Bricking It

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , on June 24, 2012 by javedbabar

It was always fun to play in the forest, and now they had paintball guns it was better than ever. Running through the trees and crawling through bush, they were warriors with semi-deadly weapons, each ready to kill or be killed.

Hiding in tree holes and ditches was also fun, getting to know the bugs and spiders, picking their legs off, one by one. There was a tipping point though, and you could only wait for so long. If nobody was available to ambush, then they were probably creeping up to ambush you themselves.

“What about that pile over there?” shouted Sami. “Let’s take a look.” It would make a good fort. However as they approached it, they saw that it wasn’t a wood pile, but a squat brick building, ten feet square, completely enclosed with no obvious entry point. Vegetation around it was disturbed and some trees were smashed. It looked like it hadn’t been there too long. Who had built it, and how?

Sami did a full reconnaissance. There was no door, no windows, no chimney, and no drains. No warning signs either. The building’s only notable features were eight brick buttresses – one at each corner, and one at the centre of each side. He’d seen such features when visiting French cathedrals.

Boys with guns and anonymous buildings, it was a good combination, and there was only one thing to do. The building became their official target.

They made a range on every side. There was a swamp range, shooting uphill through rushes; a mountain range, firing downhill through roots; an east range, aiming through tree trunks; a west range, blasting across flat, rocky ground. They agreed to have a shooting match each day, with teams moving around the ranges.

Four teams of two were established and given different coloured pellets. They counted out one hundred pellets per person. At the end of four days, the differently coloured hits would be counted and the winners declared. If people were caught in cross fire, so much the better!

Sami and Jonah were blue brothers in arms. As they started shooting, they heard noises within. “There must be some machinery inside,” said Sami. Should we stop?”

“No way”” said Jonah, and they continued firing with a pretty good hit rate.

On the third day, when the building had been hit exactly 1,028 times, it suddenly rose up and the buttress roots emerged from the ground. The android spider had been very patient, but every creature has its limits. 1,028 hits, coming from all directions, were a sure sign of attack, and it was programmed to defend itself. It squashed one fleeing humanoid with each armoured leg, and fed them into its underside. It had been resting for too long and was feeling damp and kind of rusty. Their fats would provide good lubrication.

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Archway

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 23, 2012 by javedbabar

Sophie loved wandering in the Botanical Garden; it was a great way to wind down after work. She knew the main path well, but there were always new side-trails appearing. She often crossed paths with this haven’s creator, The Gardener, and young crews who, he said, were studying Extreme Gardening.

She’d been upset by her argument with Danny. Last night had started well. He’d bought a cheap but surprisingly good wine; they’d cooked together, watched a movie and gone to bed. After making love, he’d brought up the subject of marriage. God knows why. Wasn’t that the girl’s job? He’d said, “Sophie, do you want to be with me forever?”

She’d said, “Let’s take it slowly, love. We’re only just getting to know each other.”

After a brief silence, he’d said, “But don’t you think that when you know, you know?”

“Well, maybe, but I don’t know yet.” That had been the end of the conversation and the start of the fight.

Sophie saw an arch in the distance, covered with red flowers. It appealed to her anger, and she walked towards it. What kind of flowers were these? Their petals seemed as if made of glass. She was afraid to touch them in case they shattered. Their red was hot, evoking power and anger, also passion and danger, and blood.

Sophie sat in the garden for a while. The sun appeared from behind dark clouds and the flowers on the arch seemed to change colour. They were now yellow, making Sophie think of summer, gold and joy, and the wheatfields of her uncle’s farm in the prairies, where she’d spent so many childhood summers. Wasn’t it amazing how colours changed your moods?

The sun continued its daily journey, now slipping beneath the tree canopy. There was a new coolness and freshness. The flowers on the arch appeared to be green. What neat shadowplay there was in this part of the garden. These strange verdant flowers cast a spell of fertility upon her filled with health and youth, and if it was too late for that, at least renewal.

The sun dipped below the horizon. Sophie realized that she’d been here from six to ten pm – four hours! She better get home; she rose to exit the garden.

