Chapters
Act II Silver Linings·Illumination

“Bitter Apple” Part IV

Based on a True Spiritual Battle Against the Jezebel Spirit. 29 minute read

Portraits

Tariq did not know what to make of this young girl who talks about having his art published into some kind of art journal with royalties.


All he knew was that she could patron him. Shorty is looking cute, talking a good game like she wants to make him famous or something. He wasn’t having that bullshit. He wanted his ends. It was the hustle.

It’s another night, same hustle game, with original artwork displayed in the channels of the subway system. She lingered to look at the portrait of the woman on the pillar.

“One for $25, two for $40,” he says to her.

Above her is the eight pointed star, the symbol of the gnostic warrior and the great seal of the prophets. “What does this star represent?” she asks, cautious.

“Niburu,” he says,  “morning star.”

“Ah, God’s after his heart,” Angelie says, “and that’s why we are all here.”

Tariq is intrigued by her. She sounds so confident in her claims and yet nonchalant in her stride.  

“I want to commission you to draw 23 customized illustrations according to each spoken word piece that I have written, but I want you to draw it accordingly to your reaction to the poem, rather than take instructions from me.”

He look at her with the Jay-z head tilt in the York days. He’s checking her vibes to see if she’s for real or not.

“We can either do a work for hire where I commission 23 customized pieces but I take ownership of your art, or we can do a royalties split,” she says.

“It sounds like this is something we need to talk about privately,” he says. Angelie is reminded that she is still at a subway tunnel, but she is impatient, or rather, direct. Her mannerism feels like home in this foreign yet familiar city of New York, New York.

On second thought, she wants him to have ownership to his own artwork, because she wants his love and energy in it, blended along with hers, created for a co-collective stand…because that’s the only way she’ll do art. No compromises.

“There’s a clear distinction between doing art for another person’s desires and doing art for our own purposes,” she tells him.

She sensed his distrust, or rather, his sense of discernment in her intentions.

“Listen, I can help you copyright your own work. You can sign a licensing agreement with me where you have creative control over your art. We share our vision together. I don’t want to just comission you to draw what I direct you to draw. I want your soul in it, but there is one caveat…”

“What’s that?”

“If the poetry does not resonate with you, I’ll pay you $100 for your time in listening to my spoken word, and we part ways.”

He gives her a look of confusion. The deal sounds too sweet. What’s the motherfuckin’ catch?

“What’s your poetry collection about?”

“It’s about love, loss, and redemption,” she explains.

“Well, I got to be honest. I don’t think I’m at a place where I can put my soul into something when I am still not at a redemptive place…I can’t resonate with that last part.”

Angelie reminds herself that she is not there to place judgement or control over this moment. Her job is to just be present with God, tap into the trust of Holy Spirit to work through her, and be the witness to the miracle.

In the name of Jesus, please direct me so that I may be of service to where you want me.

A moment later, Holy spirit guides her words.

“If that is the case, then that is the case. There is no rhyme nor reason in art other than to paint the story of what’s so. It sounds to me that the source of bitterness has something to do with women, and I happen to be the source of bitterness in the hearts of the men who used to love me.”

He tilts his head the other way, in continual observation. He is a tall black man wearing a white turban, goatee, and a hackney Brooklyn accent fused with Guayan.

“Look, I’ll work with you tonight. Show me your poems and I’ll freehand it on the spot.”

“Sure.”

She helps him clean shop and he follows her a stairway up towards Union Square, under the starlit sky covered by the illumination of the city lights. It was the fresh evening air, the cool and warm blended like grass jelly tea, that lit up both their spirits.

A possibility. 

Angelie sees a Starbucks and realizes it was packed to the tilt. Tariq waits outside while Angelie asks for directions from a patron about where she could find a decent eatery that had wifi and an outlet.

The man, in a clean suit, polished shoes, went so far as to walk her out and give her visual instructions, all the while Tariq stands outside observing her interaction with him.

He wants to figure out what her angle is. Why is she so nice to him? He had told her earlier that he still hasn’t gone through the redemptive process yet she still insists that they give it a shot.

They finally find The Bean Shop to place their weary feet.

“I’m co-creating this book with you because I am dealing with the Jezabel spirit, and something tells me that you know a thing or two about this spirit.”

He nods his head.

“It’s something I’ve witnessed first hand in my family. My sister didn’t make time to bail me out of jail but she made the trip to get at my art. She was with this one dude at the time and now I realize that he may have resold my art for ten times the original value that I had sold it to him for,” he says. “And my other sister, God bless her soul, she passed away, at the time when I didn’t know how to show her the love of what a big brother should have shown. I always thought that I would die before her because of the stupid shit I got myself into, but…” he looks now at his portfolio, and turns it around to show Angelie. It was of a girl with fiery red hair. “This is a portrait of her.”

