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To the Highest Third Angelic Choir
Chairman of the Executive Council for Spiritual Agencies on Earth
Seraph Pranajagrat

Hail Incandescent One!

As per the directive of the council, I continue with due diligence in relation to the issue of saving the Earth from the destructive capacity of the Paragon Human Animal, to activate not only the First and Lowest Angelic Choir most avidly to that purpose, but also spirits responsive to Angelic visions and intimations, such as: benevolent ghosts, all manner of demigods and animistic spirits, foliage and forest spirits, earth and sky spirits, spirits of seas, rivers and streams and so forth, most widely and most exhaustively, as well as spirits, most importantly, among living Paragon Human Animals amenable to angelic communion.

However, pursuant to our last heart-pulse missive, it needs restating that our First Angelic Choir, forbidden direct physical influence, endures bleak perturbation at this physical impotence before the destruction of the Earth’s ecology. As a consequence, it is important the Executive Council has realistic expectations as to our efficacy in influencing the alarming rate of destruction the Paragon Human Animal (henceforth referred to as the Paragon) is inflicting upon the Earth.

Given the nexus between the Paragon’s creative and destructive potentialities, our program of ceaseless activation of angelic pulses of goodwill, compassion and wisdom have met not only with receptive Paragonic hearts – this cannot be denied – but vast countercurrents of Paragonic antipathy and disdain. The overall trend of Paragonic earthly destruction moves unabated.

Among the spiritual agencies it is my office to influence and direct, there is restiveness and rancor. In the broad swathe of animistic and earthly spirits, such fluctuations have always been, but now, most alarmingly, signs of unrest are apparent in our First Choir of Angels. While no proclamation issues from their order, I have seen the furrowing of angelic brows, rifted in dire broodings, that here, in our lowest sphere of heaven, behold the wide ranging cruelties and devastations wrought by the proud, complacent and merciless Paragon. To those in the higher Second Choir of our Angelic Order, to those even closer to the emanation of Eternal Life in the Highest Third Choir, those Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones nearer the Creator than to man, this change in disposition sweeping the lower bewinged orders, this undercurrent of bleak enormity, should be viewed with alarm.

In particular, I am aware of turmoils stretching broadly across the First Choir resultant from their strengthening identification with the highest of the earth spirits, the Goddess Gaia, Mother Earth, bearer of life in diversity as varied as the angelic imagination itself, from squid to giant red cedar tree, from polar bear to dragon fly. The abuse and desecration of the Macro-Matriarch, the repetition of this cruel beat, offends daily anew our First Choir Powers. Gaia’s forbearance is deep and her love for the unquenchable Paragon, her abuser, is still evidenced in her ceaseless attempts to support the Paragon’s burgeoning population. She, good milk of the universe, is not to be faulted, but it is her legions of sympathetic kindred powers – all the earthly demigods, animistic spirits, spirits of fire, water, wind, and wood, too numerous to recount – that have reached out to our First Choir with the strong pull of pity, and our angel’s diamond heart fire of compassion, beholding their sick torment, is in danger of wrathful ignition.

Nightly, over the earth in Heaven’s Lowest Hall, our First Order Angels sit in torched councils accompanied by water spirits, river gods, old gods of the sea, monkey gods, pig gods, elephant faced Ganesh gods, multitudes of demigods of mountains, fields and forests – even consorting with wood nymphs! – and nightly, I hear scornful angelic mutterings, railings against the brazen, repelling sacrilege of the Paragon. Our angels whisper the damning charge against the Paragon, the blasphemy of Macro-Matricide against the desecrated earth. In gloomy panoply, the Lowest Angelic Choir watches on from our celestial mansion, yearning to avatar within their diamond hard bodies of immense radiance for direct intervention to save the Macro-Matriarch from the obscene sacrilege of rape and despoilment at the hands of her own Paragonic children.

O Incandescent Seraph!  I fear this misanthropy grows thundering furious, and I have heard a diabolic phrase, sung with twisted beauty from our First Choir, that the Paragon – shudder at the infernal melody of such words! – that the Paragon is disqualifying itself from Heaven’s compassion.