The flowers on the arch now seemed blue; the colour of sea, sky and mountains, also of deep space. It was a colour that brought peace to her soul. Calm. Stability. Harmony. A colour of acceptance of the larger things in life; awareness that she was a tiny character in a vast cosmic story.

As she passed through the archway, she saw movement ahead. Danny was rushing towards her.

He said, “Where were you, babe? I’ve been looking for hours. I was worried.”

“I’ve been here,” she said.

“You missed dinner. I couldn’t get hold of you. I feared the worst.”

She looked at him with kindness. He really cared for her.

He calmed quickly and said, “For some reason I thought you might be here.”

The archway’s colours had transferred from the outer world to her inner realms. She said, “You were right. Now I know.”

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Eternal Antiques

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on June 22, 2012 by javedbabar

Danny wanted to buy a nice present for Sophie. They’d been dating for three months; there had been some bumps but overall their relationship was progressing well. Because they’d first met at Lucerne’s Botanical Garden, Sophie told people it was “blossoming”.

He was strapped for cash; what could he get her? She liked cooking, maybe some pots and pans. The good ones in the hardware store cost $200 per pan. Who pays those prices? Someone must. He’d noticed that her boots were tatty; she would appreciate a new pair. He went to the general store to find similar ones; they were also $200. Maybe something special to celebrate their relationship? The best bottle of fizz in town? It was $200.

“Isn’t there anything cheaper?” he asked the cashier.

“Sure there is, pal. We’ve got beer at two dollars a can.”

On his way home, Danny noticed that the thrift store’s For Sale sign had been replaced by a new sign saying Eternal Antiques. He’d never seen any staff the few times he’d visited, just piles and shadows and an honesty box; no wonder it went broke. The “new” place may be worth a visit. He wandered in.

There was a good selection of books, clothes, games and sports equipment. Downstairs were house wares and cookware. Danny rummaged around but didn’t find anything special. On his way out he heard faint music and followed it to a room, reached by pushing through a rail of coats and dresses.

Suddenly the music seemed loud and dramatic – bassoons and drums, like elephants trumpeting and running. “Hello,” said a woman from amongst deep shadows. “I’m Sybil, the new owner.”

“Oh, hello, I’m Danny. It’s quite the shop you’ve got here. Did you have it renovated?” He realized this was a silly question. Yes, there was a new sign outside, but only more old stuff inside, including all the stuff the previous owner hadn’t sold in years.

“No, why would I?” she said. “My business is preservation.”

Danny saw she kept the better stuff in the office. There was rose-patterned bone china, cracked old paintings, ancient books, and objects that could be obscure cutlery or implements of torture. “Can you help me please? I want to find something for my fia…” He realized that she was only his fiancée in his mind. “For my girlfriend.”

“Close your eyes,” said Sybil.

“Why should I do that?”

“Because that’s the best way to find anything.” Her eyes smiled.

“Okay, they’re closed,” said Danny, holding the corner of the desk for support. “Now what?”

“Spin around and point to something.” He did so. “Good, that’s it.”

Danny opened his eyes and saw a fat, blue, dusty bottle. He said, “What is it?”

“It’s a potion for young lovers. That will be a dollar please.”

“What’s in it though? I can’t just take a random medicine.”

“You’re right. You can’t.” Sybil removed a small, framed painting from the wall and handed it to Danny. It was a radiant Christ with sacred heart. The heart had wings on either side and a crucifix above; light poured from it in all directions. “The potion has intention, and the painting has love. They work together to make heavenly magic. People today don’t like the word religious, or the idea of God. They prefer to say they are spiritual and chant OM. But it’s all the same old stuff. Intention and love. Wish for what you want young man, but there is one downside that I didn’t mention.”

Danny became scared. Was he meddling with dark forces?

“The painting is two dollars. So that’s three bucks total.”

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Communicate With Confidence

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 21, 2012 by javedbabar

Danny wondered if there was there one truck in many places, or many trucks scattered around? They all looked the same; silver Nissan 4WD’s with canopies saying Communicate With Confidence, and a telephone number.

