
Canto 32 – The Palace of a 1,000 Years
The city of Kiro, Gaijin was a heavily populated place. The city was full of high-rise pagoda towers and Kyoto-style castles. Dominating the skyline was the huge obsidian sculpture of a Black Cat atop the Temple of the Four Pillars of the Secret Way. Naylund Smith explained it all to Ged Aero as they made their way through the ornate city.
Ged and Dr. Smith were accompanied by the two children and Xavier Tkriashav. All the newcomers were overwhelmed by what they saw.
“This place is more beautiful than anything I ever saw in my visions,” said Tkriashav.
“Do I understand correctly that you are the Master Telepath and Psion?” asked Naylund Smith.
“Yes. I am a powerful telepath, teleport, and clairvoyant. I am not the most powerful of my people, however.”
“Perhaps,” said Dr. Smith, “but you figure prominently in the Prophecy of Shan.”
“If that is a book, I’d like to see it,” said Tkriashav.
“In time. It is a holy book to these people.”
All around the small group, silk-robed people had been gathering to watch as if the five people were a circus parade. Many shouted “White Spider!” as if prayers had been at long last answered.
“Can you tell me why I am supposed to be this White Spider?” asked Ged as he took long strides to hurry past lemon-yellow-skinned admirers.
“It is destiny.” Naylund smiled and nodded his head indulgently. “The web of outer space has brought you to us to pick up the threads woven by the last White Spider. The last spider wove this world and its society. You have come to link it to other webs and expand this world.”
“You talk a lot of poetic nonsense.” Ged looked away at the sky.
“Poetic nonsense is also sometimes Truth,” said Dr. Smith. “I will help you to learn that in time.”
Finally, they came to a beautiful castle made of white stone and Gaijinese Teak wood, inlaid with bright blue sapphires. It appeared to have been their destination all along.
“This,” said Dr. Smith, “is the Palace of a Thousand Years. It is your new home.”
“We will live here?” asked Junior.
Dr. Smith looked at the blue boy. “It is the palace belonging to Shen Ming. It is the traditional home of the White Spider. It is the place where the last White Spider, Shan Sasaki once lived and worked.”
“Do you expect me to give up space travel?” asked Ged. “It’s the only life I’ve ever really known.”
“It will be part of the life you will lead as the White Spider. It is the work you are expected to do for us.”
“Hmm.” Ged stared up at the curved roofs of the Palace of One Thousand Years.
Naylund Smith led the way into the palace through a large wooden gate. Inside they came into a courtyard that bustled with activity as if it were a small town all by itself. The courtyard had an ornate Tori-i arch that marked the center of the great building. There were practice yards there where groups of children under the care of a schoolmaster were learning martial arts, probably karate. There was a large oriental garden for quiet contemplation inside the palace, as well as the entrance into a riding stable filled with two-legged llama-like mammals called kians.
Naylund pointed out the two master towers where the instructors lived. There was a massive central building which Naylund called the Akito House. It contained the vast White Spider library, a place that had almost as many bound volumes of books as books on computer memory crystals. Finally he pointed out Shen Ming’s Hall, which, he informed them, was the White Spider’s official residence.
They entered Shen Ming’s Hall through a double door that proved to lead to a huge indoor bathing pool. Naked yellow men, women, and numerous children were all bathing there. Junior Aero would’ve blushed if his skin hadn’t been blue. Ged’s skin turned crimson.
Up a marble stair, they came into the Administrator’s Hall, and a large, stately office. Behind the desk was Shen Ming himself, looking spry for a man of nine hundred years. He was bald as a cue ball and looked like a wrinkled Alfred E. Newman.
“Honored Shen-sensei,” began Dr. Smith. “I bring before you Ged Aero. He is…”
“I know, Naylund-sama, I know. He is the new White Spider. I would know him anywhere! He is just as Shan-dono described him in the Prophecy.”
The silk-clad ancient moved swiftly out from behind the desk and took Ged’s hand. He placed it on his own hairless head.
“I pledge to you all that I have, White Spider,” Shen Ming said in tones of awe. “I will serve you all of my remaining days.”
Ged couldn’t begin to speak. The place and the situation filled him up. Tears welled up in his eyes.



Ah, irony again! It ends up being anything but simple. You can write in simple, adjective-and-adverb-free sentences as Hemingway did, and still manage to convey deeply complicated and thoughtful ideas. One might even suggest that you can create poetic ideas in mere prose, dripping with layers of emotion, conflict, theme, and deeper implied meaning. You can also write prose in the intensely descriptive and convoluted style of a Charles Dickens with many complex sentences and pages-long paragraphs of detail, using comic juxtapositions of things, artfully revealing character development, and idiosyncratic dialogue all for comedic effect. Prose is a powerful and infinitely variable tool for creating meaning in words. Even when it is in the form of Mickian purple paisley prose that employs extra-wiggly sentence structure, pretzel-twisted ideas, and hyperbolically big words.
The worst experience I got from this summer’s food delivery came at the hands of a fellow school teacher. I had to deliver faculty lunch to an elementary school in the last week of summer school classes. It was a large lunch with two bags of burgers and a tray loaded with drinks in flimsy cardboard cups. It was a short drive from the restaurant to the school. But when I got there, it was a school with many entrances and kids playing on two different sides of the building. I went to the door I thought the Uber navigator was directing me to. I knocked. When I got no answer, I called the lady who ordered everything. I told her I was at the west door. She told me that I had to find the main door on the south side of the building. So I managed to juggle the two sacks and the easily spillable drinks to three different doors on the south side, all locked. I called again and was told I must have the wrong building, so I went to the school building across the street and found an office building with only kindergarten and daycare kids present. I called again.








How Mickey’s Brain Percolates
I tend to do a lot of thinking about thinking. I pay attention to what sources of input and images I use to bring the old brain to a boil. It is entirely possible to turn into a malevolent moron in this age of Trumpalump Twitter Twit-Tweets if you pay too much attention to its anger-inducing misinformation and rage-ranting. So I have to limit how much I think about calling Trump and the other elephant-heads names. I enjoy it, true, but I really don’t want to become a malevolent moron.
The anti-moron medicine comes in the form of remembering who I used to be and how problems were solved as an educator, mentor, and advocate for young people. I remember how the times I used name-calling and anger in place of problem-solving tended to only make the problem worse. If you deliberately brainstorm solutions to the problem instead, I have found that after you test several solutions and have them spectacularly fail, your persistance eventually yields a solution that works.
So when I think about how to proceed with the daily problems of life, especially the age-old question, “What the hell am I going to write about today?” I find that I tend to leap out of the box, think all around the outside landscape, and seize on something silly in a very round-about and experimental manner.
The things I choose to write about in book form are all based on my own real experiences. But I have the unfortunate gift for having an overdose-level vivid imagination. So my books are about fairies and ghosts and aliens as well as the kids I have taught, the people who raised me, and the people who have always surrounded me. I write about ideas in some depth, but always from a sideways viewpoint that reflects my beliefs in non-violence, rationality, and love.
My mind works like a match in a firecracker factory. But I try not to use it for evil. And now that I am done revealing the secret of how Mickey’s brain percolates, feel free to tell me how stupid it all is and call me whatever bad monkey-names you can think of for me. I can take it. And when I take it, I most likely will use it to make something surprisingly good. Mickey-brain tea… now there’s a weird, wild, and wonderful metaphorical brew.
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