Thursday, 12 March 2009

Postcard from Earth (8: meet Lilly)

Dear Pater,

Well, how sweet is that? The lads have clubbed together and got me a donkey.

I say "got" advisedly, because we are not talking "purchased" here. I was a bit alarmed at the thought of handling suspect goods, but as they said "OK, so we stole her from the farmer, but after all, he stole her from her mother".

Now I know logic is not my strongest point, but I felt I couldn't argue with that.

And she's ever so sweet. She is called Lilly. I was quite excited to discover that she is marked with a cross down her back and withers. I said this meant that I would always be able to find her in a herd of donkeys.

At this the lads fell about laughing. Turns out that they're all marked like that. Humph. With all the mucking out I've done you'd think that I would have noticed. Oh, well, I'm a carpenter, not a donkey herdsman or whatever such is called.

Anyway, Lilly provided a perfect backdrop for a story I was telling a crowd of people. Well, a number of people. Several. Anyway, that's not the point. They were all griping about how to get along, no dosh for clothes etc etc. I think they thought I should be able to do something about it. Fact is, me and my mates need the dosh, not them. How else are we going to fund our good works?

So, I gestured over to where she was standing and said "Consider, Lilly's in the field. She weaves not, neither does she spin, but she's got a sight better coat on her than Solomon ever had".

There was a stunned silence. And they drifted off. But I think they were dead impressed.

That's all for now,
Love to Mama.

PS - You probably don't know about Solomon. Neither do I, much, truth to tell, but he was some kind of head honcho with lots of stuff, hence my reference. Perhaps you would tell Mama about Lilly? I'm sure she'd want to know.

Sunday, 8 February 2009

Postcard from Earth (7: chilling with my mates)

Dear Pater,

I think I've explained I've done with the carpentry thing and what next etc. Anyway I've decided to be a holy man. Given that I'm stuck with the celibacy I thought it might be a sensible thing to leverage.

Off to a somewhat slow start, but I've met up with a few lovely local lads and we hang out together. There's not much to do, but we do a lot of it quand même. You'd think they would need to attend to their trades, fishing and stuff, but apparently life is quite easy if you chill.

For example, improbable I know, but turns out that locusts are not unpleasant to eat when dipped in honey. Both are in plentiful supply, luckily, though the latter a tad difficult to collect, what with bees being the possessive little blighters that they are. It seems I need more experience than the others, so they are generous in stepping aside and letting me do much of the collecting.

Then for quality relaxation the lads smoke these leaves; they call them Jerusalem Gold (or Black?) Something like that. Talk about mellow. Comes highly recommended.

I've floated the idea that they might "follow me". Somewhat flaccid reaction at first, generally along the lines of "Where?" and "Why?"

So I did the "Well I am the Son of God you know" speach and they were dead impressed. "Cool", "Works for me chief" and that sort of thing. We were all a bit Jerusalemmed at the time, but that seemed to enhance the cosmic significance of the moment rather than detract from it.

Anyway, as I hinted earlier, it leaves me with a bit of a "What next?" situation. I could do with one of those mission / vision things that you are so good at but which I fear I failed to get my teeth into at the time.

Ah well. Tomorrow.

That's all for now,
Love to Mama.

PS - the Ghost is a bit sniffy about Gold (lots of very dull talk about synaptic degradation and stuff). I'd be grateful if you could just steer him away from Mama for the moment. Biochemistry's never been her thing anyway. Ta.

Monday, 19 January 2009

Postcard from Earth (6: Moving on)

Dear Pater,

I am now fully grown it seems. I've done more than 30 of these annual circles around the sun which is how they reckon age in these parts. You have no idea how time drags for a biological entity. But of course you do, ha ha.

Anyway, I have decided I'm done with carpentry. Yes, "horny handed son of toil" and all that has a certain ring to it I suppose, but, honestly, one plank is very much like another.

I said to my earthly papa, Joseph, that I was thinking of moving on, do a bit of a roadie, find some like-minded chums to hang out with etc. In effect that it was time for him to look for a new skivvy. And he says? "Whatever"! Whatever? I mean, OK, we haven't always agreed exact criteria for the difference between a dovetail and a mortise and tenon, but still.

My earthly mum Mary was a bit more choked. She mumbled on about me being quite grown up now and it was about time, one less body to tidy up after, one less mouth to feed, at last some room to swing the cat in blah blah, but I think I can tell when someone is putting on a brave face.

So, that's me sorted. Well, not quite. Having decided what not to do, I've got to make a start on figuring what to do. I hear they need some help on the forex desk down the local temple. Might start there.

Anyway, that's all for now,
Love to Mama.