“She’s beautiful,” Angelie says.

https://soundcloud.com/the-love-story-media/fiction-based-on-a-true-spiritual-warfare-against-the-jezabel-spirit

Fiery Spirit

If only she knew how to fight the seductive spirit that seduces her first.

“It’s shadowboxing,” she says to him. “How do I defeat my own shadows?”

“You can’t control it, you can’t fight it using it’s own techniques, because it feeds off your good will, you can only starve it.”

He gives her a second look.

“Do you really want to get rid of her?” he asks.

“Yes!”

“You gotta be ready for it,” he asks.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, then you got to starve her passions.”

Angelie did not expect to hear this.  Her company’s mission is about transforming pain into passion. Does this mean that she is leading everybody astray?

She gets a dreadful feeling that perhaps if she does not unite the double minded nature that is caused by the multi generational curses that is enhanced and enabled by pop culture and the bombardment of advertisements to glorify and glamorize that spirit, she may continue to lead people astray.

She must suffocate the jezebel’s passions.

That evening. The truth hits her.

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Karmic Loop de Loop The Power of 8

Angelie was lost. She was supposed to take the N train on 36th to Smoke Jazz between 106th and Broadway, just a Central Park away from East Harlem. She wanted to feel the revival of Harlem Renaissance in the cracked pavements of the city.

While on the train, she noticed the eerie silence of the mental prisons of everybody’s thoughts on the subway train. Perhaps they were worried about a dialogue gone wrong, worried and plotting the next raise, the next gig, the next hustle. Whatever it was, Angelie is the outsider.

A man pulls out books from his black bag. A Guide to Modern Witchcraft, Aleister Crowley’s Magick, the Kybalion Sacred Texts, and a slew of spell books on how to harness power. The boy sitting next to the man with the black bag looked at his parents for guidance. He was uncomfortable.

Angelie had already written a line down:

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And folds the paper once, and then once again, so it looked like a miniature version of an 8 by 11 piece of paper. She was ready to hand it to him either when he was about to leave or when her stop arrives, but when she saw the boy uncomfortable and the parents looking at their son not sure how to react, Angelie had walked across the aisle and faced the man with the spell books.

“I have something to give you,” she said. She handed him the paper.

“What is this?” he said.

“It’s a message from Holy Spirit,” Angelie looked at him in the eye so he would know her sincerity.

“I don’t need that,” he said, but Angelie held up the paper determined that he takes it.

He saw that she wasn’t budging and accepts it, “I will make it a bookmark then.”

Angelie smiled. “Good, it will be of good use to you.”

He unfolded the paper and reads it. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s the missing page to all the great knowledge and wisdom,” she replied.

“Can I read you something?” she asked him. She didn’t wait for his reply.

“It’s the 13 verses that define love and the key to discovering your purpose living in this world.”

“If I have the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I am but a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy, and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to the hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.”

The entire section of that subway was listening to her.

“Let me ask you something,” the man was getting agitated, “how can you explain the gnosis of nibiru in context to Jesus’ second coming?”

“I don’t know,” Angelie said. She barely remembers how to solve an algebra equation nowadays, let alone know the mathematical phenomenon of gnosticism.

“But what is all the knowledge in the world without love?”

She was now preaching. In the thick of spiritual warfare. He asked her for her name and she told him that her name is Gigi, her alter-ego name. She walks in the valley of the shadow of death and she knows that it is important to be spiritually suited up. The man knew how to cast spells and Gigi is the filter name that neutralizes the spell. She sources her power through the Holy Trinity of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. What Angelie binds on earth will be bounded in heaven and what is loosed on earth will be loosed in heaven.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

“Wisdom,” he said.

“In Jesus name,” Angelie said to the man, “I bind the deaf and dumb spirit so that the soul can hear the truth.”

She continued. “Love is patient, love is kind, love does not envy, love does not boast, love does not insist in its own way. Love is not proud, it does not dishonor others. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It keeps no records of wrongs. Love believes all things, bears all things, hopes all things and endures all things.”

There was an electrical current that fizzled throughout Angelie’s body. She came to deliver the message.

“God loves all of us. Including and especially you,” she said.

“I am god,” he retorted.

“If that is your choice,” Angelie said. “God loves you so much, he gives you a choice. Just know that there are two books. All the books you have here are part of the Book of Knowledge, which originated from God. The other book is the Book of Life, and it is a book of Love as witnessed and anthologized by those touched by the Holy Spirit and woven into what is now called the Holy Bible.”

Angelie whispered in prayer, “I bind the strongman, the old man, every principality, the ruler of the air, and I loose upon legion; compassion, mercy, and grace in Jesus’ blood. Amen and amen.”

The subway stopped and it was his exit.

“I want to thank you for being open to listening, Wisdom,” Angelie said and extended her hand. He took it with a firm handshake.

“He loves you,” she said again.

