NATIVIDAD: Chapter One

nativity

IT IS 1961. Tensions between Cuba and America are at an all time high and an Englishman and his heavily pregnant Cuban fiancée flee New York for their lives. The Cubans just want the baby. The Feds just want the Englishman. Who knows what the CIA want …

I’ve written this ‘modernisation’ of the Nativity in a biblical style to give it a more ‘genuine’ feel. It is not a political tale and is not pro-this or anti-that, so don’t be put off by the revolutionary backdrop, which is necessary to the story in its symbolism.

It’s more ‘realistic’ in biblical format here.

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-one in the year of our Lord. In those days the leaders of America were most incensed that Communism had taken the land of Cuba. So too the new government of Cuba was greatly displeased that America had secretly taken its children on the pretext that they were saving them.

And living in the city of New York was an actress exiled from the land of Cuba called Eva. Her betrothed was an English advertising consultant by the name of Percy.

And it came to pass that two months before the day of their legal union, Eva declared that she was three months with child. By the time she realised that her physician must have made a mistake, it was too late. Percy did not believe that the child could be his, for he was on business far away at the time of its conception. Eva was aggrieved that she could do nothing to persuade him otherwise.

And so Percy made it known to Eva’s father, who happened to be a high-ranking official in the court of Fidel Castro, the King of Cuba, his displeasure, in the hope that he would come and take her away. Until then, he would renounce their betrothal but not put her to shame, instead continuing to keep her, but in a separate dwelling.

One night Percy became so intoxicated that he fell into a deep but fitful sleep on a park bench.

A well-spoken man wearing a fedora and a belted overcoat appeared to him, saying “Behold. Marry your beloved and go to England. She speaks the truth. Verily I say until you, the child is of your seed and you are all in grave danger.”

When he awoke, his head was as if cloven in two.

To be contnued …

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2017

Hand to Hand

I have a former work colleague who is happy to watch people arguing partisan politics online for hours on end. Me, I couldn’t do it, it would drive me insane. But so she tells me, she has spotted an interesting trend. Something interesting is happening in the Brexit/Scottish independence debates.

We all know the script. Usually, it is the conservative/defending position that takes the more aggressive stance. The opposing side is the ‘enemy’. Although generally speaking, the progressive position plays less dirty, with repeated exposure over time, both sides can become as bad as each other.It is now standard practice for political campaigns to use paid agents provocateurs to veer public opinion in their favour or away from where the discourse might naturally flow. These campaigns also act as magnets to organic trolls acting out their fear of the unknown. You can always tell which ones are which. The paid trolls give themselves away every time in their sheer stamina and consistency in their use of poltical jargon. It is laughable to think that only the Russians could be capable of such a thing!

The organic trolls, however, are real people. Sad, maybe. Bitter, maybe. But real nonetheless.

And this is where tentative change is occurring.

Taking an argument about COVID resrictions in the UK as an example, the engagements might start with the usual mudslinging but if the time is taken to interrogate the reasoning behind certain assumptions and postions, what becomes clear is that a) the ‘troll’ is acting on misinformation, a misapprehension or a misunderstanding b) they genuinely believe what they are saying c) they are over the moon to discover that they have the wrong end of the stick and d) they are really just scared and want someone to take the time to listen to their concerns. The overriding theme is loneliness.

Of course there are maldoers and idiots among them, but contrary to popular misconception (promoted by the media I have to say), the majority of these bitter, angry people are as sensitive as you or I, they have just learned to process their emotions differently. In the rush to embrace other disenfranchised parts of the community, such as ethnic groups, women or the LGBT community, the old mainstream was pushed to one side by the progressive elites.

Obviously, there are individuals out there who have figured this out and who are willing to take the time to engage on a more human level with their political opponents. They are not engaging from a position of moral or intellectual superiority but as equals. Friendships are forming. Some are meeting in real life over coffee.

I am writing this because I feel strongly that our brothers and sisters across the Pond need to be reassured that this is how it is done. Not by Washington, not Westminster – just us.

Reunifying a divided population is possible but it has to be undertaken in a sprit of compassion – at the grass roots, on an individual level. It is less about finding common political ground than about rediscovering our common humanity. If we can do that, the politics will do just fine.

Heaven’s Gate

A FEW years back (2014-15), during the most turbulent throes of my inner journey, I turned to the most readily available source of information, the Internet. It was only too easy to find an explanation for what was happening to me. Not only was I ‘ascending’, so was the whole damned planet. In short, the ‘awakened’ part of humanity would evolve into a higher dimension, while those that didn’t would remain in this denser reality. Conveniently, both would become invisble to the other. The ‘good’ guys would ‘escape’ the Apocalypse. Sounded pretty appealing.

Despite the holes, once I had adjusted to the idea, I embraced it. Months later I found myself in a situation where I thought to myself “Hang on, something isn’t right here.” The thing is that instead of feeling more centred, balanced, calm, during my quest to find out what was going on with my soul, I became more anxious, as the list of practices I had to learn, stuff I had to know, grew longer. Like which angels did what or what colours to avoid during visualisation. Worse, when was IT going to happen. The Ascension ‘symptoms’ grew worse the more aware of them I became.