He never saw any of them driving around, or anyone inside one. The truck, or trucks, were parked around the village in various locations. He’d seen them in condo visitor parking lots, the long driveways of acreages, outside Village Hall, even at the police station.

Danny was intrigued and called the number. There was no music or welcoming message, just two rings, a click, and a robotic voice saying “Leave a message.”

Danny said, “Hello, this is a message for the person at, erm, Communicate With Confidence. I’ve seen your truck, or trucks, around the village, erm, Lucerne, that is. I was wondering what you do exactly. Can you please let me know. It’s Danny here. Thank you. Oh, my number is…”

The message clicked off before he could leave his number. He called back and repeated the message, but it again clicked off early. A third attempt had a similar result.

It was really annoying. What a stupid voicemail system; he wondered how they got any business. They must be successful though, because their truck, or trucks, seemed to be everywhere.

Danny saw a Communicate With Confidence truck in the car park of the Transparent Temple – the nickname for their glassy community centre – and decided to investigate. He asked the receptionist if there was a session in progress, and was directed to Room One. Danny peered in. About a hundred people filled the room, chanting. A sign at the front said simply Communicate! Many of the students turned towards him; Danny felt self conscious and walked away.

When Danny got home, he started thinking, what was it that he wished to communicate, and to who? Was it a message about looking for work? Was it a request to his bank to reduce his credit card rate? Was it a comment about the unfairness and unpredictable nature of the world?

He realized that what he wanted to say was, “Sophie, will you marry me?” They’d been dating for six months now. You either know, or you need to know. He’d been in this position with a previous partner and tried to do something about it. He’d done the right thing; he’d asked her. But his words had come out wrong. It had all gone wrong.

He re-called the number and left a message saying, “Hello, my name is Danny. I am in love with Sophie, and I wish to ask her to marry me. I wish to communicate this with confidence. Please help me to do this. My number is 604 698 6868.”

The voicemail accepted the full message. Five minutes later he received a text saying “We will be there at 9am.”

At exactly nine, the CWC van pulled into the car park of his condo complex. A woman in white overalls and flat cap handed him a business card saying, Mavis, 3C which she explained meant Confident Communication Consultant.

“How much do you charge?” said Danny.

“A dollar a minute,” said Mavis.

Danny received intensive counselling about Positive Thinking, Creative Visualization, the Law of Attraction and the Law of Karma. Mavis said that all of these affect your life deeply. Time flew by. When she ended the session he checked his watch, and saw that four hours had elapsed. He gulped.

“Don’t worry about that now,” she said. “We never chase customers. Our terms are payment upon results. I can say with confidence that you’ll pay us within three months.”

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Ivories

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 20, 2012 by javedbabar

Donna felt swallowed by Christmas. It was meant to be about a lowly manger, a guiding star, three wise men, and a saviour child; add to that a huge turkey, your family, and good cheer. But all of this was eclipsed by present buying, which was all that anybody cared about these days; what I bought you; what you bought me; was it a good gift; did you get it cheap from somewhere; was it a fair exchange?

She decided that the best way to get unusual gifts at good prices was to visit winter markets. They followed the same ethos as farmers markets – you must grow, make, or bake it yourself – but with more focus on making than growing. She often bought consumable goods such as jams, cakes, and cheeses; soft things that she could also try herself; her dentures didn’t like toffee or nuts. She also got some items that lasted, so people would remember her gifts.

Lucerne’s winter market took place two weeks before Christmas, featuring a mix of artists, sculptors, farmers and housewives, and students and single mothers supplementing their incomes. “Hello there!” said a woman selling jewellery. “Would you like to try on anything?”

Donna cast her eye over the stall. It wasn’t quite to her taste – irregular beads strung together; some matched in pairs of ascending or descending sizes – but the style seemed somehow familiar; also the woman seemed familiar.

Donna said, “I feel I know you from somewhere. Do you live in Lucerne?”

