Ghostly Monks

Professor Edmund Katz took another sip of his tea.
Jonathan, he said pausing in his deliberation to lean forward and return the cup upon the table to his left. He sat back in the conservatory chair and brought together his hands as if in prayer and drew them to his lips, he remained thoughtful.
The fact you heard the footsteps of these monks and saw them again the next evening at your meditation class intrigues me. I’d be wary of them. You say at all times they show you no face and that they keep their identity hidden. Does that suggest not all is what it seems? They present themselves as monks to you, but are we to believe that they are?
The Professor continued with his interpretation and to me it seemed obvious when spelt out in such an apparent way.
Remember Jonathan in the physical world we have that gut feeling when we think something is wrong. We can enter a room and be aware if all is not well with the occupants if they have some brooding issues to contend with. We know of lingering atmospheres that can colour our feelings, of people we sense are covering up the truth. But remember, there is an unseen world that surrounds us which many are not aware and yet leave themselves attracting like to like. Your monks hide under hoods and robes and do not show their faces. Why?
He thought deep and looked straight at me and in a quiet yet firm instruction he said to me.
You must confront them in your meditation and ask of them to prove they work with the highest of light.
A silence fell between us and the atmosphere held still awaiting his next words.
I have a gift for you, given to me by a holy man and I now pass it on to you.
The Professor handed over to me a gold cross with the crucified Christ.
Wear this at all times, it will protect you.
I have said it before reader, when meeting the Professor, there is nothing false about what he tells me and of the world you and I inhabit. There is a great feeling of trepidation about the ignorance we can all soon fall into.


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Extra Portions

Barnum Flowers maniac clown that is Jo-Jo has I'm afraid made it impossible to show ones face at The Old Pavilion. In a performance far beyond that you'd see in the circus ring this wasn't any old custard pie slinging match, far from it.

The woman with tall hair and spectacles I'm afraid came off the worse, simply because she was there rudely examining Barnum through outstretched arm and lens. Her disapproving look at his ways managing to cut it through her destroyed food now festooned about her body.

The house special of roast quail, black cherries, rice and wild morels, her choice of meal, was no longer a source of grandeur, tis but now a mucky mess.

Barnum ever the showman had somehow managed to disappear, not so Jo-Jo who had only just started. Exit stage left...

The story began here if you would care to read from my published diary entry The Impresario Barnum Flowers