UNSETTLED

At the 2001 Prague Conference on Artificial Life
The ghost of Rabbi Judah was occasionally seen
Sitting quietly at the back of a morning lecture.
He'd take a few notes and once asked a speaker
Whether he agreed with Eliyahu of Chelm
That the possibility of a golem acquiring a soul
Could not be ruled out. This set off a loud debate.
The fact that the motherboard of an early laptop
Was known to be suffering in Hell was deemed
Interesting but not genuinely conclusive.

DESCENT

Esther was named
After her grandmother
Who was named after an aunt
Who bore the name
Of a half-sister who carried
Her own mother's name
For three days and a half.
The progression
Is long, not endless.
You can trace this line
Back and back and back
Until you are in Babylon
With Ishtar, the lion-rider
Who made an angry trip
To Hell and came back
Still angry but without
Any clothes.

IN HELL

Hell endures but its patience
Does not. Wearied of Dante
And his poking about, some
Of the more creative devils
Ran up a good imitation
Of Purgatory for him to see
And then outdid themselves, making
A Paradise rather like the one
They remembered in the hope
That he'd be satisfied and
Go back to Florence. Alas,
The demon playing Beatrice
Fell in love with Ba'al, whose God
Won raves from all the critics
In Hell (insert here joke
Referencing number of critics
In Hell). Both of them at last
Had to be exiled to Heaven.

SMOKE

Some mornings I wake up thinking

“The Egyptian was right! Heaven

Is surely made of smoke!” But then

I start wondering, After all, the Irishman

Saw a cold and rook delighting Heaven

While the Bible builds it of gold

And pearls, jasper and crystal –

A vast Faberge egg, lovely but not

Much use if you’re hungry. Perhaps

The American soldier had it right

Saying Heaven and Hell and Hoboken

Have much in common.

NOT HERE ON A TRAIN

Being on a train reminds me of angels

Not here, not there, both and neither.

It is just a story that the revolted ones

Populate Hell. All and none of them rebelled;

For convenience, they use different names

Depending on their location. In Heaven

Michael is Satan's indomitable foe. In Hell

He has a pied-a-terre, calls himself Beelzebub,

 And is Satan's trustworthy lieutenant.

Two rows away, Schrödinger’s cat

Is free in a woman’s lap and in his box

And lolling in the seat across the aisle.

Schrödinger, poor fellow, is dead. His will

Is in a language no one but cats can read.

LIVES

The postmistress and the service manager knew one another in a former life, and hated each other bitterly, each striving to do as much ill to the other as could possibly be done, and staying up late to see whether a bit more than the possible might be achieved. The postmistress was a very great lady indeed, as that age counted such things, and the service manager had risen far from low beginnings, and, wearing an episcopal mitre, was responsible for the care and cure of the lady’s soul. The postmistress burned, metaphorically, to see the bishop burned literally, and often spent long afternoons forging evidence to submit to the Inquisition, or suborning potential witnesses. As befit his position, the bishop pondered ways and means of ensuring the lady went to Hell.

Neither succeeded. The Inquisition had grown lax and indolent, and yawned over the decisive proofs of the bishop’s startling heresies, regularly delivered to them along with pieces of game and the occasional barrel of wine. The game was eaten, the wine drunk (with an occasional toast to its provider); the evidence was put aside and rats ate the parchment when the winters grew harsh.

The lady had seemed set for Hell, for aside from her hatred of the bishop, she was a cruel mistress to those who served her, but a wandering preacher converted her at the last and she died repentant. Hell ignored the bishop’s prayers and denied the lady admittance. The bishop, too, escaped by the breadth of a hair. An archangel with too little to do set both souls on a series of rebirths, always in proximity to each other.

Over the centuries they’ve managed, all unknowing, to move from utter loathing to mere abhorrence for each other. In Heaven you can get odds as to what century it will be in which they fall in love. In Hell, though, the smart money would be on “never,” except for the difficulties of collecting on such a bet.

ONCE MORE

They say wrong who say there is no love in Hell.

If you have eyes to see, you cannot avoid it. It is built

Into the very foundations of the place,

Which would tumble in an instant without love.

It stands on the street corners, frozen and foolish,

So that you have to shove it aside to pass.

It roars down the dim alleys holding a shining knife,

So bright you blink as it goes by.

Some nights beneath dead stars’ indifferent light

You’ll hear it, padding behind you.

You whirl, but see only shadows.

