Archive for February, 2012

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Golden Thread

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , on February 9, 2012 by javedbabar

“Where are we now?” said Andrew, looking around.

“I’m not sure,” said Dennis. “But we must have walked ten kilometres. Come on buddy, keep up. Fall behind and you know what happens. You’ll miss your chance. You may not get another one.”

“I know, I know,” said Andrew. “I know.” He was being silly. He stepped up his pace. He could surely admire the beauty just as easily walking faster – the snow-capped mountains; rolling dark forests; rivers sparkling; patches of rock, naked and strong; and closer by, long flat fields that produced their sustenance, and under their feet, the rutted black road with a golden thread running along its centre, leading to the Source.

People bunched up ahead of him. It looked like the Leader had called a stop. He pushed into the crowd to hear. “This was the largest farm in the area,” she said, speaking loudly. “It was 12,000 acres. They raised vast herds of cattle and goats; there were also llamas. At first it was mainly for meat, and then they moved to dairy production. When they realized that was also cruel, they turned it into an animal sanctuary. But people were not as enlightened then, and didn’t support the sanctuary, so eventually it ceased operations.”

“What happened to the animals?” asked Andrew.

The Leader hesitated, and said, “Of course they all died naturally,” and then, “Ok, let’s move on.”

They had started at first light after a ceremony at the Transparent Temple. After all these years it was still an impressive structure. Andrew wondered if any other Village had a building this inspiring. He had heard that there were bigger monuments in the City, but surely none of those had survived. And even if they had, they didn’t have views of the home of the gods themselves, Mt. Alba. Their group of 33 pilgrims had left Lucerne just after sunrise, and walked steadily for ten kilometres. It was the first time that many of these Service staff had ventured this far up the Valley. They were neither involved in Production nor Defence, so had no reason to go.  But today they walked the sacred road from Mt. Alba to Mt. Negra.

They continued admiring the Valley’s beauty for another ten kilometres. More mountains, forests, rivers and rock; and fields; all connected by the hard black road, and by the golden thread upon it. There was another bunching. The Leader spoke up. “This was the largest crop producer. It was a family that was here for over one hundred years. They grew mainly root crops – carrots, beets, onions, and potatoes.”

There was a muttering among the pilgrims. “Yes, that’s when potatoes were still allowed. Before the Great Blight.” There was further muttering. “Now I’m sure that none of you grow them in your gardens secretly.” She gave an exaggerated wink. “I know I’ve never eaten any grits or home-fries.” There was laughter. “Ok pilgrims, let’s break for lunch. Thirty minutes. You’ve done real well. You’re a good group. Now rest and nourish, and we’ll continue at midday.”

“Who does the scheduling around here?” said Dennis. “We should get an hour at least. And I don’t want to walk in hot sun at noon. I want my money back. I’m gonna tell her. I only did it because my wife kept bugging me. All her friend’s husbands had performed the pilgrimage. She wanted me to do it too.”

“Be quiet and eat this,” said Andrew, passing Dennis some proteinicious bread. Everything you need in one slice. Then he said, “Do they have a pilgrimage in Strattus?”

“Sshh! Keep your voice down buddy; you know what people are like.” Dennis looked around. “Well if they do, I’ll bet it’s an exciting one. Some of their ancient lifts are still running; the ones they built for recreation. They use them to reach hilltop lakes and meadows. They grow some “summer crops” there too.”

Andrew was a regular smoker of “summer crops”. He grinned and said, “So they can’t be all bad.”

They walked for another ten kilometres, and the road became rougher. The golden thread had been refreshed for the pilgrimage, and was still visible; evidence that the Village was connected to the Volcano. It was aligned with the Source.

The Leader told a further bunching that the dense forest before them was where their ancestors had hunted and gathered. It was the first place they had settled in the Valley, when only the Valley existed. Not much has changed since then, thought Andrew, but now it’s by choice; the Separation has cut us off from all other communities.

It was the blush of afternoon. “How much further?” asked Dennis.

“I heard someone say we were nearly there,” said Andrew.

A short while later, they reached the base of Negra mountain. There was a river between the pilgrims and the Source. They camped there that night. The long day’s journey had put them into a sort of trance, which fused into exhausted dreams.

The next morning the Leader gathered them together. She said, “Today is the great day you have waited for. You will be taken individually to see the place where all life in this Valley began, and you will see why Mt. Negra is as powerful as Mt. Alba – maybe more so – as it also has the power of death. Once you have witnessed this miracle, you will become an Initiate. From then on, you and the Secret will be one.”

She took them, one by one, across the river, and into the cave at the base of Mt. Negra. There they beheld the Secret that protected this Valley. During the Chaos of Separation, the Village had acquired a nuclear bomb. It sat quietly in the cave, protected by, and protecting, the Valley. If the mutant hordes invaded, they would of course be resisted by the Defenders. But if they overwhelmed Lucerne, then the device would be activated. All would end here, and then one day, begin again.

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Divine

Posted in Organic Farming, World Myths with tags , , on February 8, 2012 by javedbabar

“I’m going to make you look divine,” said the beautician. “Just you wait and see. I’m not saying that you’re not a looker already; you are, babe. But today is your special day. Don’t you worry about a thing, girl. You just relax and enjoy yourself. Leave all the work to Aunty Marge.”

Simone sat in the purple-padded salon chair quietly. She had no choice; this woman never stopped talking. “Now just lean back a little, sweetheart; a little more; that’s it. Relax your neck. There’s no need to get stiff now is there, on your special day? Close your eyes if you want. Dream of beautiful things.”

