Come From Way Above . . .

Yup, that's right. Even more prose!

To become an angel, you must forsake your past. Family and friends are no different than old clothing and forgotten toys, to be left behind as unnecessary remnants of a life from which you are supposed to move on.

The path to become an angel, to leave onself behind, to open oneself to the Divine, is as individual and distinct for each person, though these paths can be overgeneralized into three categories. Some are led by the tried and true methods of sleep deprivation, of mob mentality, of physical and mental abuse alternating with praise and sympathy. Some are taught breathing exercises and meditation, to focus on everything and nothing and realize there is no difference. As there is a War ongoing, more and more are being led into the barracks, their heads placed in electromagnetic resonance helmets that directly induce rapture via manipulation of the parietal lobes. Except for the second grouping in which every so often a Principality and even one Power arose, those who arrive at the Waystation invariably only transcend to the rank of angel. If you need assistance in transcendence, you probably don’t have it in you to fly very far.

My path to the Divine was rather mundane. After a particularly bad break up, listening to Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song” over and over again, and finding myself tiptoed on the ledge of a Century City office building rooftop (and more importantly, being found by the security guard who had propped open the roof access to smoke a big fat joint of Mauwie Wauwie), I was given a choice of voluntary commitment and ongoing therapy or Transcendence. I loved my family and friends, all of whom wanted me to take the first option, but I realized I loved them in a way that I loved “Simpsons” reruns at 6:00 p.m. I know that might sound harsh, but that particularly bad break up was with a woman who with a love that felt like the fluttering of wings in my chest. After that, at least at that moment, every single thing in my life lost the sheen of importance. So I could either sit on a couch about shit that meant jack to me, or I could learn how to jump off a roof and soar into the air and not land as a 150 pound sack of meat, crumpling some jagoff’s penis substitute of a sports car.

The Los Angeles Waystation was located at the old Greyhound Station on 7th Street. Most of the homeless that had littered the streets were gone, having been among the first to enter into the Waystation to be transformed. Most of them were no doubt flying over Damascus, taking arms against Gadriel and the Sovereigns, or hunting down the Fallen or Non-Aligned (who, depending on the politician and faction, might as well be Fallen) in alleyways from Caracas to Wellington. When I entered the Waystation those months ago, I heard whispers that the Angels who floated above the entry, one black, square-jawed, and handsome, the other white, rugged and sandy-haired, both in bright platinum plating with Kevlar webbing, fiery swords and Glocks holstered, had been crackheads from the area who panhandled at the local McDonalds. Every so often, their fire in their eyes would alight, and they would perform some minor miracle on the few homeless who decided to stay mundane. Perhaps turning Chicken McNuggets into fresh strawberries, or providing moments of clarity, fifty dollars and a resume to a crack dealer.

Like all Waystations, the inside the larger than the outside, a strange phenomena that is necessary given the thousands of initiates who enter everyday, the tens of thousands who are housed and cared for until Transcendence. One the outside was a bus station that took up a square block of sun-addled concrete and weeds. But the inside was an elegant station of white marble doric columns, three story stained glass windows filtering a constant sunlight buttery in its texture, and a floor that seemed to extend hundreds of yards. I remember watch a show on Discovery Times with one of the Virtues, working with a quantum physicist at the University of Chicago, attempting to explain how this was possible. However, I got lost within the phrases like “static Planck measurement fallacy” and “dark energy substrates like rebar through concrete.” That small agnostic part of me smiled that there were those in the Hierarchy who sought answers after the first fall at the Battle of Antietam. Even when Raphael appeared on “Oprah” to proclaim once and for all that the world was not 6000 years old, and that the Bible was allegory (although Jesus did transcend), and none of the angels had any thoughts on abortion, there were still small-minded literalists who firebombed womens’ clinics and proclaimed only they knew God’s message.

The first step of a path was a questionnaire with 5000 questions. There were the standard personality type questions (At a party, which do you prefer? (a) To lead in the fun; (b) To sit back and people watch; (c) To hang out with your friends; (d) You’re just there for the free food). But there were some very odd questions (What does electricity taste like? True or false: The thought of warm oven mitts, wire mesh and orthopedic shoes excites me). The Powers who oversee the questionnaires take the time it takes to answer each question as well as the totality of the questionnaire into consideration.

Next was a physical battery. There were stress tests, laps around a track and in the pool. There was lifting of weights and throwings of balls. I was prodded and poked. Electrodes were attached. Blood was drawn. Probes were, well, inserted in areas where things are normally ejected.