Copyright 2003 by Robert Camacho. All rights reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

Beneath a Golden Web
By
Robert Camacho

Inspired by writer, naturalist, John Muir, I take to trails ascending rocky high places, camping alone for days without seeing a soul. Young Native Americans, on "Spirit Quests," find uniquely individual power and magic. My "power" was restless and extremely agitated when I returned to the Cleveland National Forest. Within twenty-four hours, two seemingly unrelated occurrences changed my life.

After a thirty-mile walk through Cuyamacha State Park to Mt. Laguna, I bed down in a wooded clearing near a large meadow where mountain lions hunt Mule deer. Fatigue, rather than common sense, dictates my choice of locations.

It's sunset. I hear the nocturnal cats hunting - snarling primal beasts - too close for comfort. Exhaustion presses the moment. Deathlike dreamless sleep follows. I need to piss, but mountain air is coldest before dawn. I'll wait for the sun. Dreams begin at times like this.

Rustling brush nearby disturbs my sleep. Something climbs atop my bag. I hear sniffing and panting. Large cat mitts playfully cuff my shoulders. Emerging from my cocoon, I see mountain lion tracks all around me. My "power" wants my full attention.

Today, I cross meadows leading to a Kumeyaay Village archeological dig, marked by posts and string. It's two hours before sunset. On this sparsely wooded thousand foot high granite ridge, several well-traveled trails lead to, and from, the village. I won't sleep in or near the village. The dead might rise!

After an hour's walk due east from the village, along a straight ridge line, I'm back at the village? I've hiked hundreds of demanding, confusing and complicated trails, this was not, yet, I'm back in the village. Impossible! You don't walk away from a fixed point in a straight line, for an hour, and end up where you started.

It's too late to hike out. If what just occurred happens again, I'll freak out. I bed down near the ridge and watch sunset over Cuyamacha, Middle and Stonewall Peaks. Strange things happen on high rock. Modern, and ancient explorers report experiencing magnetic fields, portals and vortexes - earthly versions of black holes.

Chandra X-ray Observatory, recently saw gas and dust attracted by a strong gravitational pull, fall into orbit around a black hole and form an Accretion Disc. Matter, crossing the event horizon, pulled into the hole, radiates from the Accretion Disc becoming visible. Proving that when a sun's thermonuclear fuel is depleted, the core collapses into a black hole with an enormous gravitational pull, so great that light cannot escape.

There are black holes in society too. Murderers, thieves, child molesters, and rapists are black holes. They terrorize to regain power, but their core values have collapsed. They must not be "forgiven" for they know what they do.

The past two days were physically and mentally challenging. Though the line between fact and fiction sometimes blurs, these two incidents are clear! Meditating on the ridge line, I calm down and regain focus. Contemplating the wild expanse, a dark swarm of writhing locusts devours the idyllic landscape. The future appears . . .

This world is mad! As mad as times allow. Silver Surfer flies through damaged, dangerous, toxic air. City lights sparkle in the wasteland. These are the days and nights of spoiled rotten innocence.

The rank-air-detector beeps in the sultry heat of a ravaged atmosphere. There used to be open space and oceans between continents, even between large cities. Now, everything's connected. Nothing goes unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Entertainment is living, dying, eating, sleeping and elbowing through a mass of bodies. Dodging missiles of scintillation, I beg to feel thrills lost to yesterday.

New women and old games are afoot in the sexy New Age. They dance in trances that have no place in this world or any other. It's their reincarnation. They stream through the maelstrom running toward the United States Presidency and seats of global authority.

Two world's: one divided, one divine. He's slipping and sliding. She's rising. Long ago she fought, found her voice and vote, but couldn't agree on Gloria S., Elizabeth D., or Hillary C. Now she's united! These are her days and nights of confident conquest - right of passing - rulers' prize.

Silver Surfer fights villainy! He loves and hates these mortals, polluting themselves and their world. They conjure mutants from a poisoned gene pool. Their devils rise with startling powers and futuristic visions, professing a world within, not beyond.

Evolutionary Global Products, New Age purveyors, are exclusive global distributors of crystals, herbal colonics, and meditation chimes that decay infinitely into a celestial sea. The only sea left.

Exploited children roam back alleys, doorways, shacks and penthouses of a dark, soulless, downtown. Desperate parents search every doorway, under every stone. Every "thing" and "body" is exploitable, commodities of the "global city."

Books and paper disappeared with the trees. We've locked and sealed the only organic books. The acid air would destroy them like it does our skin. Oh, let it eat our flesh, but not the words that preserve us.

Sun rips through gaping ozone holes, evaporating blood, the only non distilled liquid left, except tears. A dehydrated world! Genetic engineers rule in absentia by virtue of daily discoveries that sustain our massive writhing grey planet - once a beautiful liquid blue marble.

There's no doubt that God is dead, or, has shunned this evolutionary "zenith." In this wasteland, the only thing sustaining me is my belief that I was created. There's something so artistic about "creation." Evolution is a bit cold.

There's no paper. We can't write. Computer technology costs are prohibitive, so we revive oral traditions. We speak and now must remember. We convey thoughts to keep them alive, and when the words move us, we cry and bottle our tears. In this barren world, tears are elixirs that replenish the soul, and sell for a pretty penny!

Film makers once prospered, now, master storytellers spin fine luxuriant lines. Young ladies of wedding time, not yet bought, soiled, or, sold, instead of a proper ceremony, await their ceremonial shower of word-woven-spells. Their gift, from a master, about a wedding, a father's love and a time long ago. Not a breath is heard. Anxious hearts beat. Silence beckons the master's story:

"She, was a precious daughter, the morning dew, the song of the birds, the son he never knew. She knew his words before spoken, he, her heart's desires. Two inseparable beings.

