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Ants and Angels

53 pages49 minutes


I know of a place. It’s not very big. It’s in the heart, just before you get to the heart of hearts. There’s a little antechamber there where unsavory intentions gather and linger and linger—for no matter how hard they wish and try to, they cannot enter the heart of hearts, I’m pretty sure of that; at least some of the time.

This is the little padded room from where, they say—I read this somewhere not so long ago—where they say that if thoughts could kill, we would de-people (if not de-life entirely) our planet in a matter of months.

This is also the place where I often dwell these days. I call it my grizzly place, sometimes I call it my scary place, or my darkness. This is from where I cannot help myself. But right now I am not there, right now I’m lucid.


Some hold that we were created on the 4th day, but this is not so. We were not created. None of us were. We were all one with Michael, who was as God, and whom some call Sabbathiel. We had not wings then. Nor had we bodies. We simply were.


Dad says God created Texans because he needed people who liked Texas to fill it up with. I have no idea what he’s talking about. What’s there not to like? There’s no better place on Earth. There’s no end to Texas. The rest of the world, and that includes Africa—which is mostly a desert as big as an ocean called the Sahara Desert—could just about fit in our back yard, where we have lots of ants.

Some days my grizzly place is crawling with them—with ants, not Texans—and then I begin to itch and I pour gasoline on them and strike a match to them and see them scurry and fry and flee and leave, all of them, except for the crispy ones which lie upside down and twitch for a while with their little charred and wispy legs before they stop twitching and die and smell bad like something Mother’s left too long in the oven, when she starts swearing and Dad starts swearing too for now it’ll be a while before dinner’s ready, she’s got to think of something else she says, and why does she have to do everything, anyway, while she slips on those big green and yellow and pink here and there oven mitts and pulls that burnt and smoking and smelly thing out of the oven and tosses it into the garbage with a big fat thud and another swear word or two and some mutter mutter which I don’t really make out along with it, where it still smells of smoke and fire, though it doesn’t smell of gasoline, like dead ants do, while Dad returns to pretending to read the paper.

The best thing in all of Texas is Bethe. That’s what I think. At least when I am lucid, like I am lucid now. For then I can read and think and say and dream and write things down, things I don’t even understand when the ants re-invade my scary place and I have to fetch more gasoline.

I burned down a tool shed once.


By the end of the 4th day some of us had turned into stars.

There are those who speak of this. Isaiah, for one, for he gave the Fallen Angel a name, he called him the Morning Star. In other places he calls him the Defiant Star, the Rebel Angel. And in this he is right, of course, though he may not know where or how or why: for to be an angel, you must have fallen: defiant, rebellious. I should know.

Angels have always been superior to man, but not always inferior to divinity.

We were all aspatial at first, neither occupying space nor being enclosed by it nor containing it. We were nowhere and everywhere, surrounded by nothing, suffusing everything, all two million of us. We were God’s engine of war.

Some claim that we have beginnings but have no end. This is false, we have no beginning. In that we are all as Michael, who is as God, who has no beginning.

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