Rather than smiling, the woman looked worried and turned away, saying, “I’m not from Lucerne; I’m just a visiting trader.”

“But it seems like I’ve met you before. Were you here last year?”

The woman saw that Donna wasn’t leaving so decided to distract her. “Why don’t you try on this necklace?” she said.

Donna examined the white chunks strung on a slim golden wire. “What beautiful stones. What are they, chips of marble?”

“Erm, not quite.” It seemed that the woman wanted to talk, and not to talk, at the same time; she had something to be proud of and also to hide. Donna persisted with questions till she had no option but to tell the truth, which is always easier than lying. “I make jewellery from teeth,” she said.

“Teeth!” said Donna. “Those are all teeth? What kind of teeth?”

“Well, all kinds of teeth. I get them mainly from vets and zoos, and people send me teeth when their pets die, to fashion into sentimental items. Did you want to try this on?”

Donna was not so sure. “What’s it made of?”

“It’s sheep’s and goat’s teeth. I stain and polish them individually, that’s why you thought they were marble. But stone quarrying is a dirty business; mine is entirely clean; there’s zero carbon footprint.”

Donna had to admit that the necklace looked good on her. The teeth together looked like the crest of a wave, or a small mountain range, curving over her bosom.

“What’s that one?” she said, pointing to a bracelet.

“That’s made with dog’s teeth, and the next one is cat’s teeth. I’ve even made one with mouse teeth for a girl with cancer.”

Donna tried on some shark’s tooth earrings, then some made of dolphin’s teeth. The woman said, “Teeth aren’t all solid you know. They’re made of multiple tissues of varying density and hardness. And herbivore’s and carnivore’s teeth are very different – being used to chew and grind, versus hunting prey and tearing meat. Different species can have one, two or many sets of teeth, and you can tell the age of horses from their tooth eruption patterns. Elephants’ tusks are specialized incisors for digging up food and fighting. Narwhals have one giant unicorn-like tooth, containing millions of sensory pathways…”

Donna wondered why she was talking so rapidly, telling her all of these strange things about teeth. Was she feeling nervous about something? Maybe her jewellery was junky. Donna returned the items and walked away.

The woman was relieved that Donna hadn’t noticed the case of platinum rings set with human teeth. She had briefly dated Lucerne’s dentist last year, and persuaded him to do her some favours, like extracting teeth from patients to order. She’d once pulled on a surgical mask and acted as his assistant, telling him which ones she wanted. Was this the woman he’d persuaded to have all of her top teeth removed?

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Acoustic Experiment

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 19, 2012 by javedbabar

“Walk two steps forward,” said Guru Baba. “That’s it. Maybe one step more. Okay, half a step back. How does that feel?”

Sami didn’t know what to say. It felt the same wherever he stood in the field. He had a view of Mt Alba at the end of the Valley and forests, rivers and cliffs on both sides. The guy standing opposite him about twelve feet away, Shama – was that his name? – would have a similar view, but seeing as he was facing west, it would be Mt Negra instead.

“Okay, you have both played flutes before?” said Guru Baba.

Sami protested. “Guru Baba, I told you…”

“Yes, I know that,” said Guru Baba. “I don’t mean professionally, I just mean can you get a sound out of them? Not orchestral flutes, just bamboo flutes. Here, take one each. No. Wait! Don’t move! I’ll bring them to you. Okay.”

Sami had been Guru Baba’s assistant for almost a year now, ever since the world famous holy man had made Lucerne his home. Guru Baba had been kept super busy by his constant stream of visitors and the demands of his many charitable projects. He rarely found time to get out of the village to pursue his personal projects. Today they had sneaked away for an “acoustic experiment”, though Guru Baba had yet to explain what this consisted of. That was his way – always mysterious. And they’d also picked up this rough-looking guy called Shama. Who knew why?

“Sami, can you please start with a steady tone?” Sami blew too hard initially, creating a rasp, but then produced the requested steady tone, which wavered within reason.

“Very good. Shama, can you please try to match his tone?” Shama did the same – a rasp, and then a steady-enough tone.

