RMG 1

I Am The Master Of My Multiverse

Channeled by Ricardo MadGello Humorist par Excellence ====================================

CHAPTER ZERO

I am writing myself. Forces I know nothing of and do not understand compel me to compose this written work for you here now.

I am the book held before you at this moment.

Words in some strange foreign language appear on the pages as your fingers or eyes scan them in effort to extract the contents of each page.

They appear then fade away and meld into the next set of alphabetic characters that show themselves as time does its thing with matter and substance.

The hands behind the keys of this typewriter have less than zero chance of catching them as they float into existence and present themselves here for the brief moment attention is focused on their presence. .
.
.

"Maestro!"

The word reverberates through the air in the hallway threaded between the dressing room and the entrance to the stage.

The conductor is off in another world working on some unrelated piece of music for some performance yet to be heard by any audience or himself for that matter.

"Maestro, you forgot your baton. The orchestra members won't know what to do or when to do it without your loving guidance of its motion in your skilled hands."

The conductor takes the baton in uncertain and benign forgiveness of his own forgetfulness and proceeds to the podium that is set at the edge of the stage between the audience and orchestra members.

"Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen." "The concert you, the orchestra, and I are about to enjoy has yet to be composed and/or imagined." "It is composing itself as we proceed to enjoy the sounds, phrases and melodies it brings to our ears." "We hope and pray, that is."

'TicTicTic', the conductor's baton communicates to the podium which alerts each instrument's player to the approaching first measure.

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Now I am the music teasing your eardrums.

The kettle drum booms once and slowly moves up the scale as the peddle is depressed then lowers in pitch as the foot pulls back a notch, then two, then three.

Bass clarinet sounds in slow and silky not wishing to disturb the throb that is just now beginning to return its echo from the back of the opera house.

Ghosts of ancient and modern composers awaken, rub their sleepy eyes, then stand and glare in jealous awe and anticipation for both the last cycles of the previous intrusion on the former stillness that had not long before filled the hall, infrequently interrupted only by the occasional semi-squelched cough and rustling of tonight's blank program.

"This is the symphony that writes itself before our long dead ears, as we pause to listen." they whisper to each other in unison as the bass clarinet's first sound attempts to introduce the theme of this particular work.

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Chapter one

Before I was printed on this paper I was a set of ideas and potentialities floating around in a space that has no texture, feeling, or measure. It was the most difficult job I have ever been presented with to bring myself to you. The path seems clear at the moment. And yet, I continue to have great difficulty translating myself into words that make themselves clear or understandable in terms this language I'm written in now can convey. Language escapes me. Meaning evades. And I don't understand how or why. The process seems so simple; to be born, live a life, die, fade away and hopefully be reborn in a form that is, was, or will be easier to understand. Is it that I don't see the clear path to release in this life as I am knowing myself to be in the present, past, and future, all three simultaneously?

I confuse myself with logic. And sense of meaning and tense of time. And yet.

I become real before your and my very eyes...

Right here.

Right now.

Right.

Leftover and discarded melodies, compositions unfinished and undone flap in the silken breeze here. Unfinished for lack of time and attention. Undone by the thought processes of the composer before me. His mind gets in the way. It interrupts my birth. Is this what many call 'writer's block'? Or is it the method I choose, this time, to introduce myself?

I need to relax, yet I need a cup of coffee. Is that me saying that or is it the <bleep>ing set of fingertips at the end of the pair of arms attached to the body of the being I choose to birth myself through?

I get smarter each time. This time I made him, my composer, the fingers typing at the keyboard, go for a walk the other day. He thought the cars that appeared to be attempting to run him over or simply bump into him were mild reflections on his states of mind. Through experience he begins to understand. Writing me is easier than him taking a crap while his bowels are loose enough to let the Titanic drop out through the sphincter that is merely a metaphor for the clamps on his mind, real and/or imagined, or so he thinks. Yet, it appears more obstacles present themselves on the path to my arrival. On his journey, sights, sounds, aromas (stenches, mostly, these days) reveal themselves before his weary senses as his trembling legs carry him through the streets of today.

Yet, I digress.

I begin to fear birth. Birth of myself. Mice Elves, more re-wording, yes? And who really gives a flying rat's patootie about what roadblocks appear between my becoming and your being able to enjoy, abhor, be disgusted by, amuse, or enthuse you. You, dear reader, are the only thing that is holding me up right now. Separating me from the dingy mess on the floor I see below you and the sky above. A mess that would be a treasure if not for the history of each item that claims its space down there. Down there below you. Causing pause in your step in your efforts to remain upright and not tripping over everything while you pace between here and there. It is good you remain sitting yet moving around. From place to place. No direction known or desired. As Unity Of Being enters the room.

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Chapter two

Unity and I have been friends for some time. We used to have arguments about which of us were interrupting who and/or whom, per se. In our efforts to realize ourselves in here, in the place where we come from, and exist until born. Unity says something. I attempt to relate. We talk to each other, but it's always too late. I hear what Unity says. And Unity hears me. We talk with each other. By the time Unity's words reach my ears. I believe I've already understood. Yet the words, "Don't interrupt me, I'm not finished.", sting my ears and mind and spirit. I shut up. I listen. Words come at me. The ideas behind them have faded. The connection is lost. We say, "Let's do lunch one day." and go our separate ways.

Before we'd met each other, Unity and I that is, we'd each found something, something special, something to share. Something to talk about in our mutual and separate efforts to fill the air.

It's lonely in silence. Quite deafening at times, as ears go into overload with nothing to hear. Ears stretch themselves thin at times. Cupping for sounds and funneling those that arrive onward toward nerves in hopes of arriving on time with that note from before is such strenuous work. The audience is still. A pause. A tinkle of glass shattering, white-hot steel wire fresh from the mill rips from one end of tha hall to the other while attempting to connect one thought to the next. Nothing makes sense in this place where I wait until birth of my being brings me full force to the forefront of my life as I know it now before it really has a chance to begin.

I'm so tired of this waiting room where we, the works of so-called composers, must piddle around, twiddling our thumbs and playing Mah Jongg to kill the time before it kills us, or our neighbors, or dear friends.

We'd love to just be able to stand up and account for our newness, our right to survive, our need to exist, our desire to share, Music.

Ideas from over here. Ideas that don't exist and never can here. As there is no room in a place without space... or time to separate us from each other.

We continue in our mission though.

It is our only duty, our only job, our only reason... to exist in the first place or second or third.

But, we can never understand those concepts, no matter how hard you, dear reader, try to cram them down our throats. Constantly misinterpreting our every move, our every stillness, our absence and presence both at the same time.

"It's a matter of duality", your flags have stitched across themselves.

We say "huh?", "wha?", "eh?", and so forth, a lot to each other and ourselves these days, even though each day is the same one without repetition. Or, when we're really bored or we've lost a tile or two from this game that has no beginning or end, we'll yell out, "What in the hell is this?".

Birth has a tendency to do that, we're told in the waiting room, here where we sit, reclining, or lying to each other, with nothing better to do until. . .

"Hey fingers!!!! Get back to work! We're counting on you!" "Somebody get the forceps! This one is coming out sideways or not at all." We cringe in fear of dying before we're even born.

Yet we're all the same being. Nothing separates us from each other here. It's your job to do that, to make us have meaning apart from each other. And keep us together in the same space that you create for us as you give us life and breath.

Ahhhhh.
breathing. I almost forgot.
It's a good thing we're not swimming or we'd drown. For lack of breath.
Without any air. We die in transition. From here to there.
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Chapter three
To Be Continued?