tat . . . tat . . . tat.

The disc had run its course. Well, fair enough, thought Alice. No one has to know everything all in the same minute. She started the second disc.

* * *

God and the Devil were walking in the Himalayas, jagged peaks and plains of ice, bamboo and stone below.

“I never knew why you did it,” said God.

“Did what?” asked the Devil.

“Damned Adam and Eve.”

God gestured and the Devil followed him into a small clearing behind the rocks. Strewn about were costumes of Greek gods and goddesses.

“I didn’t damn Adam and Eve,” said the Devil, indignant. “You damned them. I was only trying to help.”

“Help? I gave them a pure soul and you ruined it.” God tossed a centaur costume at the Devil.

“No,” said the Devil. “Too obvious. You take the centaur costume. I’ll be Zeus.” He smiled at the thought.

God shrugged and fingered through the representations of Hermes, Hera, Hades, and a few others.

“You told them the soul was inside the body,” said the Devil. “That was a lie. You told them to look inward, forbade them the fruit of the outer garden, the joy of the senses, the senses that are always reaching outward, desire pushing them ever out into the world to discover its joys.”

“But those sensual joys are not the joys of the soul,” said God. And as if tripping over his own severity, God slipped, slid several feet below the clearing, almost into a small stream running down from the peaks. His antagonist caught him by the arm and helped him up. But in the combination of helping and laughing, the enemy slipped his own foot into the icy waters and let out a high-pitched yelp.

“Damn,” cried the Devil. “Not used to this cold water.”

The Devil then mocked God in a sing-songy voice of sarcasm.

“But those sensual joys are not the joys of the soul,” he mimicked.

Then he returned to his own voice and looked at God in earnest.

“You’re falling for your own tricks,” he said. They hobbled back to the clearing and to the weighty decision of costumes.

“The soul was always outside the body,” continued the Devil. “The joys I speak of, found in the world through the desiring senses, those are exactly the joys of the soul. The soul is not inside the body. The body is inside the soul. The soul is the universal body. And it must be explored. Your trick – trying to capture the universal soul, seal it inside the bodies of those poor creatures, Adam and Eve – it was just a trick. It couldn’t last. Sooner or later they would break the seal and rejoin the great outer soul. I just sped things up.”

They both stood and headed down the mountainside. The Devil had finally chosen the costume of Prometheus and God had settled upon Athena. They had crossed the tree line and were surrounded by rich vegetation.

“Ah, well,” said God. “A philosopher-devil. How comes it then that you fell from heaven while good ones stayed behind and lived in inner peace?”

“Relativity,” said the Devil. “I was rising up from the pit of heaven. From your point of view, it looked like a fall. For me it was a discovery.”

God aspirated in disgust, and the Devil gave an impish grin.

“You should join me, God. Before the festival. You have your costume and I have mine. Get away from all that nasty inwardness. Get out and explore the world, feel all the reflexes of the great outer soul.”

They paused to rest against a great rock, and God seemed to consider the Devil’s proposal. Then the rat-a-tat-tat slowed to a stop.

“Sorry, God and the Devil,” said Alice smartly. “One more to go.” And she put on the third disc.

#1 Bestseller on Amazon’s Metaphysical Fiction (free) list
#2 Bestseller on Amazon’s Literary Fiction (free) list

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Instant Alice

FREE instant download today. A post-apocalyptic adult hippie fairy tale by two-time Faulkner-Wisdom Prize finalist, Gary Gautier

Get it HERE while it’s free. Read it later. Tell your friends.

#1 Bestseller on Amazon’s Metaphysical Fiction (free) list
#2 Bestseller on Amazon’s Literary Fiction (free) list

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Alice in Morelia

Presenting ALICE live at Momento 449 in Morelia, Mexico, on Thursday, July 13!

Sorry folks, this event won’t be online as in previous ones with the Innovative Book Club and the Dublin podcast.

Good news is you can get your copy CHEAP HERE (paperback or Kindle).

A post-apocalyptic adult hippie fairy tale by two-time Faulkner-Wisdom Prize finalist, Gary Gautier

#1 Bestseller on Amazon’s Metaphysical Fiction (free) list
#2 Bestseller on Amazon’s Literary Fiction (free) list

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