Marge turned the cold knob, then the hot knob, testing the water. “Ooh! Aah! Ooh! Aah!” she said, and pulled her hand back. “Excuse the monkey noises, dear.” She turned the cold a little more, and tested again. “Just right now.” She pulled Simone’s hair together and ran it through the water. There was a citrus scent; lemony-grapefruity.

“They’re looking over at you. Ooh, they are – the other girls and the customers. Everyone knows, at least around here they do. They’re proud that one of our local girls was chosen. You did real good, darling.” Simone opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Marge continued. “Now don’t speak, honey. Don’t you say anything at all. You save your breath for later. You’ll need it to climb all those steps – how many are there, 108? – so people can see you properly.”

Marge washed and conditioned Simone’s hair. Then she asked her to sit in another chair which was also purple-padded. “Ooh, you’re sitting rather high in this one, aren’t you, love? I didn’t realize you were so tall. I mean, I knew that you were a tall girl; they always are; but not that tall. What are you, six-feet?”

Simone opened her mouth to tell her, but was again interrupted. “Ok, I’ll do your hair real nice, now. You’ve got beautiful hair; I hardly need to touch it. I’ll just give it a little brush up. Some spot relaxer, and a bit of fire. Maybe a touch of hydrogel. And protein coating. And my secret ingredient; I’m sure you won’t tell anyone – black olive oil. How does that sound?” Simone nodded. “Perfect. You just relax there, honey. Aunty Marge is looking after you.”

There was almost a minute of silence, and then Marge said, “I don’t really know your mother, but I see her in town shopping sometimes. What a beautiful lady. I can see where you get your looks from. I’m surprised she didn’t get chosen herself when she was your age. Good job she didn’t, eh?” Marge winked and laughed.

“Ok, your hair’s all done; let’s start on that lovely face of yours. I hardly need to touch it. Let’s start with some cleanser and foundation. Some shading here and there. Maybe a bit more here. And here. And here. And there. Some blush – I’ll just brush it over – there you go. How’s it looking so far?”

Marge continued. “Business is bad this year. We’re barely getting half the customers. These days you need to look better than ever to even stand a chance of getting a job. These women don’t understand the value of investing in themselves. But you do, don’t you love? You’re making the ultimate investment.”

Simone didn’t get the chance to agree with Marge. “I’ll finish up your face now, babe. We’ll go with something classy. How about purple? That’s a regal colour, seems appropriate, doesn’t it? Oh, that looks so good on your eyes! I knew it! I knew it! It looks fabulous! Just hold them still while I do your eyeliner. I’ll bring it out a little at the sides, like Cleopatra, it’ll look dramatic. Oh, the purple looks good on your lips too! So good! Don’t you look beautiful?

“If only our brave boys could see you now. Wouldn’t they march into battle with a spring in their step? Thank God for this holy war, I say. How bad would the recession be otherwise? Providing no tribute – who do they think they are! Our economy is sinking, and theirs is booming, and they say we couldn’t have any! Where’s the sense in that?

Simone wasn’t in the mood for this discussion, and was about to change the topic, when Marge said, “I’ll touch up your fingers and toes, my love, and you’ll be ready. What do you say, purple varnish? With some silver sparkles?” Simone nodded. “The moment I heard the news I knew what to do with you. Make you into a proper princess. Sorry, should I say goddess? You know what I mean, love. The girls here are so jealous. They wanted to help me, but I said no; you’re not a doll being made in a factory by dollar-a-piece workers. You need the hand of a master craftswoman. And who better than your Aunty Marge?” She held up a mirror at various angles for Simone to peer into.

“I’m all for the war, darling. It brings more prisoners for sacrifice, it expands our influence, and brings in wealth. But killing people always makes me sad. That’s why events like this are so important to cheer us all up. I mean, seeing you tonight climbing up to the top of the temple, wearing your golden jewellery and crown, the Goddess Incarnate! And the knowledge that you will happily give your life for us, as part of the ongoing sacrifice that sustains our world. Your body will nourish the soils, and plants, and animals, and birds; and your beating heart will liberate all of our spirits, and reunite them with the sun.

“Oh, I hope I get to consume even a tiny shred of your holy body tonight. But even if I don’t, at least I know I’ve played my humble part.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Forgive me love, I’m getting emotional. Do you want a final blow-dry?”

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Counting

Posted in Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on February 7, 2012 by javedbabar

The brothers were told to count the Dal. Rav counted Red Dal, Gav counted Green Dal, and Baz counted Black Dal. Each large jar had to be counted daily. They were never told why they had to do this, but if they didn’t, they would be beaten severely.

The Dal jars were of ancient glass with tiny cracks all around them, and golden lids encrusted with gems of appropriate colours. The rubies sparkled, the emeralds were majestic, and the agate mysterious, though their father reminded them constantly, “Don’t be jazzled by the jewels; be dazzled by the Dal.” The jars were arranged on a table, spread with a golden cloth, creating a shrine. Their mother decorated it daily with incense sticks and fresh flowers.

It took the boys from dawn to dusk to count the Dal. Rav was the quickest; his Red Dal was usually done by teatime, and then he coasted. He didn’t tell his father he’d finished because he would only be assigned additional tasks. Gav took longer to count the Green Dal; he usually finished bang on time, and went straight to Dal Dinner. Baz counted Black Dal slowly, and often hadn’t finished by dusk. Their father didn’t allow him to come to dinner till his Black Dal was counted. His mother quietly chopped some fruit to keep him going till then.

Tonight their father said, “It’s a fasting day tomorrow, so eat well tonight. Mother, make them extra Dal Dinner.” How he remained so cheerful was a mystery. Their lives were dull, endless toil. There were no days off, ever! Dawn to dusk was counting Dal.

