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Chapter 8 Up on the Hill














What to do when the truth is too impossible to imagine, let alone accept? It’s not as if they didn’t put teachers into the path at different points to remind you of what you were not supposed to forget.

But until you understand and can appreciate the function of eighty some odd billion tarantulas and butterflies, you cannot possibly organize or return that much information.

So if I say that when they brought the baby to its mother and she shrieked “That’s not the baby I had a little while ago.  That looks like a green chicken skeleton” and the other children laughed, how are you supposed to know that was not Miriam’s baby, no, that was the baby who lived on a rooftop in a large city where a human woman called tiger made see-thru plastic dressings for daring young ladies.  Now how is a person supposed, to remember all that?

Once you understand what conversation is and how it is going on at every second, then you have to remember the pancake theory, then you’re in business, which most people are way more comfortable NOT being in, especially at this now time when everything is happening at once, which it always does anyway but now really is.  Here’s how I figure it when down: blonds have more fun, but too much of a good thing breeds bucktooth morons.  So they figured throw everybody into the hot tub, make it fun so they want to do it and that’s the kind of mix and match that wakes healthy puppies, night?

So there were root races that were plunked down here in one cell or another and left to party and have a good time. But you know rowdy some people can get.  And possessive! So you can imagine what 300 o’ clock in the cosmic morning is when nice people are trying to evolve.  You can just imagine. And it’s kind of fun to watch morons going at it for reasons so stupid you can’t imagine, but you’re glued to the spot just to see if blood will flow.  It’s at the point where it’s not funny anymore.  All cars are slamming into the same intersection.  This is the ultimate pileup.  And the great experiment to match blondes with “brunettes” has come to the proverbial screeching halt.

So plugs are being pulled.  The plug and watch all the poor little cooties go swirling down the drain because nobody wanted a planet fill of green beans.

So much to tell and the following was the first account to be translated into English about 30 year before the first performance of Alien Follies, an account of what happened about the same amount of time since the senators were screaming bloody murder on the floor of the Senate.  Nobody knows whether or not it’s accurate, but what we do know is that it resulted in our spending a lot of money at Christmas time.  But this is that account that has been passed down to us how Miriam actually became pregnant and the hullabaloo Jailoo started that got him arrested thirty years later.  But here is the beginning anyway, ending, which I’ll tell you about later how I happened to go or to be in Jerusalem on the very day everybody in town was up on the hill.  Poor Jailoo.  The mess he started. Pea green chicken skeletons it the world, but then again paring with snakes, alligators with little girls in white party dressed hasn’t worked out either.  But where was I and how did I get roped in opening a racy night club where Marilyn Monroe showed up looking absolutely hot and the food was a alive and writhing- all to help people have a good time and not think about racism for five minutes?

I can thank the two gorgeous prostitutes who hung around the front – entrance for that, but oh what a night- and, of course, a murder had to ruin everything.  It’s like being in school where they expect you to retain everything- dates, names, who’s in, who’s out.

It’s a 87 billion piece puzzle, gray side down, and you simply cannot count on Hollywood or the news programs any more to help solve it.  And the late night comics- I can’t even understand one word the audience is laughing at.  So we’re on our own I guess, because some things are still impossible to figure out, like the time between the kidnapping in Paris and when I first encountered Maya, why would two people take children out to the moors and torture them right while the place they called America who is protecting a country – North or South I can’t remember, somewhere, by killing so many children’s parents and making children run wildly crying and then be photographed by someone who took the photo.

So naturally they were also getting antsy and had been for about 20 years before I decided to live on the rooftop of a building in the heart of a busy city, probably.  So I could be reached whenever and partly, because I could never remember who I was supposed to hate and be afraid of except the sadist who had laughed, before putting me in a hole in the cellar and forcing me to eat dirt if you know what I mean.  I got pretty attached to Andy after that. Slept together every night till be got really dirty, but I loved him and because he wasn’t Jewish either(like Herbie) I knew he was safe in my arms.  Because right around the same pancake time the barbarians entered Rome, the more modern ones were killing all the Jews in what hey used to call Germany till the smartened up and started providing some nifty little cars people called bugs.  Which is also interesting because just at the time I finished (the Vinyl Solution, Random House loved it but said my mind was impossible) just at the same moment I was inside a bug when they stopped me on what was then called 72 steps and reminded me(or told me) that my life was now to be devoted to astrology which at the time I never connected with, the man in the floor or any of what to come pancake wise when Jailoo was making a bad situation only worse, because at the time almost everybody was Jewish.(But I digress this was what was left outside my door when I lived on the roof).

