Shaman Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Siberian Plains January 1st, 2020, 2:15 AM Georgy was out for a late night stroll. A drifter, who was close to death, it was difficult to find adequate nutrition, when you were homeless. He didn't have any family, was an orphan raised by a nun in an Omsk church. He didn't believe in a God, which made him a disappointment in the eyes of those who raised him. How could he, when he was abandoned so cruelly? What God would allow that to happen? What God would allow a boy to be tossed away by his parents, left to die on the street? He'd tried to integrate into society, but everyone pissed him off. He tried to work, and was fired for being drunk on the job. He was drunk right now. He might be dying of malnutrition, but he would do it drunk! Georgy heard a strange noise, looked into the night sky, and gasped. There were people flying. He rubbed his eyes, and looked again. People still hovered above him, high up there. Did they already have jet packs invented? Was he that out of the loop? They looked to be wearing something, which billowed as they moved. Some were red, others blue, green, a few yellow. All except the figure in front, who wore one of many different colors, which flapped about. The strange thing was that they all stood upright as they moved forward. How did that work? 'Welcome to death, ' The Man whispered in his ear. Georgy flew, screaming, into the sky. A horrible burn ignited his flesh, as if fire ants burrowed out of his insides. When he looked down he noticed his body, sprawled about on the snowy ground. He felt himself pulled towards the group of flying, robed, masked people. He circled around them, and realized movement was out of his control. He stopped screaming and tried to speak to one of them. Speech was difficult, but he managed after a few false starts of simple sounds. 'Where are we going?' Georgy asked a red-robed individual. 'To kill the unworthy, and bring about the Age of the Shaman, ' the red-robed figure replied. 'Oh, is that all?' Georgy said. 'You will pay for your insolence, ' the red-robed figure warned him. In a second, it felt like his whole being was engulfed in flames. Georgy screamed, the pain unbearable. 'Twenty hours of that should shut you up, ' the red-robed figure said.

Sean M. Thompson
Ultimately, the roast turkey must be regarded as a monument to Boomer's love. Look at it now, plump and glossy, floating across Idaho as if it were a mammoth, mutated seed pod. Hear how it backfires as it passes the silver mines, perhaps in tribute to the origin of the knives and forks of splendid sterling that a roast turkey and a roast turkey alone possesses the charisma to draw forth into festivity from dark cupboards. See how it glides through the potato fields, familiarly at home among potatoes but with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the flood of gravy. The roast turkey carries with it, in its chubby hold, a sizable portion of our primitive and pagan luggage. Primitive and pagan? Us? We of the laser, we of the microchip, we of the Union Theological Seminary and Time magazine? Of course. At least twice a year, do not millions upon millions of us cybernetic Christians and fax machine Jews participate in a ritual, a highly stylized ceremony that takes place around a large dead bird? And is not this animal sacrificed, as in days of yore, to catch the attention of a divine spirit, to show gratitude for blessings bestowed, and to petition for blessings coveted? The turkey, slain, slowly cooked over our gas or electric fires, is the central figure at our holy feast. It is the totem animal that brings our tribe together. And because it is an awkward, intractable creature, the serving of it establishes and reinforces the tribal hierarchy. There are but two legs, two wings, a certain amount of white meat, a given quantity of dark. Who gets which piece; who, in fact, slices the bird and distributes its limbs and organs, underscores quite emphatically the rank of each member in the gathering. Consider that the legs of this bird are called 'drumsticks, ' after the ritual objects employed to extract the music from the most aboriginal and sacred of instruments. Our ancestors, kept their drums in public, but the sticks, being more actively magical, usually were stored in places known only to the shaman, the medicine man, the high priest, of the Wise Old Woman. The wing of the fowl gives symbolic flight to the soul, but with the drumstick is evoked the best of the pulse of the heart of the universe. Few of us nowadays participate in the actual hunting and killing of the turkey, but almost all of us watch, frequently with deep emotion, the reenactment of those events. We watch it on TV sets immediately before the communal meal. For what are footballs if not metaphorical turkeys, flying up and down a meadow? And what is a touchdown if not a kill, achieved by one or the other of two opposing tribes? To our applause, great young hungers from Alabama or Notre Dame slay the bird. Then, the Wise Old Woman, in the guise of Grandma, calls us to the table, where we, pretending to be no longer primitive, systematically rip the bird asunder. Was Boomer Petaway aware of the totemic implications when, to impress his beloved, he fabricated an outsize Thanksgiving centerpiece? No, not consciously. If and when the last veil dropped, he might comprehend what he had wrought. For the present, however, he was as ignorant as Can o' Beans, Spoon, and Dirty Sock were, before Painted Stick and Conch Shell drew their attention to similar affairs. Nevertheless, it was Boomer who piloted the gobble-stilled butterball across Idaho, who negotiated it through the natural carving knives of the Sawtooth Mountains, who once or twice parked it in wilderness rest stops, causing adjacent flora to assume the appearance of parsley.

Tom Robbins
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