In the squares of Hell are many men, each intent

Upon fashioning his damnation. A juggler,

As on most days, stands behind his upturned hat.

Three balls at first, yellow, green, white, and then

A fourth, light blue with red speckles.

A fifth, a sixth, a twelfth -- more than you can count.

Your damnation calls to you, insistent, but you watch.

One ball shoots off and bounces off your nose

Then back into the unending circle.

Some one laughs; you find that your damnation

Has wandered off, abandoning you.

Of Heaven and Hell are we the children.

Say you there was no love in our making?

NOTE FROM THE DARK CITY

Of a Saturday or Sunday in the Dark City one is likely to see exhausted birds of every kind, sleeping on rooftops or convulsively clutching tree branches. There always seems to be a sort of truce between them, and one may see wrens and humming birds sharing a roof with owls and hawks and ospreys. Only the ravens flock by themselves on these days, and they are showing their usual wisdom in doing so.

          It used to be common knowledge that, since before the beginning of the world, every raven was obligated to bring a grain of sand to Hell every Friday. No one knows for sure why Hell needs sand, or if it needs it at all, or simply wants to remind the ravens of their old allegience. Me, I suspect that Hell may be trying, very slowly, to switch places with the world, or perhaps they’re building something. In any event, I always try to bring a handful of sand or two back from Hell, just to slow then down.

I don’t think men ever knew what bargain the ravens had made for which this was their payment, and few men now remember why ravens are so familiar with Hell. Still, the bargain holds. On Fridays you must look sharp and quick if you wish to see a raven.

          But ravens are dealmakers, and it long ago occurred to them that they more or less keep their contract if the sand gets to its destination, regardless of the messenger. Thus, they are forever finding other birds who, in return for some ravenly service, or perhaps to pay off a bet, will deliver a grain of sand to Hell. Most make the return journey safely enough, and the ravens do not grieve for those who find no exit.

          Most of the birds which stagger from the sky in the Dark City recruit their strength for a day or so, and then fly off, resolved to make no more bargains with ravens. Some, though, seem content to trade the forest for the roof tops and brooding trees we offer.

          One such is a hen whose bright eyes hold more of wisdom and terror than it is common to find dwelling in a chicken’s head. She came staggering into the courtyard of my building one day and collapsed. Her feathers were singed; and I realized that she had walked to Hell, left her grain of sand, and then walked out again. I spoon fed her on beer for a week, and we parted ways with mutual respect. She’s still to be seen strutting quietly in the shadows, and the cats do not molest her.

THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY

       As I understand it, a soul is a cross between a witness and a hostage. In the normal run of things, it accompanies a man through life, seeing and remembering everything he does. At death, the body reveals its inborn perfidy, resolving itself into unsullied dust, and the soul trudges off to punishment or reward or to another alliance with the material world. Not, perhaps, ideally just, but traditional. Thus, when the body I’d accompanied for 46 years was safely, smugly, buried, I slipped off and made my way to Hell.

       I hadn’t been able to commit epic sins, but my opportunities had been limited. I had never murdered anyone, except when I was a soldier, but only because I feared the gallows – I cared not a fig nor a firkin for anyone else. In my small way, I had made life a  misery for those around me with petty persecutions and cruelties, and the neighborhood had breathed a sigh of relief when I died, having made not the least sign of repentance. Still, I was no coward and, as much as something immaterial can, squared my shoulders and set off.

       Those who write of the easy path to Hell, the broad way, the smooth descent, have, I strongly suspect, never made the journey themselves. I found it preposterously difficult to find. If a small grey cat with a cast in its eye hadn’t directed me at last I might be searching for it yet. The right road, when at last I was on it, looked ordinary enough – dusty, to be sure, but neither inviting nor sinister. The Gates of Hell might have lead to the suburban villa of a minor country lord.

       As one would expect at such a villa, there was a guard, and obviously one who had seen better days – a shabby fellow, with a tooth missing from his grin and small, mismatched horns. Still, he knew his duty and challenged me, blocking my way.”What business?” he said, brusquely enough. He sounded so much like I had when I’d spent a season teaching I felt like saying “Please, sir; I’ve come to be damned!” I had more dignity than that, though, so I looked into his impudent red eyes and said “I am a soul come to judgment.”

“You’re a what.”

“A soul, I said, blackened with crime and sin and without a speck of remorse.”

“No, you’re not.”