“You better have done a good job this month,” said Gav to Rav. They all switched jars on fasting days, and checked each other’s calculations. “I didn’t eat for two days last month, trying to tally our totals. Why don’t you just count a bit slower? Take your time like I do, and get things right?”

“I do the best I can, my brother,” said Rav. “If I go any slower I’ll fall asleep, and I’ll end up like Baz – counting in the dark.”

Gav was quiet for a while, and then said, “How does Baz do it? I mean, all he does is count and sleep. At least we get a few hours off in the evenings. But he finishes so late that he never does. Do you think that’s what he’s doing – sort of sleeping on the job?”

The Fasting Days were bad enough, but the Feast of Pulsar was harder. This was when their father tipped all their jars out together at dawn, and they had to have them sorted and counted again by dusk – minus a small batch that was cooked that night for Mixed-Dal Dinner. It was the only day of the year they were allowed to mix Dals. Separating the mixed-up tiny grains represented a difficult task performed diligently, and the breakdown of order and joy at its reformation. Mixed-Dal Dinner was boiled extra-long for extra-mushiness, symbolizing the chaos out of which all things emerged. The boys called it “baby-food”. Their father heard them once and beat them severely. Their mother tended their wounds.

A sort of opposite of this was the Game of Doubling. You started off with a single Red Dal grain on the first square of a chess board. Then you put two green grains on the second square, four black grains on the third, eight red on the fourth, sixteen green on the fifth, thirty-two black on the sixth, and so on. There came a point, usually around the 21st square, when the amounts were too large to continue with, even on the open air, field-sized board they used. Each round grain represented the cycle of life, and the shape of coins, and ever-increasing prosperity. The brothers called it “The Game of Troubling”. Their father heard them once and beat them severely. Their bruises contained all three Dal colours. Their mother healed them quickly with turmeric.

The morning after this year’s Game of Doubling, their father said, “I must leave you for a week on an important errand that cannot be avoided. I trust that you will perform your Dal duties diligently in my absence. I have asked your mother to watch over you carefully. In my absence she is the head of the family.” He looked over to her and she nodded slowly. “My sons, don’t let me down.” He left immediately for the City.

Two days later, Baz said that he had something important to tell his brothers. The Black Dal had become wet.

“What!” shouted Gav. “You let it get wet! How could that happen? These jars have been used to store Dal for hundreds of years, since the ancestors’ first filled them. They’ve never, ever been wet!”

“Calm down,” said Rav. “It was an accident, our brother didn’t…”

“I am sorry, brothers,” said Baz. “It wasn’t an accident. I did it deliberately.”  His brothers were struck dumb. Gav moved forward threateningly; Rav held him back.

“What the hell for?” said Gav.

“You wonder why I take so long counting. It’s not that I’m lazy, or slower than you are. I think carefully about what I’m doing, and I have reached a conclusion.” He stopped and closed his eyes.

“Well, go on then. Tell us. We’re going to get a beating for this, so we may as well know the reason.”

“I think that we’ve counted enough Dal in our lifetimes. Yes it is important to honour our sustenance – to praise and cherish it. But to count it out daily is foolish and slavish. I added water, not to rot it, but to sprout it.” His brothers stared at him, amazed. “Sprouting changes the nutritional profile of the Dal. It becomes more easily digestible; its complex compounds break down into simpler forms; transformed to their essential components. This is what we should be celebrating brothers – the miracle of transformation. Not gloating over huge numbers, or performing pointless tasks. Brothers, will you join me in this revolution of…”

His words were cut short as he crumpled to the ground. Behind him appeared the face of their mother, filled with violence, and also with pain. “How could I have raised such a shameless son?” she said, “A spoilt grain rotting others, who dishonours Dal.” Her blade, so often smeared with juices of onions and apples; was today smeared with her own flesh and blood. She stood there for a moment, and then crumpled herself, crying, “What have I done?”

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SS

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Unknown with tags , , on February 6, 2012 by javedbabar

Simon Smith noticed something strange. That on the 15th of every month there was an entry in his diary stating “SS”. He had no recollection of writing it in, and no idea what it represented. No time indicated, no location given, no others participating – just “SS” written across the page.

The first thing that came to mind, of course, was his own name, Simon Smith. Then he thought of Hitler’s SS, but it could hardly be anything to do with that. Maybe it was work related? A regular meeting that he’d written in at the start of the year, and then forgotten about entirely. Yes, that was probably it.

“Hey, Stephen,” he said to a fellow manager. “What are you doing on Thursday?”

“Erm. I’ve got lunch with the Supervisor, and I’m interviewing a new Supplier. Other than that, just the usual.” He looked at Simon quizzically. “Why, do you need something?”

“No,” said Simon. “I was just wondering if you have something called SS?” He felt silly somehow saying it.

“What do you mean, SS?” said Stephen.

“Oh, nothing,” said Simon. “Just something in my diary. It’s probably a mix-up.”

He wondered if it was Something Social? At home that evening he asked his wife. “I don’t know honey,” she said. “Maybe you’ve got Something Sexy planned. Lucky me! Or maybe it’s for some other hussy, that’s why you’ve been keeping it quiet.” Thank God he had a wife with a sense of humour. She hadn’t made him feel more of an idiot than he already was.

Ah! Something Spiritual! He recalled making a resolution along these lines. He did plenty for his mind and his body, but didn’t take time to nourish his soul. Maybe that was it – one day a month to de-stress and rebalance. Though he wasn’t religious, he felt it may be best to ask a professional, like a rabbi or priest. Luckily he bumped into Shanti, a yoga teacher, at the coffee shop. “That’s Paramatman,” she said. “Super Soul. You may be ready to begin the journey of many lifetimes. Why don’t you join my class? Or I can give you lessons.”

