Sedona by Jeffery Scott Sims

Jul 17 2011 Published by under The WiFiles

Sedona, city of possible dreams

Calls out to vibrant imagination

Offering to life regeneration

The stuff of which the sensitive mind teems.

This is the land where the dusk-red rocks grow

Towers of stony crimson rising high

Framed against the backdrop of bright blue sky

Sweet nature’s ultimate artistic show.

There at the foot of the gorge of Oak Creek

Sedona resides, a jewel man-made

Where beauty marches in endless parade

Before those who come, knowingly, to seek.

Enter these gates, O dreamer, and dream well

At the focus of hope celestial.

 

Above, below, and beyond, Mind awakens like the blinding crack of the red sun at the infinite moment of dawn.  Something, every place and no place, stirs.  From very near by, and from the outer chambers of the universe, that which is, was, and will be grumbles, blinks, and frowns querulously.  As it does so, stars explode, planets crumble, forgotten galaxies reel.  It knows nothing of these happenings, nor does It care.  It is interested only in the source of the disturbance, where ever that may lie in the cosmos, which has troubled Its eternal reverie.  Tentatively, randomly, It reaches out in all directions, feeling Its way, questing, seeking.  It senses that something is out there, something calling attention to itself, which may require the forces to be set in motion.  This way and that It turns, sluggishly at first, then with greater surety, focusing all Its powers on the source, like a searchlight piercing utter darkness.  Where is it, then, this annoying gnat of consciousness, this furtive itch flaring up within creation?  It will be found, it must be found; once the inquisitive process begins, there is no stopping it.  Something is out there… and there it is, a tiny, dwindling, meaningless spark of life.  The situation may provide amusing possibilities, for there is no telling what may happen when Mind meets mind.

 

Sedona the fabulous lies ahead

It looks everything I knew it would be

O, that such gorgeousness these eyes should see

In this realm to which destiny has led.

At long last the wish gives way to the deed

For years Sedona has beckoned to me

Promising not just mere reality

But the fulfillment of my inner need.

This is the chance for which I’ve oft yearned

To inhabit a land of true meaning

Where my soul shall undergo pure cleaning

Where I’ll attain the higher state I’ve earned.

Never more life’s crass material bain

Here the cosmic energies I shall gain.

 

It closes in, but not all at once, not as the result of plan, for this is the first, final, and ultimate Mind without thought, the Purpose without determination, the Creator without goal.  It sees all, and knows nothing; It is all, and is nothing.  Omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, yet It contains within Itself only chaos.  The light which can not illuminate, yet reveals all things, blazes from the farthest corners of time and space where the quasars erupt, incinerating galaxies and their myriad exotic denizens.  Untraceable waves of force sweep across the universe, passing eventually through the minute speck of material substance we know and call all there is.  Here there are stars and worlds which actually appear in our telescopes, an expanse covering billions of years and light years, a meaningless fragment of the totality.  Out of all this, one enormous, insignificant stellar cluster bends the waves unto itself, a trivial eddy within the penetrating vibrations, but it is enough.  As the power concentrates, it builds, feeds upon itself, grows into a whirlpool, swells to a raging torrent.  Inexorably the force intensifies, narrowing into a tight beam as it does so.  It probes now within this single cluster, searching for the source of the disturbance which has, unknowingly, shaken the cosmos.

 

I’m exactly the type who fits in here

One who’s intellectually daring

Yet considerate and deeply caring

Expressing myself freely without fear.

I cherish politically correct views

I’m a nonconformist like all the rest

I stand for all that is socially best

I reject opinions that might confuse.

I’ve always sensed that life offered much more

Than the daily rat race I’m escaping

Forget the fools whose ways I’ve been aping

I’ve arrived to find my personal door.

Gentle Sedona is my chosen place

Wherein the world of the spirit I’ll face.

 

Somewhere within this mass of matter, this conglomeration of cold particles and warm radiation, lies the source.  The eternal gaze knifes through all, penetrating to the depths of every object in its path.  How could it not?  To that sightless eye, the densest matter is largely a vacuum, an emptiness held together by tenuous nuclear forces.  And yet, if anything, the all-seeing Blind One sees too much, and therefore often sees nothing.  Perhaps it is good that it be so; otherwise It might be driven to intervene on all occasions, and the mad illusion of cosmic order would finally and forever disintegrate.  These rare moments come, however.  Somehow the right mind, at the right geographical point, calls down the powers.  Even now It has located the planet.  It peers closely.  There are many minds down there, but just at this instant– for no humanly understandable reason whatsoever– only one of them counts.  Even to the Eternal One, no reason is necessary.  It continues with the search.  There are only a finite number of locations on the surface which serve to channel its vision, and the goal should lie– such is the intensity of the signal– in close proximity to one of them.  It examines each, spiraling invisibly over the seas and the lands, as relentless as the wind, patiently weaving It’s web.

