Tuesday, April 14, 2015

The Nataraj Mundunga (Working Title)

Here's another part in the play that I started sharing yesterday with this I believe I'm just going to tack one on the other build destroy etc by threading the story with daily update etc like I am now with the new being posted after a repost of the old.  I'm really excited to think I may have an artist lined up to do some illustrations so I'm hoping the whole thing will be more fun.

The Mundunga

We aren’t raped in battle.
We either come out the other end with our foes spirits in our service or we leave to join our ancestors.
So, what is this person doing inside me shaking me awake?
What is with his hue?
He’s not wearing a paint people like my sister’s and I imbue with knowledge and power why is he so pale?
I remember now the glance.
There was a rock one that had a very powerful charm attached to it because it went through not just my own but my sister’s defenses, several of whom have the power of scores of ancestors behind them,
Something, one, all, very powerful put me here wherever this is.

The rocking it’s more than this man inside me we’re on a ship.
I look left to a warrior laid out chained feet and hands and I ask him.

“Brother where we are what is this place?”

He was just a baby barely old enough to have his penis cut in the tradition of the male conspiracy we women were not a part of, but he was old enough to recognize what was happening to me and what I was if not who.

“A ship Mundunga” he grunted through broken teeth
“We lost we’re headed across the middle passage”
“We’re all fucked just like you”

A very concise report of our position for someone who had probably only been in a few battles if any, he did know enough to use the title of my position, but he didn’t know if I were healer or mover.

I whisper the syllables that make the vibration that make the wood of this place embrace the water with the love absent from the thing that is performing on my tied up body right now. 

The water on a molecular level no longer recognizes the 99% of the wood that is not just air and as I embrace the idea, the ship we’re on with 30 of these White things I sense and 400 defeated warriors I feel in various stages of disrepair, dives for the bottom of the sea like a raptor bird after a very fat rabbit.

I look left and the young warrior is smiling

“Thank you Mundunga” he mouths

It was the least I can do how we got in this position, defeated broken with me here just.

“Intolerable” I mouth.

The thing on top of me him I have clasped in my legs like a crab. I’m watching him scream out the bubbles of his life, but I’m not done with him even as his lifeless penis is done with me.

I think at him with much intent

“Welcome to eternity”

With the last thoughts on this plane of existence I show him what’s in store for him for we are Mundunga we are in contact with what is was and will be, he will go in service of those to come and until then he’s going to service the ancestors.  They hold games that last millennia just torturing the souls of people that cross over with the vibration I’m imparting to him now.

Oh look it’s hitting him now game on.

I’ll make sure to ask him about it if it hurts in the next world.

When I’m sure I’ve seen the warriors I should of protected in battle over the trial of the water I’ve started I’ll go myself.

I think of the ancestors my direct line of warrior sisters and sages. Will those behind me hear my stories? Will they accept me?

Will I get to play when I get there or will they reject me or put me through another trial, Oh our Creator will I be forced to come back to live another life on Earth even having achieved Mundunga.

The ship has been on the bottom some time now.

The time for daydreams of what will happen are over and its time to face what will with the dignity of not just my office but my ancestors.

My warriors are asleep forever to this plane and at last I can think the words that make the vibrations that end this understanding of time.

The Scientist

The only person who calls me Algebra consistently is Motherdear my Grandmother who the rest of the family calls “Muhdear” but if I were the type of brother to say it like that I wouldn’t have marched across the floor in the 10th grade to bow before Chris the prettiest girl ever and say.

“Milady wouldst thou care to dance”

Loud enough to make sure the laughter and the teasing sent me to the library the last two years in High School, I thought I was being so cool, but that was OK, if I were to be honest I’d say I fell in love with Tolkien before I fell in love with girls and I was and am far better with him than I ever was with them.