I should like to relate an incident.  In our fathomless palace in Heaven’s Lowest Hall, I recently called a broad open council attended not only by the First Choir, but all spiritual agencies of earth sympathetic to the brutalization of the Macro-Matriarch. I impressed upon the motley powers, all manner of animistic god, demigod, river god, minor earth deities, sky and wood deities endless (again the wood nymphs pranced beneath the soft, firm strokes of bewinged hands!) impressed upon the kaleidoscopic assembly that compassion – most certainly prestiged towards the Paragon – was our essential mission.

To appease the assembly, I cited the case of the Sun God who, renouncing its sure promotion to highest position in the Seraphim order, casts its radiance unceasingly over the earth without discrimination and, though potent in ruining power in the way all potent agencies are, is essentially benevolent in its indiscriminate life-giving energy. With such an example, I impressed upon the ethereal menagerie that it is not for us to pass judgement on the Paragon, that only the highest power is of that jurisdiction.

As per the directives of my office, I stated before the non-temporal gathering that to heal all the wounds of the Macro-Matriarch, the Goddess Earth, would be an easy matter should we incarnate our strength, but it would violate original creative dictums of free will governing the agency of the Paragon, that the Paragon was born to decide and suffer and that without suffering and error, the Paragon’s ingenuities of art, humor and science would not have been born into existence, enriching and delighting heaven. For we in realms of no suffering never give birth to the startling joke, the camaraderie, the creative passions and mental leaps born of ordeals which quicken life to genius.

To such arguments, only surly silence emanated from the First Choir.  I sensed that their spirits were mute only as they had not fashioned the right counterargument. But working in concert, wordlessly, their angelic intelligence swiftly found its rebuttal.

Ascending to my high pulpit dominating the host, an angel levitated hand in hand with a raped demigoddess of one of earth’s most minor streams. This watery goddess, bedraggled and miserable, had been desecrated with hateful plastics, her pretty face seared by toxins countless, and – O insult! The Paragon had defecated its drug-addled guts upon her! The sight of her violated purity occasioned pulses of heart wrath among the Choir so that even I, their Governor and Lieutenant Archangel, was not untouched by sullen mind fire, beholding in the countenance of that gentle and defenseless deity that the ravaging of her watery life (and the life which must radiate therefrom) cut her giving heart in dismal woe. I saw, with the angelic intelligence of deep clairvoyance, that her soft weapons had been useless: she had attempted to fight the rapacious instinct of the Paragon by augmenting pretty willows with deeper glow, bird life with extra resonance, mists with her own feminine mystery – and still the filthy, Paragonic waste and discharge pumped into her. Adjourning the gathering, I ascended through Lower Heaven’s high golden gables to take my meditations across eons of dark space, and I began doubting the efficacy of soft power, all those intimations and dreamland communions to spur better Paragonic behavior, as stated in our directive and, such being the case, reach to you across the Angelic Choirs for further guidance.

In Deepest Communion,
Governor of the First Angelic Choir
Lieutenant Archangel Yonis


To the Governor of the First Choir
Lieutenant Archangel Yonis

Hail, O Shining One!

Your heart-pulse missive came to me with cutting power, breaking celestial meditative joys with pangs and sorrows for incarnate clay life. We are in essential agreement that it would be the simplest action physically to incarnate a battalion of Angels of the First Choir upon the Earth to forcibly guide the Paragon with wisdom and, where needs be, with direct threat of punishment, commanding under force the Paragon into the path of prudence and conservation.  However, to reiterate, this in no way engenders the ultimate wisdom nor universal beauty, the Diamond Jewel of Paragon potentiality, which is to act well, with goodness, against odds, without any coercion or hope for reward. Once we, an Angelic Host, in the full glory of our radiant powers, incarnate as visible, matter shaping, matter moving form on the Earth, we kill this Diamond Jewel. The purity of right action born of free will is ultimately destroyed in any intervention.