 

Sedona’s a seat of cosmic power

Which unlocks the mysteries of the soul

Here I shall find myself and be made whole

Atop a majestic red rock tower.

Well equipped I come to this special land

I’ve brought my crystals and my gemstone beads

Which focus energy, acting as seeds

For the spiritual blossoming I’ve planned.

I didn’t forget my paperback books

Collected in many a half-priced store

Volumes of vital esoteric lore

Purchased despite the sellers’ sneering looks.

Books written by thinkers so in the know

That they’re invited by every talk show.

 

One cusp of transmission attracts particularly strongly now.  The Supreme Mind has identified the sole spot of current interest on all of this dark, whirling orb.  The critical point lies on or near the surface.  That is good.  Connection, if it be deemed amusing, will be easy.  Such points can hang high in the skies over the planet, where living material seldom rises, and only wispy, vaporous forms routinely dwell; or they may be buried deep within the mass of insentient matter, approachable only by the fluidic, squirming denizens of the lightless inner regions.  Not so this time.  The cusp is so positioned that it can be reached by virtually any animate form, including those which possess mental ability, however barely detectable.  It knows that one such organism is on the way to this location.  It could, without difficulty, track down this being, but there is no need.  Already Mind senses, with absolute certainty, that the chosen one will come of its own accord.  Not one erg of effort is required to bring it forth.  Sometimes, the meeting develops this way.  Perhaps one may envision the false image of the Great One relaxing, sitting back comfortably while He waits.  Misleading, even childish, this is, for during this moment of quietus unbounded energies are pouring into the focal destination.

 

My dog-eared, well-thumbed volumes tell the tale

Of a vortex found on the Hill of Stars

From which truth peeps through reality’s bars

And through which the enchanted soul may sail.

The house of the Wilsons still stands up there

I gather those folk have long gone away

What became of them my sources don’t say

But the gate stands open for those who care.

Initiates yearly flock to the site

To commune with nature under the moon

Evening falls quickly, I’ll venture forth soon

The crescent moon rises this starlit night.

Loaded with all the gear I can carry

I’m ready, and in no mood to tarry.

 

The Ultimate knows, without knowing or caring, that It has impressed It’s being upon this special place before.  At some time in the limitless sweep of eternity, whether it be yesterday, at the dawn of creation, or far in the future at the end of all things, it has trodden here with the semblance of purpose.  There had been another calling– several others– the most recent concerning the first of these trivial creatures to actually establish a habitat on the site.  None had previously dared to do that.  All the others had suspected or deduced something of the power which funneled through the spot and, while drawn to it, had normally chosen to stay away.  It seems that there were four of them.  They had no interest in, nor any knowledge of, the gate.  Until the end they were unaware of its existence.  It was merely their continued, sentient presence at the location which caused them to be noticed, and which led to action being taken.  They hadn’t understood what was happening to them, nor why– not that they ever really do– but it had happened, as it must.  Since then no one had ever remained long, and relatively few ever came near.  None of these details, of course, however relevant they might be to the planetary dwellers, are of the slightest interest whatsoever to It which waits.

 

To the north the lights of Sedona burn

As I cross Oak Creek over the foot bridge

And commence the climb of the rocky ridge

Where the outline of a house I discern.

The Hill of Stars and the Wilson abode

I tread at last upon this sacred ground

I gain the summit with a hearty bound

Somewhere close by is the magical node.

The Wilson structure appears but a shell

This ruin isn’t what I expected

It’s wreckage seems in no way connected

To the heaven I seek, rather with hell.

Whatever the cause, it’s nothing to me

It’s the Stones of Power I’ve come to see.

 

The subject has arrived.  Now the Infinite Mind can see it clearly.  The Absolute Entity glances casually, observes, as if with a shrug, and knows all.  It has always known.  Organic, carbon, compounds of chemicals in semi-liquid suspension, superficial sensory apparatus; It reads the physical characteristics of the creature as if It were flipping through the pages of a book.  The thing is similar to the others that have come before.  The Mind also sees into and through the nerve impulses and electrical currents which serve, for this lowly form, as a rudimentary identity.  What It finds there is scarcely interesting, much less edifying.  It possesses an extremely low grade intelligence– nothing worthy of the term– although in that it is unremarkable for this world. The tiny sparks of crude energy which course through its mammalian brain create muddled thought patterns which very much resemble those of previous visitors to this site.  There may be some greater openness to outside influences in this case.  The possibility exists that the animal mentality encompasses a cryptic word.  Perhaps that, and that alone, is what has set the forces in motion.  Then again, perhaps not.  The Mind  doesn’t ponder the question, nor does It even decide not to ponder.  Knowing all as It does, there is neither requirement nor necessity for thought.