Simon felt that he was onto something. Yes, that must be it – Super Soul. He looked into it. Hindu holy books described the relationship between the Individual Soul and the Supreme Soul as being “Like two birds of golden plumage, inseparable companions, the individual soul and the supreme souls are perched on the branches of the selfsame tree. The former tastes of the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree, and the latter, tasting of neither, calmly observes.”

It was clear now! He, the individual soul, would seek the supreme soul! This cramped modern man had a date with boundless eternity – on Thursday! When he tried to book a class with Shanti though, she said she didn’t teach on Thursdays. Could he have a private lesson then? Sorry, she said, she was away that day. Simon felt frustrated. His answer had appeared but then disappeared just as quickly.

Flicking through his diary some more, he saw that SS appeared not only on the 15th of future months, but also on the 15th of previous months; but he had no recollection of previous occurrences. He wondered if “Super Soul” had been a false alarm. Could it be something else? What was so secret that it couldn’t be written explicitly in his diary?

Was it just that – Something Secret? Was he a member of the Secret Service, somehow brainwashed – a sleeper agent activated only once a month. It was safer that way. If captured he could honestly say – even under torture – that he didn’t know anything. But the secret service scenario didn’t ring true. It wasn’t that.

Was it something that his wife had written, and was too shy to say? He’d been working full-time for three months now; his probationary period was over. There was no need to reconsider Social Security. But maybe they wanted update meetings.

Was he broadening his knowledge of Social Sciences? There were many part-time courses; was Thursday their monthly meet? He’d love to cruise on a Steam Ship; didn’t SS Canberra dock regularly in the City? It was boring to always see the same things on your computer; maybe a reminder to change his Screen Saver? As a child he’d been interested in transistor radios, and built one in his bedroom; Solid State. There were complex calculations required for work; Spread Sheets. You could catch diseases even when married; Safe Sex. He would really like to fly a Space Ship. Maybe live in a Space Station. Save money on gas; Self-Service. Go Vegan; Savage Species. SS-SS-SS-SS-SS-S-S-S-S-S-s-s-s-s-s….

Power surged in a socket and there was a shower of sparks. Simon Smith came to a halt. Pah! How annoying, thought his wife. She’d thought a Super Spouse Enhanced Partner, would be less trouble than a human one. But every single month, just before System Set, his cerebral circuits went into overdrive and blew components. Then once repaired and rested, he forgot all about it – till next month. She’d complained so many times, but they’d never fixed him. Shoddy Service.

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Drawing

Posted in Conceptual Art, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , on February 5, 2012 by javedbabar

“Let’s do drawing,” said Naomi.

“Sure, Sweetie,” said Bobby. “What would you like to draw?”

“Everything!”

“Well, we’ve got all day,” he said; his sister wouldn’t be picking her up till six. “Let’s see what we can do. I’ve got some paper in my printer; we can use that, and…”

“No! Not on paper,” said Naomi emphatically. “You have to draw in a proper book. Then it’s a proper drawing. Do you have a book?”

“Will this do?” he said, producing a hardback notebook with black cover.

“That’s perfect!” said Naomi, and found a good page.

“And let me get some pens, I’m not sure what…”

“I’ve got special pencils,” said Naomi. “I always use them for drawing. You can use them too.” She produced a dozen fat, coloured pencils with natural wood casings, their colour only indicated by the lead.

“Thank you,” said Bobby. “Shall we start?”

Naomi nodded, and said, “I’ll draw me, and you draw you.” She started with a circle for a head, and triangle-dress below; stick arms and legs were followed by pig-tails, hands, and shoes. Bobby drew himself: tall and thin, with red hair and beard. When he’d finished, he looked over Naomi’s drawing. She had added more details to herself. She now had facial features, folds and buttons on her dress, and some elbow and knee details. Much better than he’d expected.

“That’s great!” said Bobby. “How do I look?”

“You look ok,” said Naomi. “Let’s draw some other things.” She drew a star and sunflowers. He drew a tree and snake.

“Do you mind if I go and do a few things?” said Bobby. It wasn’t urgent, just checking his email and Facebook, but his habit was unbreakable.

“Ok,” she said. “But don’t be too long. You have to help me with drawing.”

When he came back after twenty minutes he was amazed. She had filled the page with thick jungle. The first tree, sunflowers, and snake were enclosed within it, with the lone star shining above. It was surprisingly good for a six-year-old.

“You took too long,” she said. “I had to do all the drawing myself.”

“I’m sorry, Naomi, there was something important,” he lied. “But I’m back now. What shall we do?”

“Let’s do colouring. Us first. I’ll do me, and you do you.” She filled in her dress bright blue, added shading in the creases, and brightened up the front and sides. She made her skin a realistic milky-golden, and her hair brown-black. She got the hues just right. Bobby thought, she’s got some talent, this one, and began to colour himself. He didn’t quite get it right though. His skin was the colour of potatoes, and his hair and beard seemed fire-engine accessories. He wasn’t pleased with his purple shirt either, which he’d wanted to make black; and was he really wearing turquoise trousers?

Naomi giggled. “You look funny!” she said. “Do you prefer that you, or this you?”

“I think I like this me,” said Bobby, tapping his chest.

“I like the other one!” said Naomi. “Shall I help you finish him?” Bobby nodded. “Ok, you can finish the other things.”

Naomi selected her pencils and got busy. Bobby didn’t want to waste too much time on this. He quickly coloured the star, sunflowers, snake, and tree. He started feeling drowsy. He’d forgotten how tiring it was playing with kids. They seemed to have unlimited energy and imagination, and were happy just being themselves. It was good being a kid! And it was tiring being an adult, with or without them. Even more tiring than usual today; what was going on?