My name is Dr. Algebra Perry Davis III and says my title please at 27 they don’t give em away in Cracker Jack boxes and I’m proud.
I asked Motherdear once why the men in my family were named Algebra she told me in her Alabama patois she hits me for trying to imitate that they wanted us to be “smaht lil niggas” she can call me anything she wants including any flavor of nigger and besides whoever named us knew what they were doing.

When the nice White lady sat and tested me she didn’t understand what I meant by I can see functions and numbers. I think now she was shocked a 10 year old Black kid could describe what a function was, but she didn’t say it out loud or anything.  

I didn’t mind taking the test again when she didn’t believe the genius it said. I didn’t even mind taking it again for the State and again for someone else. Heck it got me out of class and it was summer. They didn’t let us play for the smog alerts wouldn’t let us outside to play on the concrete grass they didn’t need water the air was too bad.

My first orgasm came when someone showed me a fractal it was so pornographic it told me her name was Chaka and she wore shiny tap pants like the real one.  I still keep the equation next to my bed and before I TMI let me just state that since im going to be calling women “Milady” in the Information Age its nice math makes me happy.


They’re beautiful and loud with their red heads over vibrant green.  They’re wild and free they fly all around Pasadena. Somebody a long time ago brought some in as pets and they escaped. The climate around here must have really been to their liking.  They must be on their 100th generation of freedom and God has let them in from the desert and given them Pasadena as their Israel.

Pasadena was built by the kind of wealth so vast it doesn’t need to wear a watch because it determines who is late.  Let me set the environment for you.  It is linked to Los Angeles by California and the west’s first freeway what we now call the 110 or Arroyo Seco Parkway, but when it was constructed was known as the Pasadena Freeway.

You might wonder how having the first freeway in America means time waits for you, and let me tell you.  They built it purposefully with looping curves and lovely parks surrounding it. No engineer’s straight line efficiencies for these people.  Driving into Pasadena was meant to be an event and one you went to through beautiful environs and narrow lanes.  Consequently when I was a lad growing up just about every school in the San Gabriel Valley had a missing person from the graduating class who went to fast and plunged into the LA River or missed a curve and slammed into a tree. 

The blocks on this street are wicked long and are an artifact of it’s beginnings as one of the Southlands first millionaires row built by easterners one upping each other in their western retreats.  The names on the mansions read like a who’s who of early 20th century mega-money.  Busch had his first gardens Gamble had a mansion that used no metal fasteners, Wrigley chewed up a huge chunk with a lovely house that’s used as the parade’s headquarters today.

I’m lucky.

The house at the top of Fair Oaks was built like Pasadena was, by money. To actually buy a spot up here like this is way more than my salary or 10 times it can buy.

It has a granny flat I inhabit. The trust that now owns it seemed to die with the old lady whose’ father invented a new way to twist wire hangers. Maybe he was the chemist that made that boom go that much faster. I never hear from them.  I kept meaning to look him up on the net but some new Math article was always more interesting and sometimes scantily dressed.

It began its life after World War I as a horse barn attached to a car’s garage but its location high in the hills of behind Pasadena was choice.
I’ve never had a car and riding a bike downhill to class or downhill to my job was advantageous.
You’re way less tired in the morning when you have to ride your bike around than you are in the evening in hilly Southern California.

“Squawk”, squared even,  from the parrots. It looks in my head like a pointy triangle that calls itself Lenny because I thought of it as squared, and the avian New Israelites wake me from my morning reverie.

I grab my coat, grab my under bike coffee carrier full, and my ultra light racing bike off two hooks on a wall that probably held tack back in the 20’s.

It’s a beautiful day.  Most days are here even when the clouds are cold and grey against the mountains my pad is situated on. I look south and head into Cal Tech where I not only graduated but teach undergraduate mathematics.

Not a bad way to start the day at all.  

That's 2 of 4 and then we'll start the story if it isn't already going.

What fun.
oops it's caught a name The Nataraj Mundunga 
Namaste Friends.

1 comment:

  1. I am intrigued, Sir! I am looking forward to #3.