“My good man, I cheated and lied and stole. When I was handsome I broke hearts, and when my looks were gone I made the weak fear me, and they were right to, since I doled out pain and humiliation. There was nothing generous about me and Virtue and I cut each other in the street.”

“A lovely speech, mister, but you’re not meat for Hell.”

“Not mete for Hell? You must be far pickier than men say. Ask anyone who knew me; they’ll say that if ever a soul was bound for Hell it was me.”

“Maybe so, but they’d be wrong to say it.”

I was, I confess it, stung. “What, was I not evil enough? I lived in a quiet part of the world, without any chances for great villainy. What evil I could do, I did.”

“Oh, it’s not the evil that’s the problem. I can see you were thoroughly loathsome. It’s … well .. that is to say …”

There was a pause, until I grew impatient.

“That is to say what? What let or hinderance can there be to my going through your gates and starting my well-deserved eternal torment?”

“Hell is for souls, sir. And you’re not one. Or, at any rate, not a real one.”

Rabbits and Spain. Also Ghent

Questions multiply. I still haven’t figured out why the rabbits wanted to hide Spain, nor why they didn’t succeed better. Of course, it may be that they succeeded far better than any of us know, and the Spain we see is merely a small portion of the Spain we don’t. This blog has been accessed nine times by people in Germany – perhaps one person who keeps making the same mistake, typing “Shrewsburyclock.blogspot.com,” when he or she means to type “catvideos.org” – and one Venezuelan. If a German is willing to look into this question of what the rabbits are up to, the Venezuelan might be willing to translate.

Meanwhile, another poem from Ghent.

They tell you, when you begin in Ghent

The most junior Tourist Bureau employee

That you must never show surprise.

No one plans to visit Ghent

Yet somehow there are tourists

Each and every one of whom

Has taken a wrong turning.

Some missed the left at Alberquerque;

Others, midway in life’s journey

In a dark forest, paused

And Vergil passed them by.

Not Hell do they visit; only Ghent.

Help them make the best of it and never

Say what brought you here.

SOME DARK CITY NOTES

I was born in the Dark City, so our ways have always seemed ordinary enough to me, but I can also understand that a visitor may need some help getting used to us. Thus, I’m writing both to welcome you and to pass on a few words of advice.

The first thing you need to remember is that morning coffee is usually brewed with water from the River Styx. Having drunk it, all oaths you make until it’s passed through your system are absolutely binding. The gods themselves cannot break an oath made by the Styx, so be very, very careful with your language while here. In particular, I urge you to avoid the construction “I’ll be damned if I [go to the Opera/ write my Aunt Petrohilos/ change my socks}.” When, as is inevitable, you go to the opera (possibly with your Aunt Petrohilos, and wearing a pair of clean socks), you will, of a surety, be damned, and your friends will have to mount a costly and dangerous expedition to extract you.

That is, we’ll mount such an expedition if we remember who you are. Another thing to keep track of is that bottled water in the DC comes from Lethe. (A small glass before retiring guarantees peaceful dreams. However, too large a glass guarantees not only a restful night but some time without a clue as to your own identity. I once experienced this, and was persuaded by my brother when I awoke that I was a blind street musician named Snigg. I spent a month tapping my way around town, building up quite a following for my virtuoso therebo playing. It wasn’t until a particularly hot day that I suddenly, in mid-madrigal, recalled that, while I couldn’t play a note, I had keen eyesight. Since you’ll be staying with us, I should warn you that my brother, the Marquis, still has the therebo somewhere. You can tell him from me by the squint, unless someone is shining a bright light into my eyes at the moment).

There’s no point in warning you to avoid the ambrosia, which vaguely man-like creatures roll into town in barrels now and again. Simply get drunk on it, as everyone else does, and you’ll pass for a native.

Its probably best to eschew religious conversations, as serious theologians tend to carry small arms when they socialize. If you must speak of things ecclesiastic, remember it is a matter of historical record that God has frequently manifested Himself (or Herself, if you live south of Weary Street) in the Dark City, almost always as a cat. The prudent, accordingly, treat all cats as if they may be God. Do not goggle, then, when someone mentions that they saw God chasing a mouse through the Drachenfells, or that God hissed at them when they stepped on His tail. (As I write you, God is sitting on a windowsill next to me, staring at a dust mote).

          If you walk in the park, remember that the trees know martial arts and that the squirrels are prone to bitter sarcasm.