Bobby realized that he was somewhere else. Where was the cabin? Where was Naomi? Where was he? All he could see was jungle everywhere. It was not green, but white – a ghost jungle. He looked at his hands, his arms, his legs – they were coloured naturally – but everything around him was plain.

Leaves rustled in the distance. He wondered whether to hide but then thought, “what from?” and stayed where he was. Leaves quivered close by, and a moment later, Naomi burst out of them. “Hey, you’re here too, Uncle Bobby! Isn’t this fun?”

“Where are we, Naomi?” Bobby was dazzled, and disorientated.

“We’re in the drawing of course.”

“What – actually in the drawing?”

“Yes, that’s what happens when you colour it nicely,” said Naomi. “Didn’t your parents ever take you to art galleries?”

“Sure they did. But only into the galleries. Not into the paintings.” Bobby couldn’t believe he was even having this conversation.

“Didn’t you ever go into the paintings?” Bobby shook his head. “Oh, I only mean into them a little bit, to look around. Only the painter can go into them properly, and see what they really are. But see – You came into my drawing! I know I helped you, but now you’re here. Let me find some other people.” She skipped back through the leaves, but then poked her head out and said, “Just wait here; I won’t be too long.”

Bobby sat on a tree stump – was there logging in drawings, he wondered? – trying to make sense of his situation. He felt cool darkness and turned around. Naomi’s sunflowers towered over him, their heads filled with teeth rather than seeds – looking like octopus mouths – walking hulkily towards him. Bobby ran away from them into a forest clearing. High above, Naomi’s star began pulsing and screeching. It sent down red death rays. Bobby ran faster and further, till he reached a giant tree, and became tangled in its strange branches. He sensed movement around him, a slithering and hissing. It was his own snake about to attack him in his own tree. He shouted, “Help me!”

There was a rustling nearby. Naomi popped out of the jungle. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I should have given you some pencils. It’s hard the first time, till you get used to it. Then if you don’t like something, you just rub it out and redraw it. But don’t rush it this time; remember to colour it in nicely.”

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Freezer

Posted in Organic Farming, Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on February 4, 2012 by javedbabar

Frank had always wanted to be a butcher. He was an embarrassment to his parents at parties during the inevitable round of, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” Good children said doctor, lawyer or banker, and there was always a nerd wanting to be Prime Minister. Frank was honest and always said, “A butcher”. When asked why, he replied, “Because I want to kill and eat animals”. His parents tried to train him to say something else, but he wouldn’t lie. That’s what he wanted to do, truly.

Franks inspiration was the local butcher’s shop. His visits there with his father were highlights of his childhood. The tinny smell and glistening haunches; the sounds of sharpening, chopping and grinding; slabs of meat slapped onto blocks; paper rustling and wrapping up; the grass – fake he knew – but making it seem like a natural place, where animals were born and died; pink tongues poking out; red livers slipping; trails of white intestines, and black-tipped hooves. The Master Butcher was pleased when little Frank said he would like to join their trade. He wiped his hands, removed his apron, and said, “Would you like to see the freezer?”

He led Frank to a room at the back with a big steel door. Inside was really chilly. Frank shuddered as he entered, and his breath created a small cloud. There was strong humming and whirring. The room was filled with slabs of red flesh hung from steel hooks – fat strips dangling, thick legs, and whole sides; white ribs shone within red bodies, like long teeth smiling. There were trays of round chickens, bowling-ball turkeys, and curled strings of sausages. The Master Butcher held up a huge ox heart, and said, “This is what you need for this job.”

A lot had happened since then. Frank was now dating a Vegan; Linda was a beautiful girl with dark glossy hair. Despite their differences, they got on well. Their ethical disputes sometimes got out of hand, but were mostly good-natured. He played up his carnivorous credentials, and she called him a “depraved killer by proxy with ambitions to descend lower”. He didn’t often remind Linda that her father owned the grocery store, and that she had at least partly been raised on blood-money. He only did that during serious arguments, like the one they were about to have.

“Linda, what on earth are you doing?” he said.

“Teaching you a lesson, my love.”

“Come on, don’t be silly. It’s late. Let’s get out of here.” As much as he’d loved the butcher’s freezer as a child, he had no wish to spend the night in this one.

“We can’t, my love.” Her eyes shone strangely.

“Yes we can, watch this,” Frank walked over to the door and pushed the safety latch. Nothing happened. He looked at her, confused.

“I disabled it this morning. I’m sorry, my love, but this is necessary.”

“How long must we spend in here?” He was getting annoyed now.

“Let’s put it this way, my love; our last moments will be spent together.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We could survive all night here if we cuddled up…” He stopped as he sensed something. “What’s the temperature in here? It seems colder than usual.”

“Yes it is, my love. I turned it down to minus forty.”

“Centigrade or Fahrenheit?” Now he started to panic.

“They’re both the same, my love. Minus forty is the same on both scales.”

He had a rush of thoughts. They’d had some colourful arguments, and Linda was the queen of dramatic gestures. She’d worn a meat dress to a fancy ball as a way to promote her views and shock his friends. She’d somehow sourced a piece of in vitro meat, grown in a lab from animal cells, but “without consciousness or the need for murder”. After serving him dinner one day she’d revealed a bandage beneath her blouse and asked how she tasted, for the stir-fry contained a little piece of her flesh. When her mother’s dog had died, Linda used its meat to make him a curry. She said it was a guilt free offering from Scruffy. One morning he awoke to find the bedroom transformed; it held a terrible installation of animal skulls. How she hadn’t woken him, he didn’t know. It had to be Rohypnol. All of these things he’d found exciting; and the sex that resulted was awesome. It was animalistic, complete with roaring sounds. But he should have seen these as warnings, and now she was trying to kill him. But wait a minute; wouldn’t she also be killing herself?

