“12 Steps in A Life’s Journey of the
Deus Ramos of His Time: The Opening Scene”
The detonation of thunder exploded
in a percussive charge along the road he was traveling on, the road a winding temporary
detour off the main desert highway. The concussion caused him to reconsider his
roundabout way. It has been a long way from his detoxification, his metabolic
thoughts reprocessed since being injured by the addictive elements of his past.
He had since overcome his physiological and psychological dependencies by
drawing the poisons slowly from himself, but also removed were his character
and reputation, derailing his life, causing him to lose his tribal memberships
and customs, the effort causing irrevocable damage and loss. It was an
injurious trial, wearing away the loose fragments and debris of his prior mind,
leaving behind the eroded matter of the late 20th century, such
excesses already swelling the human race with such casts of the die that result
in unexpected, artificial, and improbable characters and tangled plots with no
solutions to their difficulties. Though he was regarded as the foremost poet of
his time, the Deus Ramos if you will, he was now lost as he paused among the
clusters of white and pinkish dentzias lining the now treasonous and darkening
path. He remembered the British dancers and the words of the Prime Minister
before they were devalued by time and laid to waste. He was heading toward the
next town, seeking to improve the quality of life wherever he went, to fulfill
that particular end and need until it became so complex and intricate that he
could not maintain that specific roll, or continue to serve that particular
purpose, at which point he would then retreat to what he considered to be a
more strategic defensible position, until the growing population in the
residential and commercial sectors developed their goods and services beyond
his rhythmic and harmonic influence and evolved beyond his mental and physical
capacities. Many thought it would last throughout his life, until death,
causing behavioral changes beyond the remedy of any piety and learning or the
patronage of any English nobleman such as those favored by Elizabeth I and
executed for treason for taking part in uprisings of the people of London- no
Robert Devereux to his rescue. Deprived of any recovery, his title stripped and
his property taken, a Mother Goddess appeared in the form of a Devi, which
shielded him from the accepted standards of society. His deviations from the
behaviors and attitudes around him only magnified his presence, making it
difficult to deflect the plans and schemes that were designed to destroy him.
While he wandered aimlessly doing as he must, he met a personified spirit of
evil, the ruler of hell, an energetic, mischievous, daring, and clever persona
with malevolent intent. Armed with such a low level of sophistication he would
have been consumed forever by the diabolically depraved and tormenting demon,
had he not been always inclined to take the position of the devil’s advocate,
thereby turning the malicious evil upon its issuer, which freed him, but left
him voiceless. It was a long time before he was pronounced cured, and that in
successive stages. He was set apart for higher purposes- he seemed to be
enthusiastically committed to, and ardently devoted to his cause, showing an
almost religious zeal for and sureness of performance in his pursuit, though he
was almost murdered by an angry mob for not heeding their unruly danger, and
was saved only by his mental skill and grace in social customs and a sense of
the order of the universe, not to mention the civil authorities that arrived
just then and presented an opposing force which resolved the matter quickly.
Now he is in dialog with his ideas and opinions, exposing the contradictions
inherent in all events, and he proceeds forward toward the thunder, a figure as
if adorned with diamonds, but feeling only like a small moth drawn toward a
flame, in a tragic false flight of hope, under its influence to the ashen end.
He passed a light-colored, porous rock made up of two atoms, piercing through
the brittle surface, interlocked in a symmetrical skeleton, translucent,
seemingly surrounded by bright, bodily tissue and suspended in its adverse
environment. Onward he trudged, not heeding that his path was fraught with
danger and risk, his bleeding heart pressing him on, bitterly criticizing him
for his hesitations, a reprimand he did not wholly oppose, knowing that any
chance of happiness in his future depended on his finding his conscience
through a new poetic diction that tested his theories against the unsuspecting,
in his pursuit of the relative truths that enveloped him. He trembled at the
gathering storm ahead, and was now twelve steps further along in his life’s
journey.