To put it bluntly, memory of your most horrible experience.  The most horrible experience possible – for you.  Your personal memory of your personal Good Friday. Remembering past despair. An Inner profound pain at the contemplation of utter failure, abject emptiness.

Saturn describes your stigmata, where you haven critically wounded, experienced mortal grief.  Reliving bravely the memory of that fateful day, long ago when we witnessed the death of our own innocence, the tragic sacrifice of what we loved most, believed most wanted, most prayed for, most and then had to give up.  To see all hope go down the drain, the last card played out, the last rabbit pulled out of the last hat.

The silence of death.

The finality of failure.  The no dice verdict of the (Roman) authorities.  The No help wanted sign.  The end of hope. The stunned acceptance that nothing has worked out, that everything was a foolish dream childish wishes.

The first moments of mourning of grief.  Our master was crucified today.


Who are myself? Our master, as I said was crucified today. I believe it.

Our master died. Christ is our master all Christians + Jews.  The Christians believe it, the Jews don’t, but Jesus rules them both, historically this is the Christian – Jewish schism period.  Next period Christian- Jewish.

All the time you waited for something to happen, a sign from heaven a miracle that would restore your faith.  But none came.  You stood there watching, wanting.  It got later and later and darker and colder until it was obvious that miracle don’t happen, at least not this time.  But even then, you still hoped for a sign.  But none came.  It was over.  No spark or miracle.  There were all your dreams in front of you, broken, smashed empty battered and beaten like old rubbish cartons.  There was every decent hope you ever had to make something out of your life –

The one time when you thought maybe it all might be true after all.  Where it’s dark and cold and suddenly everywhere is eclipsed by some ominous presence.  Caution demands that I check the lock on my door.

Facing death is hard- death of anything.  Ominous presence is that negative ghost within me that is present at every funeral.  Every funeral.  A kind of devil, if you must, who claims the body from the spirit Saturn is the Separator.  The appearance of the apparent conclusion.  The point of which the hero seems like he finally got his –

Where the bad guys have finally got him is the Saturn Point of the story.

In a chart it’s the place where it looks like you’re finally getting yours.  So back to the past where you may have really gotten yours – if you don’t get over it, you’ll never make it.  But how to get over it, you’ll never make it.  But how to get over painful memories?  That Saturn Point is crucial in getting to know the painful memories and dealing with them.

All right, it happened. Now what are we going to do about it.  Life still goes on. And I’m sorry to have to be practical, but we have to protect ourselves. So even if we have to do things we’re not maybe particularly proud of, but that’s the way it goes.

But the pain.

The neurotic way we stiffen up and cramp when we look back to an event in the past. Something that now looking back seems to wrong and unfair, so honestly unfortunate.

Dark and cold.  I’ll live it forever.  It was there.  The shouting. The rain. The drunken laughter. I couldn’t even cry.  I was tired and wet.  I saw the blood and the blue face and the bones.  But even when you see it, you still don’t believe it.  Everything in you is screaming No! No! No! and they’re already pushing you out of the way when they take the body down.  Our master was killed today and I was there when they took him down.  The poor man.  The poor man.  I tell you I/m spooked. Scared. That man was telling the truth. And it was a grim moment for humanity.

He was God, they say. But I was there! Wouldn’t a god blink an eye, just way away- something.  Anything.

I was there.

I got up close so I could see.  See if he was really dying.  But I full expected to be laughing with him tonight and rejoicing about the Roman defeat.  Talking politics in what mutable way he had –

I’m soon resigned to how it went.  I’ve had something to eat, and I’m alone in my sorrow.  I keep saying it as I went from the memory of the pain.  In a way I want to keep remembering it.  You see, I don’t ever want to experience again, what I went through today.  I am ashamed to wake up tomorrow morning and hear the Master passing by my window waking me up from my ghastly dream.  But he is dead.  I saw the body, the grave, the shit running down the cross. He’s gone.  Gone.  When they take him down I keep drinking in his eyes.  But right away I knew it was no joke.  I loved Him more than ever.  But I never believed for a second that it would even happen! And you know once it did I couldn’t think of any other way it could have turned out.