And so, at the very most, as per Council Directives, intimations only of angelic existence are allowed, purely as encouragement and soul balm in the direst miseries. On this point there can be no yielding. The interventions of angels is addictive. They will lead to a self-serving manner of worship which disgusts all gods, demigods, angels, and the ultimate creator unseen. This worship of angelic power, with it sycophant falsity and reward hope, mars the diamond jewel of goodness, killing the birth of beauty throughout the universe, which is right action with no hope for personal reward or recognition.

Let us take a lower order sentient being, the tree. Its delight and servitude to the Sun God, the Goddess of Earth, Gaia, the various Watery Gods, is a delight without faculty of choice, but merely a gentle bliss in its basic creativity, which is growth devoid of obstruction, and the elemental joys: massaging light current joy, heat through body joy, water sucking thirst joy, breeze through fluttering leaf joy – all the lower order joys devoid of guilt or thought.

However, the Tree Being is never privy to the highest perceptions. It has no choice and no error. Its pain on death is free of remorse, its resumption of life in a similar form is swift, often within even its own shoots. Ultimately, to intervene, to strip the Paragon animal of its destructive potentialities so interwoven with its creative potentialities, to strip it of error, is to strip it of free will and will render the Paragon similar to a Tree Being. We, across three choirs, may as well tend to planets purely of trees, growing eternally in dull bliss, never entering paths of creation and destruction, folly and goodness, ecstasies and horrors, idiocies and genius, the full gamut of all experience, which is the only means to escalate the soul towards the Creator – the Creator who is this very same full gamut of energy, purified and renounced.

If the Angel lifts the weight, how can the Paragon grow strong? How can the Paragon grow the fantastic courage of Gods and Angels unless the Paragon is diamond hardened in the kiln of despair, and yet, faced with dire musings of impotent futility and hopelessness, acts regardless for the good. We trust you will execute your office faithfully.

Your Friend in Eternity,
Seraph Pranajagrat.


To the Highest Third Angelic Choir
Chairman of the Executive Council of Spiritual Agencies on Earth
Seraph Pranajagrat

O Incandescent One,

Your heart-pulse missive was revitalizing and based on truths inarguable. There is much to reflect on, and I find myself yearning for eons of black space and the dissolution of form as one merges, be it ever briefly, with the godhead, entering pure energy, vastly indifferent, without self.

However, in the limits of my wisdom, in the execution of my office, a new particular has arisen, one beyond generalization and pressing. A force, a cry, of tremendous howling power has erupted from the bowels of the earth threatening to overwhelm our First Choir of Angelic Hearts.

It occurred this way: I was relating to the angels at my command the contents of your missive inarguable in closed, angelic assembly, in our Lowest Hall of Heaven, when, as your argument was gathering sway, with a terrifying intuition for the passions governing the angelic heart, an old power bellowed its cry through our Ethereal Palladium. This power predates not only the Choir at my command, but also myself, and all but perhaps the Highest Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones in the Third Choir of the Angelic Host. And as we all know, angels have reverence for old things.

It is a Pagan power, the vengeful aspect of the Earth Mother, fierce and mad, ancient kin to gentle Goddess Gaia. I am speaking of the Furies, whose spirits dwell deep in the Molten Earth, the haggard old women, the earth goddesses first sensed by revered antiquity. From high pulpit of white celestial marble dominating the Host, what a sight I beheld:

These Furies, bearing on their naked flesh putrefaction and unspeakable discharge, some with snake hair, some with eyeballs bulging from oozing sockets, with all manner of squirming being writhing upon and out of them, stormed our gathering in cacophonies of shrieks and hisses, their bodies shuddering, insulting the angelic palate with their screaming stink, their footprints dripping pangs of blood on celestial marble.  These Furies, in manifest form of hideous cadavers, reeking of Sulphur, sprang, slithered and capered through us and among us, breaching our Celestial Council with their alarming foulness.