As he was leaving, she said a prayer, loud enough for the couple to hear. “In Jesus name, I ask that Wisdom be written in the Book of Life. Please send a host of ministering angels his way and allow him to receive the Holy Spirit for discernment.”

She felt victorious. She remembers the starfish story on making differences. She noticed that this train ride has gone on for a long time now. She saw 8th Ave and gets off. She was in Chinatown, and many Chinese people so she is now Chinese. She changes her tone and starts to ask people in Mandarin how to get to Astoria. An Chinese-American man who grew up all his life in NY tells her that he is studying to be a computer science at a college. She recommended that he interns now instead of waiting after he graduates. She shares bits of esoteric knowledge of the power of willpower. Ask and you shall receive . “You research places you want to go, go to their place of business, and make sure you let the person in charge know your name. Leave your resume, follow up, and continue to keep in touch with the people in the institution….keep knocking when they turn you down, and they will. You must get back up and continue knocking, and you will get what you want.”

“Thanks,” he smiled.

“Btw, you need to get on this train,” he said.

Angelie gets back on the train and found a man that had the eyes of Ty$, talking to his buddy about some shade.

She felt compelled to talk to him, “You have beautiful eyes.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Your eyes remind me of an artist I have once met,” she said.

His friend makes beats, and Angelie shared what she did with The Love Story.

“How’s the music scene in NY?” she asked. “Are people still selling out or is there a resistance going on?”

“There’s definitely a resistance.”

“I mean you’re always going to get people who sell out, but it’s about focusing on what’s good.” he said.

They exchange emails and the guys head out. She looked over and sees an Asian couple and she approaches the woman. The woman claims she doesn’t speak English so Angelie breaks out with broken Mandarin.

“Ni zhe bu zhe dao woa ing gai zai nai le xia ze ge huo che?”

Do you know where I should get off this train?

“Where are you going?” she asks in Chinese.

“8th St. I got it confused with 8th ave.”

She directs her to the map. She is confused, so the Chinese man, overhearing their conversation, came over and pointed at a few stops. He doesn’t speak any English but was more than happy to help in Chinese.

“Oh, you need to get off the next stop. It doesn’t stop at 8th Ave for this train. You need to get on another train to do that.”

And that’s how she met Tariq.

“So tell me about this poem,” he turns to look at Angelie in the eyes. His brown eyes pierces hers. Angelie feels comforted by him. This man is genuine, he’s been through some stuff, and his art is the steady building of wisdom tempered by pain, suffering, and the undertones of hope in women. He won’t admit that he has hope for all women, because like her, he is addicted to the pain. It has grown on him like ivy vines on brick walls. His heart is stone but its foundation is still based on soil and roots from a tree. Angelie sees an artist on the cusp of breaking his heart open.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  1 Corinthians 13, verse 6.

She listens for the possibility.

And when he says he is not yet redeemed, nor is he seeking it, she acts as if he didn’t even say it.

Her urge is to fix him, correct him, by pointing out all the parts where he is wrong, where he’s at right now, and show off how right she is, but Angelie knew better. That’s just the way of the Jezebel, hiding its ugly rear head, playing on Angelie’s good will.

The following evening, they are at a Starbucks. He is commissioned to do the first set of sketches for the first six poems. He brings precision in the poetry she paints and forms into words the shadow she wants to reveal. He brings a flashlight:

After their session,

he walks her down the dark streets of Astor. He escorts her to make sure she is safe. She feels safe next to him. They talk about ancient aliens, daemons, spiritual warfare, and she notices the hexagonal structures cemented on the pavement in the park. The number 4 shows up everywhere on street signs.

Neon signs of pink lips and a tongue hangs out in the red light district for messages, implying the happy endings for the lonely men. A dragon, a chimera, and the slaughtering sheep are just advertising so they say when they walk past the grimy pavements of New York.

She tells him that they are in the matrix. That the world makes more sense when put in context to the Holy Bible. “How else can you explain the abundance of resources juxtaposed to starvation and lack?” She paints a possibility of a world where all of us are awake, realizing we are the same soul in different disguises, and only then will resources be efficiently distributed.  For a moment, he is energized, excited, and falling for her brightness, falling for the logic.

He is still guarded and wants to give her a crash course on becoming strengthened in discernment. His protective instincts kicks in, along with the sexual desires for her femininity.

“Don’t become attached to me,” she later tells him when she arrives in California.

Whoremonger

Love like Jesus

Illogical love.

“I do what I do because I am who I am.” Jesus says.

“That’s crazy,”

“Yeah, it is actually.”

“The man should never leave 99 for one, but God does.”

28:58 Pastor Judah Smith

Somebody’s lost, then there’s the search, somebody is found, and then there’s the party celebrating the lost sheep.

A home where we celebrate.

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.” Jayz

Tariq gifts Angelie the 8th pointed star. She remembers to always receive gifts from good intention. It wasn’t after she came back to Los Angeles did she discover that the 8 pointed star represents redemption, a renewing through water.

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