“Yes, I will, my love. You are a murderer by proxy and deserve to die. But I am killing you directly, so deserve at least the same fate.”

What should he do? He tried the door a few more times, but found it was locked firmly. He bashed the insulated steel walls, which didn’t budge. He tried the many controls in the freezer but none were operational. The only thing left was to force Linda to release him somehow. But it seemed that she was very serious, and had thought things through. He would only be hurting a person he loved, and really achieve nothing. He said, “Let’s talk, my love.”

He told her about his childhood dreams of being a butcher. How he had the greatest love and respect for animals which had given their bodies to nourish him. The more he learnt about butchery, the more he saw it as a spiritual exercise. Like native cultures, he honoured his brother cow and sister sheep. He said prayers before each meal, ate consciously, and never wasted meat knowingly. Butchery was a noble profession, he said, a metaphor for the disassembly of self, and a giving of that self to others. The primal cut at the slaughterhouse separated the ego from the self, and secondary butchery destroyed it. He was really angry at her for wasting his life like this, but he wouldn’t hurt her. She was his love. These were the things he said as he became tired and confused. His breathing and speech slowed. He saw her lying beside him senseless. He lost movement in his arms and feet. He dreamt that he fell and shattered.

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Hot Pool

Posted in Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on February 3, 2012 by javedbabar

It’s really nice to have use of a hot tub; to be able to relax daily after work or sport, or just for leisure. But boy those things burn money, especially if they’re outdoors. So Wayne was delighted when he found its natural equivalent: a hot spring bubbling in a mossy pool in the forest. Strangely the hot pool contained a rainbow carp, which swam peaceably among the bubbling waters.

Wayne didn’t know how the fish would react to his presence, so did not enter the water immediately. He dipped in an arm, and waited to see. The fish nibbled a little and then swam around it. Wayne stripped off entirely and jumped right in. Ahhh! It was the perfect temperature – maybe 105.

He soaked in the hot pool every day after work. The fish became friendly and nibbled his cheeks, and swam between his legs. Sometimes it came right up beside him and touched heads, as if trying to send thoughts.

Wayne spent lots of time in the hot pool, and began to experiment with different poses. He stretched out along its rocky side and enjoyed the bubbles tickling his body; the fish swam alongside. He lay diagonally across the pool with arms spread wide, bubbling waters raising him up; the fish swam beneath, and around him. He sank to the bottom and sat like an Indian Yogi, with hands making mudras; the fish settled in his lap.

Beside the hot pool was a tall Norway Spruce. Wayne had noticed its lower branches shaking periodically, but hadn’t paid much attention. Today he saw a ratty face appear for a moment, and large black eyes peer in his direction; whiskers twitched and then disappeared. The next day the face appeared again attached to a slender, silver body and bushy tail. With its strong limbs and sturdy claws the squirrel danced an upside-down jig on the tree, as if trying to attract his attention. Wayne waved at it and submerged. The fish was bothering him excessively today, almost doubling the bubbles in the hot pool.

The next day the squirrel climbed higher in the tree. It crushed some leaves, creating a sweet, citrus-like smell, which made the hot pool intoxicating. Wayne sank to the bottom once more, making mudras. The fish pecked his feet and thighs.

Wayne began to hear squeaking sounds underwater. He wondered if they came from the gap where the water entered, but when he laid his ear against the rocks, realized it wasn’t from there. Could it be the fish scraping something? But it was swimming freely. Oh no, had the squirrel fallen in? He rose quickly as if a sea monster, smashing ships and drowning sailors. The squirrel was high up, staring at him intently. It nodded with ostentation.

After a few days the squeaky sounds began to adhere, and eventually formed words. “Hey, Man! Can you hear me now? Hello? Hello?”

“Who is this?” said Wayne, which was a dumb thing to do underwater, and he came up spluttering. The squirrel was even higher now, staring down. Wayne submerged again.

The squeaking said, “You don’t need to speak, stupid; just think. I thought you were the one who was more evolved. Anyway, it seems that we understand one another now. Raise your hand and say hello.” Wayne lifted an arm above the water. “Yeah, that’s right. Greetings! Now, look, the issue is this. I’m trying to better myself. Every day I rise a little higher. You’ve seen that. I’ve moved from the ground to way up this tree. Heading skywards. But our friend Fish is stuck there in the waters. She’s swimming in circles forever. I’d like to help her rise also, but don’t know how. That’s where you fit in. I’ve seen your kind. You seem to be able to move between realms – yesterday water, today land, tomorrow sky, the day after, who knows?”

Wayne almost opened his mouth again, but remembered, and thought instead. “How are you talking to me?” He thought. “Squirrels don’t speak.”

“Don’t speak! Don’t speak! That’s a good one!” Wayne heard what could only be laughing; the word “chittering” came to mind. “Don’t speak? Of course we speak! All creatures speak in their own way. Anyway, the point is that Fish really wants to join our conversation, but can’t tune in. You know about evolution, don’t you? She is our ancestor. Not the Universal Common Ancestor, but pisces, the same species near enough. Is it fair to leave her out just because she’s less evolved?”

“Of course not,” thought Wayne. “What can I do to help?”

“Now I saw those strange poses you performed. What do you call them?”

“Mudras,” said Wayne. He only knew three from Yoga 101.

“Yes, mudras. Is there one associated with fish?” The squirrel was speaking progressively faster. More like Wayne would expect one to speak.

“Not that I know of,” said Wayne. “But there is the legend of Vishnu taking the form of a fish and saving the first Man.”

“Well, it’s payback time, buddy,” said the squirrel. “Now you save the fish. Why don’t you sit cross-legged in the…”

“Lotus position?” said Wayne.