PS - I take it you'll be good for a reference in the unlikely event I need one? Latin or Aramaic, in case you need to brush up.

Saturday, 10 January 2009

Postcard from Earth (6: celibacy)

Dear Pater,

Sorry not to have been in touch sooner; mostly I have been doing carpentry and growing up.

On which matter, growing up that is, not carpentry, I have the following observation to make. There should be a user manual for these monkey bodies.

For a start, there is the quaint habit of walking on the back legs in a body design that is clearly quadruped. I mean, for goodness sakes, it took me the best part of two years to learn this trick. And there isn't a tail to balance with or anything.

Then there is the practice of wearing the genitals outside the body. Inconvenient or what? And speaking of which, why is it that parts of these bodies, and those parts in particular, seem to have a mind of their own and not do the bidding of the central nervous system?

Reproduction itself is a trifle quaint and seems to involve the direct introjection of genetic material into the other party. At least it seems that way to me, though no one is very forthcoming when probed. Whoops, that doesn't sound quite right, but I'm sure you know what I mean.

That said, one or two local lasses have discretely hinted that they would be happy to help me in my researches. I was quite interested since I gather that there is a recreational element to the whole thing, but the Ghost has absolutely and completely prohibited same.

For why? It appears, and I quote, that I am "a walking meiotic disaster zone".

Naturally I pressed for something a bit more useful than this, and the Ghost was, for once, explicit, if brief. It has to do with the gene cloning and splicing that he was required to do to manage the virgin birth thingy. It seems it was a complete lash-up, a botch, though this is my description, not his. The upshot is that my genes are NOT to be dumped into the local pool unless I want everyone to sprout armpits and glow in the dark.

However, there is a carrot that goes with the stick, and it is a clever invention called celibacy.

What the Ghost says is that some folks voluntarily forswear this introjection thing and live life on "a higher plane". Turns out that other folk think rather well of them etc etc and it's quite a useful credential to have if one plans to be a holy man blahdy blah.

Well truth is that carpentry is a bit samey, so I'd like to keep my options open ref future occupations. More on this later.

Anyway, that's all for now,
Love to Mama.

PS - I don't think that Mama will be all that interested in the introjection discussion. Just my opinion.

Tuesday, 6 January 2009

Postcard from Earth (5: loot)

Dear Pater,

Slightly stung with indignation and a bit of guilt thrown in, ref the birthday bash.

Let me elaborate:

- the turnip, well yes, OK, that was jolly good
- the broom; I think you can draw your own conclusions
- the sandals; hmmm, fair enough, and may be the start of a fashion
- the sand; apparently someone's idea of a joke in case I don't know what the broom's for
- the stick, which I though quite original, turns out to be a replacement shaft for the broom
- and the lump of cheese is, it appears, soap

All in all a touch utilitarian. Never mind, they're jolly nice really (I mean my Earth family, not the presents).

That's all for now,
Love to mama.

PS - no pressie from the Realm, yet. May have fallen down a worm hole?

Thursday, 25 December 2008

Postcard from Earth (4: happy birthday)

Dear Pater,

Celebrated my (Earthly) birthday today. It seems to be one of the few benefits of being here, since as far as I know I don't have a birthday in the Realm. You must explain that to me someday.

Anyway, everyone was very sweet. They put my presents under a tree - I suppose it is the thought that counts because the presents themselves were rubbish, to whit:

- a turnip
- a broom
- a pair of sandals
- some sand
- a stick (not sure if this is intended to be burnt, or to support me as I walk)
- a lump of cheese (at least I hope that's what it is)

The younger children were very kind, as was Mary, my surrogate mum. She did at least cook a nice meal including one of my favourites, Jerusalem Sprouts.

It was somehow telegraphed to me that this was a one-off and that I needn't expect an annual bash.

Fair enough.

Anyway, that's all for now,
Love to mama.

PS - send a pressie if you like, but no pressure.

Friday, 19 December 2008

Postcard from Earth (3: we do laugh)

Dear Pater,

Trust all is well in the Realm. Things continue to limp along here. I would like to make my mark, but how? Need to reflect on that a while.

Anyway, enough of the serious stuff. You'll laugh at this. I'm still sneaking off to the temple to have a bit of argy bargy with the local clerics and we've got into this kind of comic routine. When I get there they say "Well, if it isn't the little whippersnapper" and then I retort "Well, if it isn't the big whoppersnippers".

We do laugh.

But maybe you have to be there.

That's all for now,
Love to mama.

PS - of course it occurs to me that you may not know about genital mutilation, in which case the joke falls rather flat. I'll explain it sometime.