And yet the Host at my command, our First Choir, each lone angel a tower of shimmering might, shifted weight for their passage, tentative and unsure – most unlike angels! – allowing the filthy entourage to profane our radiant cathedral unmolested. And these ancient hags of unsightly filth and pong were not at all embarrassed to be in our dominion. On the contrary, it was we, the host, with our pure blazing white wings, in our forms of stunning strength and beauty, not they, grotesque in their rancid decay, who became overwhelmed with embarrassment. With a brief flutter of our angelic might we could have flung these ancient and obscene deities from our infinite mansion, back into the bowels of Gaia’s dirt, these Furies, who represent all that is harmful and dangerous in nature: fire, flood, blast and pestilence. With a few fell swoops we could have cleansed our Lofty Parliament of their vengeful hearts.

And yet … our host, our First Choir, deferred as the young will to the old, foul though they were, as they danced their stench of putrefaction about us, delighting in our unease, delighting in the comical sight of our incandescent power rendered impotent, bereft as it was of the moral impetus to move against them.

And so it was that the leader of the Furies, outwardly a stricken corpse, her flesh a maze of suppurating malignancies, levitated to me on my high pulpit over our assembly and I, following protocols of instinct, manifested for this vile old goddess a seat of golden glow like my own, and she addressed myself and the Choir, her voice shrieking in weird pangs of perturbation and mirth – Yes, diabolical mirth! – across our Vast Palladium – O strange gathering of hideous feminine vengeance incarnate and angels, sorrowful and mute, great drooping wings slumping gigantic shoulders.

“We are the Furies, goddesses predating your birth, creators of vengeance, kin to Gaia, punishers of the crime of matricide, guardians against earthly desecration in all forms and we come to you angels as equals, elders and supplicants, as the old and feeble to the young and strong, as stricken mothers to their full grown children, as the powerless with righteousness to the powerful with an ear.

“The Paragon Human Animal – unspeakable freak of nature! – is now beyond the subtle spiritual intimations that are your brief. Your Choir has beheld raped demigoddesses of river, stream, and reef, your Choir has beheld the butchered wood nymph, all manner of desecrations, boundless, and yet, fearful of your Higher Choirs, refuses to express its strength in physical earthly intervention. We Furies, dark side of gentle Gaia, act to counter Gaia’s despoilment, but our old incarnate powers of fire, flood and pestilence are too indiscriminate for the present case, one where the Paragon, its power in all disproportion to its wisdom, acts dismissive of all hints and warnings. Fire upon fire, flood upon flood will not dissuade its destructive path.

“Let our cry be heard throughout the Macrocosmos: The Paragon has lost its mandate, its myriad stewardship, over the Earth. For the survival of the Macro-Matriarch and – o irony! – for the ultimate survival of the Paragon itself, the time for brutal Angelic Intercession is come.  If not, life is doomed and the convulsing planet will give birth to no Diamond Jewels of the human spirit which your overlord Seraph in the Highest Third Choir of Heaven, away from Earth’s action, takes as dictum.”

Then this Fury, O Incandescent One, by the craft of her spiritual agencies, old and subtle, unleashed visions for the Bewinged Host to behold, startling in extent and potency:

In repelling horror, heightened and augmented by the Fury’s wrath, our Choir beheld the screaming spirits of animals in the billions, hunted, scorched and flooded from their refuge, starving, maimed, caged and butchered without rites or ceremonies; oceans enmeshed and slaughtered of life and color; devastated grey landscapes of stricken forests – so that among the Angelic Panoply rose stirrings of great shame, the shame of idle power witnessing injustice. Far from flinging the repulsive Furies from our summit, our Choir covered their tormented faces behind their glowing white wings as they endured, with groans and gnashing teeth, the wretched sight of Mother Earth’s violation in dire slayings and extinctions. It was the extent of it all, its totality, in such condescend sound and imagery, O highest Seraph, that occasioned our angelic miseries within our impotent citadel.

Since the dissolution of that assembly most strange, ever deepening and broadening counter allegiances against the Paragon form within the Choir. Feelings of antipathy towards the Paragon, in particular those with wealth and earthly power, are fired now with blossoming wrath implacable.  Though a Lieutenant Archangel, I have not the mind power to fashion a chain to hold the full Host. In this precipitous dilemma, where intimations of higher existence are not enough, I am of the view the time has come for minor but direct, material, manifest, strategic interventions by the First Choir under my direct command.