“Very good too. Now play continuously while I walk around. Yes, of course you can breathe, who doesn’t? But keep playing as steadily as possible.”

Guru Baba walked around them. At first it was a tight circle barely including them both, but he gradually widened his range till the circle was fifty feet across. He walked this steady perimeter four times, and on the fifth circuit began halting, stopping and starting, like a DVD getting stuck on the same scratch, again and again. He produced a can of orange construction paint from beneath his saffron robe, and marked places that he halted, about every fifteen feet. Sami stopped playing to ask something, but was shouted at and told to continue. Guru Baba continued walking, marking and remarking with orange paint.

After half an hour, the circle of markings was complete. Guru Baba said, “Sami, you wished to ask something.”

“Erm, yes. Why are you making those spots?”

“Music is multisensory. You can hear it, but you can also see and feel it. In all cultures oral traditions came first. Writing came later. The internet came even after that. It wasn’t always there you know.” He smiled to himself. “The past was not silent and neither is the present. We have so much to re-learn about the acoustics of structures and spaces. We must unlock them!”

Shama didn’t say anything, but Sami needed to know more. He asked Guru Baba a series of questions that made him smile, walk over, and take the flute from Sami’s hand. He said, “Now you walk and see.”

Guru Baba and Shama played steady tones as Sami circled. At first he heard just the sounds of the flutes together, but after some circuits, he sensed invisible bumps along his path. The interference patterns created by the two flutes acquired substance. Ancient music was inspired by naturally occurring patterns and rhythms, and was used to tune human emotions and states of awareness. Music attracted mates, communicated messages, and strengthened bonds. It enhanced early man’s chances of survival, and may provide hope for modern man also.

Sami walked round and around with his eyes shut. He saw and felt everything.

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White Matter

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Sammy poked his head around the door. “Yes, Doctor? You wanted to see me?”

Dr Bungawalla looked up from his desk but said nothing. There was something bothering him. Then he said, “Yes, yes. Please come in. How long are you with us for, altogether? Ah good, a month. So you go back to school in September? Perfect.” He pushed his chair away from the desk, pulled it back in, and shuffled papers.

“I was wondering if you would help me with a project. I think we can complete it in four weeks. It is not something mentioned on the internship documents; it’s more of a personal project. It will be helpful research to me.”

Dr Bungawalla had been the village doctor for forty years. Sammy recalled his always being nice to him, especially as a child, giving him snacks and sweeties, even pop. Good job he had become a doctor not a dentist!

Sammy nodded to indicate he would help. When someone’s just lost his wife, you should do everything you can for him.

“Oh good. I’m sure you know that the brain is composed of grey matter. Well, did you know that there is also white matter? It’s lipid tissue veined with capillaries; actually pinkish, but let’s not worry about that. It was previously thought to be passive tissue but now we know that its main function is to transmit signals, acting as a sort of relay, consolidating communication between different brain regions. It has an important role in processing and cognition; it plays a role in both our function and dysfunction.”

Sammy nodded along and said, “Is white matter your special area of interest?”

“Yes it is. Specifically, there are areas called White Matter Hyperintensities which show up as bright signals on MRI images. No, they are not really dangerous; like most things, they are essentially neutral, and it depends on what you do with them.”

“Can I take a seat?” said Sammy.

“Ah, yes, yes. So sorry, I was going to stand up but then forgot. Please take a seat.” Dr Bungawalla explained his strange request to Sammy. It seemed like a good way to spend his month here. They would both learn something useful.

For the first week, Sammy ate a Mediterranean diet. He stocked up with fruit, vegetables, fish, grains, nuts, and olives, and drank strong coffee and smoked cigarettes. Dr Bungawalla scanned his brain with the EMU (Electromagnetic Medical Unit), and recorded the changes. His chief interest was in the effect of olives; olive wood had been used in Greece to make statues of gods. There must be a reason for that.