"In the resplendent 17th Century Southern mansion, edging ‘Grand Bayou' in ‘Petite Paree' Louisiana, their private world is their cherished secret. It's known roundabout that fair fragile wife and mama died giving birth to heir and brother. Sadness remains. It dampens not loves' laughter.

"Rumors swirled about the ‘unnatural closeness' of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Aseity. Spawned by jealous servants and commoners mostly, as well as fine stately countrymen, who regularly sate their incestuous appetites. These daggers found their mark.

"In response, papa opened his mansion to young men, exposing his ‘beloved' to youthful passion and romance. Cotillions, courtly elegance flowed - orchestrations and operettas drifted through the night swamps and bayou until dawn, adding refinement to the elegant cypress, live oak, Spanish Moss draperies, and Mademoiselle.

"Soon love bloomed, Mademoiselle's heart entrusted to the finest suitor in the land. It will be a Spring Wedding unlike the world has ever seen. Ever the master planner, Monsieur Aseity worked daily for months, a gay smile masks the fear of his impending loss.

"Every detail of the wedding plans sketched by a consummate artiest, a lover of grand fantastic spectacles. Musicians, brandy and champagne from France and England were en route, fireworks, fine silk, and lace from China, boxes of Cuban cigars, and enough silver flatware to serve a thousand. The three rarest items on the shipping manifest were fifteen crates of spiders from the Congo and Brazil, and fifty - one hundred pound sacks - of gold dust.

"Months before the gala, slaves and servants attend to every detail. The wedding procession would meet the minister at the end of a long Live Oak lined drive leading to the front steps of the mansion. Trees lining the drive form a massive canopy above. Most guests will arrive by boat, or via the levee, so as not to disturb the procession. A flotilla will take guests onto the still Bayou that reflects fireworks like a mirror.

"Two weeks before the grand occasion, Monsieur and his slaves release fifteen crates of spiders into the massive tree lined Canopy, under which the wedding procession will travel. Within days, the spiders begin spinning. By the wedding day, they've spun the trees in silk so thick that sun and moon shower everything beneath in soft golden light.

"The spiders work now done, slaves place large forge bellows into fifty - one hundred pound sacks of gold dust, and blow it up onto the tree canopy. Showers of gold blanket the web-laced trees, and the slaves, in gold.

"At dawn, the wedding procession travels along the golden path, under a shimmering canopy of pure radiance. This is, after all, ‘Petite Paree' and French Louisiana. Monsieur had lovingly created a spectacle unlike anything before or since. For his precious daughter was the morning dew and the song of the birds, the son he never knew! They were two inseparable beings. She knew his words before spoken, and he fulfilled her heart's desire this day.

"The party began with Masseur and Mademoiselle Aseity's opening dance. The orchestration swelled. They waltzed dramatically to the delight of a thousand clapping guests. Monsieur was lost in her eyes. Mademoiselles' thoughts were of her wedding night, he, of his loss and the days and nights of their intimacy. Two inseparable beings for this first time parted. She, to her wedding bed, he, to his loneliness.

"The party continued - everything for everybody - opulently wonderful. From her wedding bed, Mademoiselle heard fireworks exploding as colorful light danced on her ceiling, a new husband commands every sensation, but, alas, her heart is papas'.

"The last rocket echoed through the Bayou, and the noise from the party vanished with the rising sun. One final report, one final explosion filled the air. Mademoiselle sprung from the side of her sleeping husband, and ran toward the glowing golden canopy of trees. There lay papa, pistol in hand, covered in gold dust, surrounded by his slaves.

"How could this happen on her wedding night? Rumors swirled about the ‘unnatural closeness' of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Aseity. Spawned by jealous servants and commoners mostly, yet, among the fine stately countrymen as well, who regularly sate their incestuous appetites.

"Fallow, insensitive aspersions swirled about Monsieur's and Mademoiselle's bond. This is not fruit from an incestuous tree! He was but a master artist, she, his inspiration. Sadly, this well orchestrated night-of-nights was the grand finale of a fine artistic soul. Bereft of inspiration, he took his life as lovers often do, and left this golden gift to you."

Tears filled every eye. Master's story hit its mark. Why in this world, or that, would young ladies of wedding time, not yet bought, soiled or sold, instead of a proper ceremony, anxiously await this sad tale?

It's tradition! A human condition! When words move us, we cry. Conveying thoughts and emotions keep them alive. In this barren world, tears are elixirs that replenish the soul. Cloaked beauty and love are not always kind.

Life begins. Paths are crooked! Stories unfold, happy, sad, and always as mad as the times allow. Endings are not always happy, sometimes confusing. Woman and man within this dream dance in trances that have no place in this world or any other. They are absolved of wrong doing. Because these are the days and nights of spoiled rotten innocence.

The dark gestalt covering the landscape disappears. City lights sparkling the wasteland fade. Mountain air replaces the sultry heat of a ravaged atmosphere. On the high rock, where strange things happened, I return from my sunset meditation. It's a new day, but nothing will ever be the same. What I saw was a worrisome inspiration.

I walk home, past the Kumeyaay Village archeological dig, the place of the mountain lion embrace, back to my car. It takes two days. Two hours more, I'm home in bed. Since then, all I do is "write" to remember. Convey thoughts to keep them alive. Make words move us. Because in this barren world, tears are elixirs to replenish the soul, and sell for a pretty penny!