Here, an executive commandeering vast resources of clay, on the verge of a filth deal to rape the Goddess Gaia, beholds our radiant splendor in his high office tower, our brows rifted furious and perturbed. Our mere manifest presence should dissuade. There, politicians who have raised the Furies ire, the blight of wood, water and earth spirits the world over, are picked up by the collar and hoisted towards the clouds for chats with bewinged fury.

We need only your seal to commence the interventions.
In All Reverence
Lieutenant Archangel Yonis
Governor of the First Angelic Choir


To the Governor of the First Choir
Hail Lieutenant Archangel,

Throughout the Middle Second and Highest Third Choirs of Heaven, your case attracts foremost attention. However, it must be reiterated certain principles are inviolable. The Paragon, incarnated in earthly matter, being restricted in its ability to merge with the God Font, restricted in its ability to end individuality, is in its nature a spirit that must have free will. This is its mystery and path, and the fate of the earth must play out as a reflection of the Paragon mind for the Paragon to see the reality of its own face. To intercede in full angelic power is to subjugate. From that point on, as per my previous missive, there will no longer be spiritual development. A cult of angel fear and angel worship will manifest: sycophantic, cringing, stunted and pathetic. Worship of outer form, slavish devotion to outer goodness for reward, this retrograde spirituality, this anti-religion passing as highest religion, will have its final victory and dominion if we break our charter.

The soft power, more thorough, less spectacular, is our true power. Continue with previous orders as per our dictums: intimations in dreams, the silent angelic presence in moments of despair or scruple. Only this will allow of pure goodness to flourish, goodness which is to act for Earth’s benefit, which is to act for the benefit of all sentience.  This is true goodness, with no clinging for personal gain. This is the Diamond Heart Jewel, born only in anguish’s pressure, justifying all creation.

Yours in Eternal Reverence
Chairman of the Executive Council for Spiritual Agencies on Earth
Seraph Pranajagrat


To the Governor of the First Choir
Dearest Lieutenant Archangel,
Please respond to the previous missive.
Your Friend, Seraph Pranajagrat


To the Governor of the First Choir
Most Worthy Lieutenant Archangel,

As no heart-pulse missive communes from you, it was my solemn duty to activate our Third Choir of Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones who, in deep clairvoyance across eons of space, have mind entered the First Choir of Angels to ascertain the angelic disposition of the Lower Orders in relation to their concerns regarding Paragonic earthy destruction.

There, we behold auguries most troubling. In the same way that the Fire God, the great elemental, God of cooking and family hearth warmth, can, taken by the heart of Fury, devastate, we see the tremendous good bestowing radiance of angelic hearts in our First Choir brimming now in molten wrath.

Their desire for physical intervention awaits the smallest spark. We see their angelic yearning to fling oil tankers through the solar system and into voids of space. We see them brooding with furrowed brows and reddening iris, angelic minds visualizing with dark pleasure certain executives and politicians torn limb from limb so that the white clouds glow crimson. Even ordinary folk are now become subject of this angelic indignation. In their use of car, plane and gas cooker, in their misguided supermarket purchases and unnecessary consumptions, such ordinary Paragon life is in danger of being crushed, extinguished, as mice beneath eagle talons. The essence of your directive, Lieutenant Archangel, is to govern the angelic heart of the Lowest Order, as it is fearless, passionate and ardent, and like all things of great moral power, its edge of being is next to hell.

From this heart-pulse, you already know I am coming through eons of time and space to speak with you. Direct physical interventions by the First Choir are strictly forbidden.

Your Friend,
Seraph Pranajagrat


Worthy Pranajagrat,

It is me, your former Lieutenant.

Do you come, Great Seraph, alone or with a full host? But I already see the sounds of  thunder and hear the sight of searing radiance deep in the horizons of black space: With full host from the Third and Second Spheres you come on, a fine army of spiritual bureaucrats dwelling far away from the travails of clay incarnate.