Using different key words, I googled a bit deeper, only to find that the Ascension program was most likely a spectacular con, designed to distract those who might otherwise be capable of breaking the status quo and make a few bucks in the process. This alleged hoax was perpetuated by the very agencies that were supposedly trying so hard to prevent it occurring at all. (Did it never occur to anyone that the ‘Illuminati’ might actually WANT every Misfit under the Sun to pack their bags and “””” off to another planet?!)

I also learned that following a spiritual path was less about acquiring ‘spiritual’ knowledge and more about ditching belief systems altogether. Deep down I had always known this and a load was lifted.

So I nipped it in the bud, spent less time dwelling on it and more time following my own inner guidance system, regardless of whether it conformed to any known spiritual practice. Hey presto, the electrical sensations in my crown chakra soon stopped.

Now that I have come to an understanding of the individuation process as described by Carl Jung, the best argument against a collective Ascension scenario is this. One of the basic principles of analytical psychology is that in order to become more whole, we each have to delve into our own Unconscious to integrate the Shadow, those parts of our psyche that we have rendered inaccessible. According to Jung and others, this is done at an individual level. Yes, critical mass can be achieved collectively but it is NOT a group effort. More importantly, in order to ascend, we first have to DESCEND.

Denial and dissociation are what create the Shadow in the first place. And, no matter how many times we try to kill or refuse to acknowledge it, the Shadow doesn’t simply go away. So what makes us think that by committing the most spectacular act of dissociation ever we can guarantee our own salvation? What happens when the Veil cracks and the Shadow comes back to haunt us millennia from now? What will have prepared our descendants for the shock of coming into contact with a world we had wilfully chosen to ignore?

I am not suggesting for one minute that the idea of collective planetary ascension has no truth to it – indeed, if it is a hoax, the best ones have a basis in truth – but that wholesale acceptance of the ‘Ascension Program’ as it has been packaged is a trap. Even if the prospect of splitting off from the horror of life on this planet is real enough, take it from me, when you commit a deliberate act of forgetfulness and it comes back to bite you in the bum, it is not pretty.

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2020

Apocalypse

Depending on who you talk to, the Apocalypse is either the end of everything or the end of life as we know it. Me, I never imagined that when it finally happened, it would be like watching paint dry …

Regardless of whether we are in THE Apocalypse, certainly by definition we are in AN apocalypse of sorts. The word itself means revelation, the removal of the veil of illusion when all will be revealed and nothing will be left hidden. It is easy to see how that could translate in the context of the internet age; it is difficult these days for even governments to keep anything hidden. So apocalypse is less about suffering and more about being forced to see things as they are.

We tend to fixate on the external physical suffering. Most of the graphic imagery of Revelation is not literal but symbolic, in that most of the action occurs within the psyche. And there is a clear implication that we ourselves are co-creators of our own suffering. Again, this correlates with the warnings that if we don’t change course now, our planet will die and us with it.

However you cut it, every end is a new beginning. Without death there is no rebirth. Things have to break down in order to build back up. In some countries, apocalyptic events occur on a continuous basis. Try tellling them it’s not the Apocalypse. The earth has endured countless cataclysmic events and this current world crisis will not be the last.

The greatest arrogance, of course, is for any one of us to believe that we have any greater prerogative than anyone else to survive anything the earth throws at us. God or no God, ultimately, Mother Nature will call the shots. The more we try and control our way out of this, the worse it will be.

Whatever happens, if it is in my own destiny to survive the global crisis, I look forward to seeing what lies on the other side. Hopefully, it will be a world where hate and anger have burnt out and Gaia has a fighting chance to recover from Us.

Open letter to Gerry Butler II

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Dear Gerry

Twenty-five years almost to the day since your mythic departure from Scotland. Twenty-five years since we parted company and my life was turned on its head in ways even you could not possibly imagine. You helped make me the person I am today, so for that you have my heartfelt gratitude.

Thing is, I really need your help. Over the past seven years, I have written a memoir that is nearly ready to publish. It’s one of those stories that has to be told and you are the inciting incident. As with any inspirational memoir, others will benefit from it, only I don’t have the resources to iron out some of the legal issues.

I am so sorry to go public with this but my circumstances dictate that I have to. In the spirit of self-healing, please will you at least read it? I have just published the first two chapters on my website at mkmacinnes.com. For what it”s worth, there’s also a trailer.

Yours in good faith
Morgan

High Altar

A LONG long time ago in a far off town, some friends and I were invited to a swanky party at an abandoned Victorian monastery that had been converted into a corporate events venue. Rumour had it that back in the day the monks used to run their own moonshine.

II

ON FINDING ourselves a table, we could queue up at any of the seven feeding stations, themed according to each of the Deadly Sins. The catering staff were fitted with horns and forked tails.

After the buffet and the band, the venue became an instant nightclub, the dance floor in front of the High Altar, the music leaning towards anything with a deep base and a strong beat. Lasers and soft psychedelics blended into stained glass, dry ice oozed from the seams.

Doof. Doof.  Doof. Doof.
Doof. Doof.  Doof. Doof.