 

There the stones loom like sentinels on guard

The ancient trio marking the lost gate

The path to unimaginable fate

Mystic red signposts, eternal and hard.

‘Twas the Indians who erected them here

In strange ages before Atlantis dived

And the red man who from weird myths derived

The knowledge of He whom they love and fear.

The Great Old One, the Ultimate Being

The master of all, the friend of the wise

He who I’ll gaze upon with my own eyes

This night, all the beauty that’s worth seeing.

It only remains to unlock the door

To speak with the god they call Xenophor.

 

It is done.  Contact has been made.  The opening word has been spoken.  Everything is falling into place now.  The Great Old One– the Creator, the Destroyer, He who dominates and embodies the cosmos– Xenophor the Mighty has heard.  His substance uncoils, expands to fill the gate, this vortex through which the dimensions plunge.  He doesn’t pass through the door; during one instantaneous flash of space/time He becomes the door.  At that moment He has always become the door.  The fabric of the universe– of every universe– shudders as vast waves of power sweep across the patchwork of reality.  A billion light-years away, on a forgotten planet in a dead galaxy, a curious statue, standing before a shattered temple long abandoned by dark things, topples to the ground; in another mysterious quadrant, oceans boil on a green world; in still another, the lovely city of a writhing race of savants bursts into nuclear fire.  Xenophor is the cause– the Cause– yet He notices not.  The great and the small He sees, and right now He blindly sees, with full intensity, one of the smallest.  The chosen one comes, hopefully, joyously,  foolishly, it comes with mind wide open, defenseless.  Its fate, ordained since creation, is at hand.  This is an incredible, inexplicable marvel; yet Xenophor marvels not.

 

I intone the words, I call out the name

From which peace, true life, and happiness flow

With sure strides between the red stones I go

To be kissed by He whose love is His fame.

Xenophor, come to me, your acolyte

Teach me the ways You deem holy and just

Grant me the wisdom to live as I must

Bathe my poor soul in Your exalting light.

I beseech, let my pilgrimage begin

Accept my soul, Xenophor, as Your own

Hold my hand within the trio of stone

That I may enter Your plane without sin.

I come to You humbly, not defiant

Think of me as Your noblest suppliant.

 

Xenophor does not do; He perceives, and it is done.  The power concentrates, soars to infinity, and enters the designated host.  Had the mind of this pathetic thing grasped the situation, it might have understood, and the outcome could have been different.  That occurs, occasionally, and can lead to fleeting episodes of interest.  Here there is no understanding, no defense.  The invasion permeates the creature, overwhelming and illuminating every last bit of its substance.  Its corporeal form, that lump of flabby matter, is rendered into its component molecules.  The molecules break down to atoms, the atoms to subatomic particles, the particles… on and on the process continues, throughout the forever of a moment, endlessly.  The subject acts and responds, after a fashion, but that is of no concern, nor even a distraction.  Awareness, identity, linger fitfully, although in time they, too, may be erased.  Certain aspects of its being are immediately lost.  Others may be thrown to the Favored Ones, who crouch hungrily beyond the rim of outer darkness.  There remains the possibility that Great Xenophor may reserve certain portions to Himself, for His amusement.  Some of the more conscious fragments can be employed as trinkets or playthings.  The Ultimate One, in His own way, is a collector of toys.

 

Horrors beyond belief I now behold

Torment lies in wait between the three stones

Limitless power crushes flesh and bones

Surging from that Evil, heartless and cold.

There’s only chaos, confusion, and pain

The energies destroy as they reveal

Upon my doomed soul is graven His seal

My life, my shattered thoughts, are on the wane.

To Sedona I trekked for happiness

But learned of a universe I abhor

In seeking the source of the golden door

I’ve found the truth, in blackest bitterness.

I came to greet the King of the New Age

Instead I confront His eternal rage.

*

Jeffery Scott Sims –  I am a degreed anthropologist with a penchant for fantastic literature, living in Arizona, which forms the background for many of my tales.  My recent sales include “The Shack On Escudilla Mountain”, “The Old Camera”, “The Crags of the Schwartzenburg”, “A Curious Incident At the Office”, “The Love of Jacob Bleek”, “A Detour to Skull Valley”, “The God In the Machine”, “The Mystery of the Inner Basin Lodge”, “The House On Anderson Mesa”, and “Captain Ironfang’s Island”.

 

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