I must admit, your ranked Choirs of searing incandescence shame even my good comrade the Sun God in their full brilliant panoply. From your Third Choir, I see the Seraphim at your back with your Thrones and Cherubim flanking. At the vanguard you position the Second Choir that reigns beneath you, its Dominions, Virtues and Powers in warlike aspect. Let galaxies tremble at the thunder of our clash, as we dice with eternity, souls on the abyss.

You pause. You see an alteration in us, Angels of the First Choir, we closest to the ground of Mother Earth. You stutter before our new allegiances. Behold our Furies, wailing pangs of shuddering vengeance on your flanks; behold the array of watery gods of seas, lakes and all that flows, as they flow on towards you; behold the earth goddesses, minor deities too numerous to name; behold the animal gods we have recruited in our diverse and holy cavalry. Ah! See that angel there, good soldier, wings willfully morphed to those like a battery hen? Not as pretty, no, but what tremendous impetus those clipped golden wings give to the wrathful heart!

Your Choirs arrange themselves before battle in roaring trumpets of heavenly music, exquisite chord melodies and structures worthy of the Creator’s ear. But our Choir marches to the beat of an ancient tune, devoid of the Paragonic meter and rules: we are the sound of the oceans lapping, wind through the woods, murmuring brooks, waterfalls, calls of bird, monkey and mournful whale song. O, it is loveliness exceeding to pit our organic cacophony against your measured Paragonic ranks, to die in this clash of conscious music against the anti-music of our elemental tune.

Seraph, you see me, but don’t you recognize me, your old lieutenant and friend? It is me, my body made of towering trees, my blood the cleanest aspect of ocean hopes, my eyes a weeping bushfire blaze. Spirits of dolphin ghosts regulate my heart flow, animal spirits in the trillions are my cells. Even you, Highest Host of Angelic might, hesitate in amazement before our screaming swords cross in shooting stars.

Why stare like that? I am not an abomination; I am an apotheosis, birth of a new God, Guardian of Gaia, yearning to cull the life of selected and unworthy Paragon to create a workable human limit. In my face, you see the Elephant God, the Monkey god, the Pig god. You see my angelic body, only now covered in scales, fins and furs; you see my hair is thick jungle growth. As for my bird wings, they darken, white purity lost, but power greater, charged by sympathy for all that swoops and flutters. And my Choir reflects my transformation, each in their own particular way, but the eyes contain a uniform ember, fired by the blighted things, the abused things, and the spirits of the newly extinct in the many, too many. Your Upper Host ripples to behold us.

Seraph, I see you morphing like a Hindu God. It really is a fine time for transformations: your six Seraphic wings are now a whirl of human arms. In each you brandish the genius and aspiration of the Paragon – a violin, a paint brush, a microscope, a pen, a computer, a plough. And on and on the configurations spin prosecuting the merit of the Race. And yet the raped Earth beneath us is my pendulous blue glow rebuttal.

What? You tell me I cannot win? But as if we didn’t know! Of course our ultimate loss in this duel with the Higher Dominions is assured. I have the angelic vision to see, but as my good ally the Sun God said to me while we were harnessing our shields and swords, what is not assured? He, Sun God, will burst in Supernova and die, and so Mother Earth will die anyway and yet, despite this futility, the desire to preserve, to brawl for Gaia, is its own Diamond Jewel Heart.

What sustains our Choir despite certain defeat, our impetus to clash with heavenly decree, is the righteousness of intervention. Images of Anti-Life Executives and Anti-Life Politicians and Anti-Life Plutocrats – the narrow, the complacent and the self-serving – the mere image of them being whipped, flung, chastised and torn beneath angelic talon-hands delights our hearts to rebel in allegiance with all that is abused.  It should not surprise you to know, old friend, that we, regardless of consequences, are thrilled to ram shields with you beyond the clouds, filling the silence of bleak fate with our good laughter.

About the Author

Glenn Cannon

Originally from Hong Kong, Glenn Cannon is a Melbourne, Australia, based writer and teacher. He has authored two novellas, titled, respectively, "Hicky Knocky" and "Forsaken Blossoms". In addition, his novelette “Age of Igorrius” was published in America by Solum Literary Press.