For a youthful insouciance which I thought playful but they, disrespectful, I was condemned to roam Earth in human form subject to every law of man—not in spite of their illogical, inconsistent, petty, and unfair natures, but precisely because of them.
And what of my services?
I asked with with the full depth of my deathly voice, undiminished by my adolescent dismay.
“As we need you, we will call upon you. But first you must learn obedience.”
Lest I become too comfortable in the human world, I would also, from time to time, suffer the ravages of human disease.
As the sophists of the political class who hock self-serving solutions to problems that don’t exist are keenly aware, humans seek to destroy what they fear. So I take, as my human form, tall, thin, gaunt. I dress in black, my hair is long and unkept. And yet I command attention.
It is early evening and in long wool coat and heavy scarf I walk through the cool of Piccadilly, its electric lamps already lit and promising charm and mystery in place of the fright and danger prevalent a scant year ago. I am inured to the inviting smiles of the young ladies who cross my path, all of whom are particularly lovely, and all of whom seem determined to make their desire for my approval obscenely obvious.
At the entrance to Coventry Street, I approach a Bobby, fit and trim in his pressed black uniform, and wait for him to notice me.
May I vomit here?
I ask him as he lifts his gaze with no small measure of concern upon my pale, clammy complexion.
“Good God, no!” he spits at me in clipped tones, taking a step back and reflexively grabbing hold of his police baton. “This is England. The English do not vomit.”
“Particularly in Westminster,” he adds after a moment of contemplation.
“Move along. Get back to your duties.”
I feel the saliva gathering on my tongue, growing in volume and viscocity, keenly aware of the heat in my head, the pulse that hammers against my temples, the increasing thickness of my esophagus, and even the tilt of the earth, which in the grip of my nausea strikes me as random and ill-advised.
Shuffling up Coventry Street, I gaze hopefully into the storefront windows, but without fail, every single store has prominently posted a sign:
No Vomiting!
A couple feel the need to justify their lack of empathy:
Vomiting for paying patrons, only.
Two retched belches escape my lips, and I exhale weakly. At times I feel that I cannot tolerate another moment, another instant of this nausea. The very plates in my skull yearn to vomit. To wing a fiery incandescent arc across the breadth and depth of that proper, buttoned up street. O that I were a brick upon that street! That I might glory in vomit’s free release, and bounce with joy as the hiss and steam that rose forth into the unsuspecting evening scorches all it touches. The ladies in their bright bonnets realizing too late that they are on fire. Their gentleman escorts too preoccupied with the green phlegm dissolving first the shine, then the leather on their boots to notice. The passengers on the tram uncomprehending as the cobblestones dissolve and part into a chasm, too porous to contain that magma emanating from my entrails seeking only to return to its origin at the center of the Earth.
“I am become Death,” my mouth utters of its own volition.
A smidge of guilt rushes across my conscience as I imagine the devastation the foul effusion of my entrails would wreak upon what is arguably the world’s most admirable civilization in the stature it achieves in the arts, the sciences, and certainly its urban design. Is there any city more mesmerizing than London? And yet, it is built on the fruits of conquest, plunder, and oppression. How many of its conquered and oppressed felt once as I feel now? Felt, a great many of them, a great many millions of them, for the length of their entire plundered life? Are Civilization and Plunder the very soulmates of Empire?
That is too deep a question to pose to a man who only wants to vomit, I quickly decide. A god who has tired of the ancient’s methods of teachings.
“Tell me what you need me to know,” I cry to the heavens of the evening. “Don’t make me guess again and again and again!”
I lean back my head, I hold my arms apart at my side, and I arch my back gloriously. I feel my strength returning. My soul escapes my grip once more and cries out:
Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds!
photograph by Rick Ramsey
The pavement begins to spin. I begin to float above it. The nausea fades. My soul will do what it will do, my nature worn down by petty lessons. And then a horse snorts.
I force my body to return to earth, where a hoof pounds the stones. Before me, a vision of beauty enslaved. A pale mare speckled with black dots. Her haunches are powerful. Her back cuts a soft, elegant curve into the evening light. She is perfect in her simplicity, the most perfect of God’s creations. Her mane shines lustrous against her coat. Her enormous muscles quiver with restrained rebellion because the length of her hide and the curve of her face are lined with the metal and leather instruments of oppression. They even invade her soft, peaceful, lovely mouth. Her eyes, their field of vision restricted by blinders, stare at me with love. Against the wishes of her gentle driver, she has stopped in front of me, the driver still tapping the reins with a soft touch, not aware yet, that my friend will not move until I understand.
As a courtesy, I do not take long to understand. The horse is more beautiful than I, far more loving than I and, if a god, perhaps more powerful even than I. But she is demonstrating to me the act of obedience. Obedience to the unfathomable will of Almighty God, whether you call Him Krishna, Allah, Adonai, or Heavenly Father. I do not understand that implacable will, I find it all incomprehensibly unjust, but her example has convinced me to accept it. To fail to accept would be an unkindness I could not bring myself to perpetrate upon her.
Once more she snorts. And nods her head at me. An understanding passes between us, and she obeys the gentle but insistent hands of her human master. Are horses angels I wonder as she passes by me, pulling an elegant coach with two passengers mesmerized by the evening lights, unaware of the vicious viscous fate she has spared them. I step off the curb, a belch once more escaping my throat, wretched enough to send chills up my spine, but powerless to disturb the peace in my heart.
It was 16° F (-9° Celsius) when I left Perry Park at 7:45 this morning on my way to the 
Old Man Ramsey 
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