“Yes, lotus position, and place her on your lap.”

The fish was troublesome, but Wayne held her on his lap, half-in-and-half-out of the water. Wayne closed his eyes, ready to commune with Supersoul.

There was a rushing sound and light touch on his shoulder. Wayne opened his eyes, surprised. There was frothing in his lap. He jumped up, bewildered. The squirrel ran up the tree, grasping the fish. Wayne stared, open mouthed. The squirrel reached mid-way and stopped to look down at him, superciliously. Wayne waited for him to say something, and then remembered that he must to be underwater to hear. There was lots of squeaking-laughing, and then said skiouros, the shadow-tailed, “It’s survival of the fittest, my friend. Survival of the fittest.”

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Compass

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on February 2, 2012 by javedbabar

It was a bad situation. A crossroads of life. Peter had gone out that morning with good intentions, but things had not gone to plan. He’d found a beautiful Douglas Fir, thirty feet high with a full fat taper. Its green-blue needles gave a sweet, citrus-like smell when crushed. He was also pleased that this vibrant Fir sat among a group of dead ones, making it easier to pull out. Just perfect, he’d thought.

Peter had decided on a big tree this year so brought his chainsaw; his Nissan Frontier was ready to drag the tree to his cabin, 200 metres back along the trail. Imagine the tree hooked up to eight strings of fairy lights; it would look magical from the road.

But cutting it down proved tricky. A hidden knot sent his chainsaw astray, and as the tree came down unexpectedly, it also pulled down others. The dead trees around it were no longer a bonus; they were a burden, because they sat squarely across Peter’s body. This wasn’t the plan at all.

At least he hadn’t broken any limbs. He tried moving the trees sitting upon his body but they wouldn’t budge. They were way too tangled and heavy. He wondered if he could squeeze himself out. He wriggled about a fraction, but only succeeded in receiving sharp jabs to his ribs and thighs. Ah! Maybe he could make a few inches of crawl space. He scraped snow with his fingertips, but realized that the branches went right through it.

Feeling faint, he rested awhile. He must recover and think. He saw sky, trees, snow, and… animal tracks! He tried to look away but couldn’t. A wide paw, five round pads, and claw points – Grizzly bear. A triangular pad, four asymmetric pads and claw points – gray wolf. Smaller versions of the same – coyote. A little mountain and four widely-spaced, drop-shaped pads – cougar. Uh-oh.

Peter decided to focus. Like animals’ made snow prints, maybe his mind could imprint a solution. He should focus on something. What was the clearest symbol he knew? The first thing that came to mind was a cross. This surprised him, as he wasn’t religious, but it seemed to make sense.

First, the cross was an ancient symbol, a Pagan sign pre-dating Christianity – in the same way that a Christmas tree did. It represented the union of opposites – the horizontal earth, and vertical sky – at whose junction we existed. Second, it was a co-ordinate – a meeting point of longitude and latitude – at which he now lay helplessly. Third, it was his framework for decision-making. There were four people he thought of when faced with difficult choices – his Brother, his Friend, his Mother, and his Niece – each guiding him somehow. What would they do?

He realized there was an extreme choice. He could use the stalled chainsaw manually to saw off one of his own limbs, and slip out from beneath this tangle of dead trees. It was a grisly business, but he had heard such stories; sometimes the limbs were reattached successfully. Which limb should it be?

Peter thought, what would my Brother do? He was incredibly creative, and had one morning taken two scrap metal sheets and some plywood off-cuts, and built a working windmill. He had used this to power a small dynamo, which ran a vinyl turntable, playing dance music. That was how he had woken Peter on his sixteenth birthday. But his brother was at heart a practical person, and would lose the limb that he used least often – his left leg.

Peter thought, what would my Friend do? He hated to see others in pain, and had dropped out of university to care for a schizophrenic fellow student. He had spent that year never leaving her side; there to help her through every suicidal and psychotic delusion, till she reached the other side. To get back on his feet, the Friend would cut off his left arm, and walk out of here alive.

Peter thought, what would my Mother do? She was deeply religious, and believed that God would never burden any of his creatures with more than they could bear. Her solution to everything was ceaseless prayer. She had prayed for many people who had suffered from cancer, heart attacks, and strokes, and all had recovered. Her intercession for orphans, the poor, and the hungry, had resulted in miraculous occurrences. His Mother would cut off her right leg, so that her hands were still able to clasp together in prayer.

Peter thought, what would my Niece do? She was the most joyful being he had ever encountered – so full of fun. When Peter’s wife had left him, it was his niece that called him daily to play “I Spy” and “Carbuncle” – a game he never properly understood, which involved him – her uncle – visiting zoos in Rolls Royce cars and freeing the animals. She was an adorable creature, who always wanted to play. God forbid – but if she had to – she would use her right hand to cut itself off – with her wild imagination, maybe even convincing herself it was “fun”.

Peter realized that none of these were ideal choices, and they may not even work. He felt that one limb less may ease his passage, but there was no way to be sure. But it was better than doing nothing, awaiting grizzly bear, gray wolf, coyote, or cougar. Before he chose which limb to cut, he focussed again. He put himself at the centre of the cross and thought himself outwards – up to his Brother, down to his Friend, left to his Mother, and across to his Niece. Thank you for everything, he said. Then he reached, with his fingertips, for the chainsaw.

He heard people calling his name, and dogs barking close by. As Peter had thought himself outwards – along the arms of the cross – his loved ones had sensed his distress, and thought themselves inwards, towards its centre where he lay. They were with him here now. A dog ran up and licked his face: Up and Down, then Left and Across.

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Where To?