I itched to join in the revelry but couldn’t bring myself. Haunted by an image from Sunday School of a psychotic-looking Jesus wrecking the Temple because it had been put to wordly use, I declined all attempts to drag me onto the floor.

Until I raised my eyes, I hadn’t paid much attention to the dying Christ suspended from the rafters. The thorns, the twisted expression of pain and suffering, sinews taut, a cloth barely covering his dignity, the unimaginable sorrow of a man in his final moments.

And punching the air beneath the feet of the naked guy nailed to the cross was the tall man wearing a jumper and a dog collar, his sweaty face gleaming through the fog. The vicar.

Dear God, I’ve seen it all now.

A subtle movement above his head caught my eye. The painted wooden crucifix swung back and forth like a pendulum. Hardly blinking for several minutes, I could see the movements become more pronounced. One swing now for every four doofs.

I ran my eyes up and down, looking for the weakest point. The pendant hung from two long metal chains, hooked onto rings attached to a high wooden beam. Beyond that, it was hard to tell what was what.

But one thing was certain. That crucifix weighed a tonne and it had a life of its own. I could see it all now. The plummet, the loud crash, the gasps, the cloud of dust, the horror as it smashed into the minister and his immediate entourage.

Images of screaming choir boys in St Paul’s Cathedral, a mummified Richard Burton lying in a hospital bed. The bit of paper at the end of the movie scrawled with the words ‘Windscale’ … The Medusa Touch. How little it would take to bring that lot down. I should be careful not to think on it too hard. I might cause it.

And didn’t I know just how easy it was for those screws to come loose. Oh yes, I had watched episode upon episode of CSI. I had just seen the one where the house collapsed because the sonic boom of low-flying aircraft made the screws drop out of the walls …

I could see it now, JESUS SPLATS RAVING VICAR. Great headline … very messy …

Swing. Doof, doof, doof, doof. Swing …

III

I CAN only assume that everyone survived. My friends and I left before we had a chance to find out.

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes

Open letter to Gerry Butler

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Dear Gerry

Twenty-five years almost to the day since your mythic departure from Scotland. Twenty-five years since we parted company and my life was turned on its head in ways even you could not possibly imagine. You helped make me the person I am today, so for that you have my heartfelt gratitude.

Thing is, I really need your help. Over the past seven years, I have written a memoir that is nearly ready to publish. It’s one of those stories that has to be told and you are the inciting incident. As with any inspirational memoir, others will benefit from it, only I don’t have the resources to iron out some of the legal issues.

I am so sorry to go public with this but my circumstances dictate that I have to. In the spirit of self-healing, please will you at least read it? I have just published the first two chapters on my website here. For what it”s worth, there’s also a trailer here.

Yours in good faith
Morgan

THE LOST SECRET (first two chapters)

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For reasons that I won’t go into here, I have decided to scrap any attempt to sell my ‘mini-book’ on Amazon. Why it’s only two chapters and only on Kindle needs too much explanation. Instead, it is available here via the link below. This may be temporary, it may be permanent, I don’t know. We’ll see where this goes.

You can read the first two chapters here.

Although this offering is free, donations are gratefully accepted.

Who needs drugs?

Let’s go on a day trip.

To the country?’

No, not exactly. We just nip to the place

where the very walls vibrate their way

from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian

and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells

and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell.

.

The Beast lurks in every corner,

the carpet waxed while the moon is on the wane.

It’s hard to feel relaxed

when the Eye that Sees All is upon you

in the name of the infernal Pantheon,

who shall remain shameless

but who we all know and love

as they watch from above

the chess-ridden hall of nameless pawns

who were shot down in flames.

.

And the Book of the Dead teeters

on the brink of a shelf-ful of dust,’

while Madam Blavatsky, screwed to the wall,

struggles to think.

Tales of alchemical lust in the back rooms linger ….

Here lies deceit – and exploded hearts,

every …

so often …

missing …

a beat.

.

It’s not very hard in a place such as this,

to enter the twilight,

cross the veil into the Abyss,

beyond the pale

where devils kiss.

.

Copyright Morgan MacInnes (c) 2000

The Cairnpapple Mystery

Take me to Cairnpapple,

where the stars knowingly wink

and the sky drops little hints

of more universal love

than it knows with what to do,

where spy satellites blink –

in disbelief perhaps

of what they know is true.

.

I hear the earth moves at Cairnpapple,

trembling to her very core.

Some primal rhythm re-enacting

in divine blissful harmony.

Mother Earth’s ground

herself into a frenzy, crying out for more,

as once more golden dawn

penetrates her hallowed mound.

.

So little death at Cairnpapple …

Ripe within the heavy womb

of the sleeping goddess

the stirrings of a new world order,

her Moon reflected in a stray grey hare.

And the Reaper, standing by the ancient tomb,

smiles on with a wry knowingness

of a new vibration in the air.

.

Yes, take me to Cairnpapple,

where powerful waves wash o’er

this mind-blown microcosm.

Wild energies pulsate,

as all is satiated, drowned

beneath the windswept Tower,

and the World that was can pass away

and we are nowhere to be found.

 

Copyright (c) Morgan MacInnes 1998