There are no Gods on Earth. That much I should have known.  But it’s such a temptation to believe such a possibility, you’ve got to admit.  I am upset, it’s true.  But the possibility of all that POWER existing in a human being.

There’s some truth to it.  Don’t mind me.  I’m just trying to reconcile what happened today! Where I was when I should have been THERE, I was out entertaining.  Two lovely ladies and doing business.  But I feel terrible, too.  I’m not as close to it as my brother, but my brother you see, because he had to go and see our master crucified, will never get over what he has seen.  The memory of this day will be so etched upon the brain of my poor brother.  That he will kill himself a few years from now.  In fact almost everyone of the witnesses of today’s crime will end their own loves within 30 years.  I sympathize but I will not kill myself over this event.  Our master is gone.  I’m half-crazy too because of it, but I’ve just got to go on.  The town is stunned tonight.  Even the Romans are kind of upset at the anti-climax.  Not even a riot at the Cross.

They stood there in the rain looking at or Master, dying.  I knew I should be there with Him, but somehow I just stayed sipping something cool with these 2 ladies.  The tavern was empty. Except for a boy who spoke a strange tongue and seemed afraid of us.  They knew what was going on up on the hill.  But they changed the subject when I jokingly brought it up.  I did a few errands, visited friends and came home.  I guess I just didn’t want to face what had to be faced.

Being able to remember great pain without tensing up at the thought.  Growth is healing.  The goal of understanding Saturn is becoming brave and wise enough to reach yourself into the past, recognize what happened then and find some good in the experience.  Hard to see when you’re close to the experience. Time-wise.

Time + Space will take you far away from the scene of the crime so that you may have forgotten just where or when it was, but somewhere in that past is a memory or string of memories that twist you into a pretzel because you have not dealt with them.  Neurosis, psychosis come from twisted distorted memories that might be the tragic future of our psyche, but damaged ingenious inauguration winds are subtly programming. Deal with it.

I wanted to believe more in Him, but my brother believed too much and look where he ended up.  I’m guilty for not going to the hill, and I’m guilty, my brother killed himself.

I went out with 2 ladies when it happened.  I was there.  But I’m one of the only ones who didn’t kill themselves – And it was years ago, now.  I’ve made it this long.  I was there, too.  I saw it all. And I’, still here to tell about it. Yes, it gets to me sometimes.  Of course if you were there when he died again, it makes the memory of that day much less horrible.  But it’s easier to tell people I was out with 2 ladies.  If I tell them I saw the Master, spoke with him, watched him regenerate in those strange rays.

I saw the whole thing. Maybe that’s why only a few of us have survived. We saw him rise again. We know his glorious light.  How he did it we’ll never know.  What strange devices he had at his disposal.  But he staggered out of that cave and breathed.  That strange light seemed to revive him. Even his wounds looked like they were disappearing.  After a while he even spoke.  I was frozen with terror.  The disappointment of the other day I could accept.  It was natural to be brought down to Earth, forced to be realistic and feel foolish for praying that maybe. . . But this, this I couldn’t take in. This triumph over death itself.  Everything ran through my mind.  Maybe he’s plotted the whole thing with the Romans.  Maybe my father was right after all.  I saw him crushed like stale bread, not a crumb of life left in him.  And here he was, looking around at the day like a man about to set out for a day’s work.

He saw me crouching in horror.  Yes horror.  To see this creature stirring proudly gliding toward me in a swath of humming light was infinitely worse than asking his DEATH.  His death was natural, something secure.  It followed the course of things.  It kept my faith in natural law, physical law in a strange way.

But not life.  Who were this “man’s” allies, if not heavenly, who could resurrect him from the dead with blinding lights and brilliant piercing songs. Or was it my terror at seeing the dead come to life? He touched me and I felt it in a way calling my body.  Strange.  He appeared as stunned as I was.  He looked at this hands and feet, examined himself and over, then looked down at me.  I don’t think he believed it any more than I did.

“Master” I cried as I spoke my tears flowed as they hadn’t at death.  “Master you were dead.”

I sobbed hysterically.

“Yes.” He answered.

But that was a long way ago, and this is what Broadway is all about.