Merlin
Naturally, few are
so misrepresented. The pointy hat. The long robes embroidered with stars
and planetary phases. In fact, he prefers Sean Combs black velvet suits,
kidskin Prada shoes, and Fendi pince-nez sunglasses. These days, he sports
a red beard trimmed to his broad jaw, an onyx stud earring and, of course,
a ponytail.
I first met him early
January ’91 in Waikiki, on Sans Souci beach, while he was vacationing
at the opulent Kahala Mandarin Oriental. Aloof at first, he pretended not
to know what I was talking about after I identified him by the dragon tattoo
on his thigh. But later, when he needed someone to hook him up to the local
nightlife beyond the usual tourist trade, we got to be friends. You’ll
recall his weakness for women led to his legendary demise.
A night of marathon
debauchery concluded on the crater rim of Diamond Head, where we sipped
mai tais from coconuts and watched a flamboyant sunrise. In a soft, resonant
Devonshire accent, he discussed the mysteries.
His revelations flared
like sunbursts across the blind ages. From him, I learned that God is female.
One God, numerous angels, whom he referred to as fire lords - correlative
to one fallopian egg and legions of sperm. Our universe is Her exile. The
galaxies are creation engines the fire lords assembled to power their way
back to the higher dimension from which She fell. Each galaxy pivots on
a massive black hole; each black hole, a gravitational portal back to Her
stupendous origin.
But there’s
a hitch.
The lamp of his voice
dimmed. Our souls washed up on the shore of Her eyes. She won’t leave
without us. The fire lords constructed the periodic elements in their stellar
kilns and built life out of those cosmic tinkertoys - and human brains complex
enough to remember Her.
I didn’t understand
most of what he said. Inevitably, I inquired about Arthur. What he confided
became source material for my creative writing, four novels set in Roman
Britain.
While we chatted,
small blue UFOs, intense as stars, transpired across the orange sky before
abruptly cutting ninety degrees into the indigo zenith. “Echoes from
the future,” he told me cryptically. I didn’t pursue it.
We remain friends.
When autumn rises, he sends a basket of colorful gourds from the Slavic
countries where he summers.
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