Triadic Tales - Last Morning, - Short Story (Part Two)
Triadic Tales - Last Morning, - Short Story (Part Two) PART ONE
Public meant free gathering and the cultivation of trust. Bellingham knew his neighbors, but he also knew thousands of the 10,000 who lived and worked and recreated themselves in this, the first completed cyber-community.
Twenty paces to his right was a kiosk. Bellingham insisted on this word for all small public spaces in the community because they were where one could find one or two persons whose job was to serve all who came. There were almost 500 kiosks on the four levels of the cyber-community. That meant there were always eyes on the ways. There was always help at hand. It was an environment where the value of helpfulness, ontological in Bellingham's view, was palpable.
Bellingham gathered up a croissant and a Turkish coffee and greeted the young man with a silent nod. He left his customary tip, a substantial one.
He sat alone at a table in front of the kiosk. One could have a kitchen as part of one's residence, but kitchens were less and less necessary for those whose inclinations did not extend to home cooking.
In addition to kiosks like this, there were small squares every two or three hundred feet and each square had eating places and other commercial and recreational and spiritual spots.
Bellingham felt this was his last day. He engaged in frequent conversation with the one he called Abba, Abba within him, for decades, from when he began to use his version of the Abba Prayer, the one Jesus taught. It was his a daily rule, repeated often, mostly in silence.
"Well take me then," he said. "Today will be just fine. If not just fine. Whatever."
You will go when you go. You will see. Look out today from the very top.
Bellingham got up and began ascending from his level to the top. His was the second. The top was the fourth. The way wound through the stadium-like structure. It was a a walk of about a mile..
Bellingham reviewed the general events that had led to this. The collapse of the car industry as a major player in the world economy. Runaway oil prices. The house of cards aftermath.
Colleges and universities wiped out. Religions decimated.
Many predicted the crisis. But only a few seized on Bellingham's idea. So he was left to create this place and hope others would finally see in it a way of life beyond the ruins. A way of diversity, technological imagination, and local economies.
There was a future for humankind, beyond the continuing downward trajectory created by addiction to oil and automobile. This community was now at capacity.
Bellingham was attracting nibbles from other entrepreneurs. Presidents and other leaders had clung to the prospect of a solution less complete, less sensible. They were clinging to a failed reality. It was up to this place to slowly and surely become a model for the world, an admission at last that integral design lay at the center of things. The computer was created to advance reason. We did not need still more irrationalities based on the binary trap.
Bellingham looked out from the high level across the fields to where the old interstate lay. He knew this would be one of his final strolls. Behind him was a kiosk where all things geological could be accessed. A young woman he had only seen in passing was visible through the entrance. She sat before a large screen which now was simply an image of old bricks - a wall from somewhere, beautiful in its simple, nuanced repetition of shapes and tones. He thought he heard music, but it was probably just the light wind turning the solar silos.
Bellingham listened more intently and in his head he heard a song from childhood.
This will be the day that I die
His mind was oddly empty. Just the song. The girl. His sense of being moved by light wind.
Frangoulis and Theodorakis are joined by musicians, including two bouzouki players, and a very large audience that is completely familiar with the words. The audience joins in at Frangoulis' prompt.
This is my very favorite Theodorakis melody. Those who know Theodorakis only for his "Zorba" music are in for a treat. When I was in Athens in 1966, for a short period of study with Constantinos Doxiadis, I knew nothing of Theodorakis. But about five years later, my friend Irene Vassos sang "Sto perigiali" to us. I have never gotten the tune out of my mind.
Later, when Irene joined our group to form a travelling company performing "New Rain", I learned to pick out a …
Stephen C. Rose (1936-) was born in New York City and raised there. He currently lives there. He was educated at Trinity, Exeter, Williams and Union Theological Seminary. He served in the Student Interracial Ministry in Nashville. He founded and edited the prize-winning Renewal Magazine in Chicago and studied with C. A. Doxiadis in Athens. His first books "The Grass Roots Church" and "Who's Killing The Church" established him as a prominent critic of American Protestantism and American religion. He was and remains a civil rights activist. He has interviewed and done in depth pieces on Saul Alinsky and Martin Luther King, Jr. He won awards for editorial courage and for two documentary films. He has written and published many songs and musical works including "We Are All Americans". During the late 90s and early 2000s he worked for UN agencies, most recently editing CHOICES Magazine at UNDP. Since 2000 he has written several books for distribution via K…