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , on February 1, 2012 by javedbabar

Mr. Wise waited to take the body from the decedent’s residence to the cemetery. They had kept him waiting for half an hour now, but he was in no hurry. This was not a job for those in a rush.

He looked over his black Rolls Royce Phantom VI; till recently the “Number One State Car” of Queen Elizabeth II. Its long, dark, flowing lines, and commanding grill; its coil springs in front, leaf springs in rear, for unparalleled smoothness of ride; it’s twin SU carburettors and four-speed automatic gearing; its walnut and gilt fittings by fifth-generation English coach builders; its appearance unchanged for three decades of production. There was no vehicle more fitting for a person’s final journey; a journey led by The Spirit of Ecstasy statue, leaning forward, trailed by billowing cloth-wings.

“That’s a nice car,” said a small boy. “Did you put the windows in yourself?”

“Thank you son, do you mean the rear glazing?” Mr. Wise approved of the boys smart black suit.

“Yes, a Rolls Royce doesn’t come like that, does it?”

“You are correct. The donor vehicle is converted by specialists. They extend the body, raise the roof, and enlarge the glazed area.” He could tell him more, but you shouldn’t chat too much to children at funerals.

“And what’s that hatch at the back for?”

He’s a curious one, thought Mr. Wise. “We can fit another coffin in there if necessary. But we don’t use it often. Right now there’s just the spare wheel and my spare uniform.”

“What kind of engine does it have? About six litres like a truck?”

“You are correct. It is a 6.2 litre V8 engine, built in the Crewe factory, in 1968.” He couldn’t help his chest swelling as he said this. He was enjoying talking with this – what was he? – eight year old.

“What did you do before this?” said the boy.

“I worked in the Rolls Royce factory for forty years. I took early retirement when they computerized the systems, and retrained as a Funeral Director. Then I came here to be near my grandchildren. They’re…”

The son of the decedent rushed out. He completely ignored the small boy, and interrupted Mr. Wise. “Some relatives got carried away with crying,” he said. “I think they’re done now. I didn’t fill in the form you sent me, I’ve been too busy. But you know the way to the cemetery don’t you?”

“Sir, you haven’t told me to which cemetery we are taking the gentleman.” The decedent was head of a large family business; “a no-nonsense guy, who didn’t suffer fools gladly,” Mr. Wise had heard. Who knew what he was like under the skin though? You never could tell. But his son was clearly a rascal.

“Lucerne Cemetery,” said the son. “About twenty kilometres up the Valley. Just keep going straight. Only a fool would miss it.” He rushed back in, and quickly came out again. “Did you bring someone to walk in front of the procession?”

“Sir, I am sorry, no. You did not request this service, and I did not wish to presume…”

The decedent’s son glared and stormed off.

The small boy said, “He seemed quite angry. Is he upset about his father?”

“I’m sure he is, son. I should have insisted on him completing the details. That way I would have known the requirements. But he never returned my calls. Never mind.”

“I could do it,” said the boy.

“Do what?” said Mr. Wise.

“Walk in front of the procession. Look, I’ve got a nice black suit.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Let me check with the head of the family. I’ll see what he says.” The small boy ran off and returned five minutes later. “He says that’s a grand idea. Do you have a top hat I could use?”

“Not one that would fit you?” The boy insisted, so Mr. Wise retrieved his top hat from the hatch. Miraculously, it fitted the small boy. The man-sized cane was also usable.

They loaded the body, and Mr. Wise pulled out of the driveway onto the Valley Road. He took great care as it was very misty. The small boy walked ahead. He started awkwardly, but soon hit his stride. Did he have tails on his coat before, thought Mr. Wise? He must have.

The mist became thick and Mr. Wise lost sight of the other cars. Unbelievable, he thought; they were only a few metres behind but invisible to him. The small boy, however, was not deterred. He just kept walking. In fact, he sped up. How fast was he going? Mr. Wise checked his speedometer – over five miles per hour. He wondered how he could walk so fast. When they’d travelled about one kilometre, Mr. Wise decided it was time for him to stop. The small boy seemed to sense this, and walked back to the vehicle.

He knocked on Mr. Wise’s window and asked him to play some music. “This is highly unusual,” said Mr. Wise, and refused. But the boy looked so deeply sad that he changed his mind and switched on the stereo. It was his grandson’s CD. He recalled being told that it was a British dance band fronted by a bald black man.

The music blared out more loudly than he’d wanted. The little boy ran ahead, and continued leading the procession. He began stepping forward and back – which under the circumstances, wasn’t ideal – in time to the music. Then he threw his arms out theatrically. He spun around twice, and tripped around his cane like Fred Astaire. He began leaping ahead as if he were a D-Day soldier, then hoed like a third-world farmer. He body-popped – is that what it was called? – and twisted, and acted like a robot. The mist flashed repeatedly. He whirled around performing Capoeira – like Mr. Wise had once seen in Rio –

which eased into Sufi whirling – like in Konya. He did a Moonwalk, a Scottish jig, and some Irish dancing. Then he threw his hat high in the air, caught it on his head and bowed.

Mr. Wise was dazzled and clapped, which wasn’t wise when driving. He saw a group of vehicles parked ahead on the road, and recognized the car of the decedent’s son. Through the mist he saw the cemetery’s entrance, and pulled in.

The decedent’s son rushed out, irate. “Where have you been?” he shouted. “Where did you go? We’ve been waiting an hour!”

“I am sorry, Sir,” said Mr. Wise. “We must have become separated by the mist.”

“If my father were here, he would be so angry with you, you fool!”

No he wouldn’t, thought Mr. Wise. I think he rather enjoyed his journey. Just before they’d reached the cemetery, the small boy had approached the Rolls Royce and said, “Thank you, I’d always wanted to do that,” and disappeared.

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