a short story by ben yosaf aperitif

"The View from Bellevue"

by ben yosaf aperitif

The drones of a few upset children neither bothered nor concerned the mother because she was doing her best and that was all she could ask.

It had been that way for a few years now.

The family receiving a financial subsidy of 200 euros per month from the Greek government and it was enough to make ends meet, parsimoniously.

She wanted someone to teach her family brilliance.

Mr. Brilliance lived in DC, over 2,000 miles away.

She put thousands of fits to rest and she had more than beat humility into her kids with her imploring words.

They knew she loved them and wanted the best for them. That is what mattered the most to them.

The sound of rippling water gutting through the atmosphere at top levels of impressionistic vibration made perfect sense without hesitation.

She was well trained in the rain.

Her home was Rethymno, the town that holds Bellevue.

It is a colorful town with diverse people and cuisine. From turnips to kale to olives to raki, it had its disguises. She knew it was the perfect home for her. And it was right—just right!— for her family.

She could get her babies out of the homeless shutters and windowpanes spent out about one kilometer away from Bellevue.

Bellevue is the sound of semi-sonic conductor taking up eternity without meter, on top of its place in the world, on top of the world in the right state of mind, perfectly sound.

It is ancient ruins where a temple once was and a couple shrines to old washed-up and washed-away gods and goddesses, one day a home in Ithaka.

The muse still goes there to pray—

to the muse to make it to infinity hand in hand.

It’s good for a second bet.

Makes a nice home for the weekend.

Only a few, a few, that are in peace beyond shoes.

It’s so beautiful how the sound of it appears in radiating colors when you notice it out of the rugged landscape, the semi-mountainous arid terrain, quintessential Crete land of the camouflage of ivy, vine-greens, and desert-beige altar for an Amen.

There’s a well nearby that is always full. Ancient mystics used to discuss faith there while they breathe in truth.

In the sound of the day in is the radio parade, just an emblematic sky tone for walls and rooms of faith filled to brimming fruit abiding in peace beyond amazement and the sky-high transcendent nimbus-willowy clouds riding forth in a marching band of roof. 

According to the wheat that germinates and gives birth to more fruit, always a plethora of fruit.

They remain close to the vine. Understood the holy message of Jesus and took it to heart. Faith that yields a hundredfold and more.

The view from Bellevue is of the Ionian Sea, where the water screams blue and ebb and flow of ‘ol, and it’s more than enough for her.

It is strange rumbling peace of emotion the thought of false devotion to river of wildlife notion, to the place where she keeps standing and falling out of proportion, to where she’s planning an intricate motion, all the world spinning to the sound of her vibration, where brahman meets atman and it’s without a notion or question, and the top of her winning her home is like the mainstay soaring, without her knowing, out of proportion, karma of a child, the luck of a brilliant climate and quantum scientist. She has made plenty of discoveries and always discovers more. She knows: everyone is unique and notices things that no one has ever thought of before. It’s the trick of the mind. It’s like playing whah-la and being right on top of the divine in the bag of metrics; it’s like knowing what’s ahead right before you get there, and that’s where this is going—right to devout motion, right to the world devotion, write to our knees wading through the ocean.

The one who walks on water was wanting to be alone to be with his Father. The Father and the Holy Word. Mother Earth.

There is lots of good in the atmosphere. And there is lots of good right here. So why not take on Time Square? And do it to the likeness that no one can compare?  Why not make the most of the ocean? Why not play Marco Polo in the deep blue. Why not bring a shovel for the sand too. And dig a whole, and bathe there in the early breeze. And we have faith. Baptisms in The Holy Spirit.

That’s the way it is on this planet.

Jesse was acknowledging the sound of his voice to amplify on the PA system as people sat eagerly awaiting the content of his words. He knew he could provide hope for some and as always he gave it his all. Jesse often tries his best; the rest of the time he rests.

It is right on top of the universe where the universe began, it was without motion, it was still life devotion, it was Jesus Christ, the Word, without a rumination the Word, the Holy Lord, was born.  He came to earth in flesh and he saved everyone. 

Purusha, the primordial man out of whom we are born according to each, according to strata, thus the Prodigal Son, was sent to earth by his Father to die for the sins of the world, and he then returned to “a place we could not go,” to his Father’s home, hence he is raised high above all others like the eon before time began.

Now I go wherever the Spirit hums (John 3:16, Luke 22:33). God became alive by the Father, with the Holy Spirit, and from the Lord, all good things come.  He is the bounty of life.  He is salvation.

Jesse knew his way around DC.  There, he worked on passing legislation to help the poor and needy, the vulnerable and the feeble, the meek and the righteous, targeting for a climate-energy transformation, built his days engaged in community service at the children’s hospital, and aimed to alleviate systemic corruption while harmonizing talk across the aisle.

He went to the hostel in Rethymno one day.

You may never know what he found there.

It was Annie, wearing a dressing gown, along with her children.

They found a home in the colorful petite boulevards there, and from their home they had the view of Bellevue, and a new life with each other— Ithaka’s return.