The second week, Sammy ate pulses, macaroni, rice, beef and pickles. This Egyptian diet had fortified the builders of the Pyramids and Sphinx. Dr Bungawalla was especially engaged with the nourishment provided by lentils; these tiny seeds were a source of total nourishment. He saw that Sammy’s Hyperintensities had decreased in volume.

The third week, Sammy consumed an Indian diet. He added plenty of coriander, cumin, chilli, turmeric, garam masala, mustard seeds, salt and pepper to his meals. He also ate curds and sweet fried pastries. The chilli made him sweat and activated other nutrients he’d consumed. Spice fires the soul. Dr Bungawalla saw that this diet was boosting his antibodies, with no detrimental effects on Hyperintensities.

The fourth week Sammy ate Chinese food. He ate mostly vegetables and rice with a wide variety of meats, including pork stomach and trotters, beef brain and tongue, chicken gizzard and feet, and snake guts and heart, all washed down with pearl green tea. Dr Bungawalla saw a reduction in the volume of Hyperintensities. After further examination, he saw that it was not caused by food; it was caused by pearl green tea, which calmed the spirit and created fluidity. From now on Dr Bungawalla would drink this tea in the hope of slowing down his Alzheimer’s’ Disease.

Dr Bungawalla never assumed that modern medicine was best. He believed one should try traditional cures, beginning with your daily food. Hyperintensity Volume was a marker of small vessel damage in the brain, a reduction of which leads to a reduction of strokes and cognitive decline. But he also knew that it wasn’t just diet. There were associated memories encoded in White Matter, those of family joviality. Any of the diets that Sami had tried – Mediterranean, Egyptian, Indian or Chinese – would help Dr Bungawalla if rather than eating alone each night, he could share them with someone.

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Your Story

Posted in Infinite City with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 17, 2012 by javedbabar

“What’s your story?” said Masta. “Go ahead girl, tell me.”

Nadia had prepared an answer but couldn’t say anything. A world famous music producer sat in a chair before her; this was her chance to make an impression but she was nervous and stuck for words.

“Come on girl, tell me your story. I haven’t got all day.”

She cleared her throat and spoke in laboured street slang. “I had a ragged childhood, Masta. I was born in the City, Blood, with state housing blocks circling my ass. There was no jobs, nor at least not legal ones, anywhere about that hood. There was one Indie store that ripped peoples off. Because my folks was brown, people said we was greedy peoples like they was. Our windows was smashed and we had mutt-shit pushed through our door. My dad sold drugs to survive and pimped my addict mom. It was ragged, Blood. I wish I could’a…”

“Hold it, girl!” said Masta. “Hold it! Now look here. You seem like a real nice girl.”

He looked at his Homies, gathered around him; they said, “True dat.”

He continued, “Man, you could present a show on the CBC. Is that your normal way of talking?”

His Homies said, “Be true!”

“Was your childhood really like that? Come on girl, be honest.”

“Erm…” Nadia wasn’t sure how to answer. Everybody was scared of Masta. He had been Canadia’s best known performer, went on to be a global club DJ, and then a music producer for top urban acts; gritty, rhymey stuff with harsh, broken beats. He was a musical genius, admired by everybody, but loved by few. He had a ferocious temper, which she’d witnessed on TV shows; he was so mean that people cried and ran away.

The media described him as a “prodigy” or “outlier”, also an “unhinged genius”. He was someone with great originality and exceptional ability, but poor mental discipline and interpersonal skills, which led to his inability to communicate ideas to others. When people didn’t know exactly what he wanted and asked for clarification, they were shouted and screamed at, and told they were “useless f***ing idiots who wouldn’t get a job washing shit at McDonalds.”

Because he was scary, people tried to please him. They bowed and scraped and trod on eggshells, and bit their lip when fearing they’d said something wrong, which was better than Masta biting it off. Yet they knew that his genius was infectious. In one day with him, they would learn more than in one year with an ordinary producer. That’s why those that were able to – bearing thick skins and tough minds – did their best to put up with him.

Contestants on his show Music Masta generally tried to emulate him. They wore funky hats, short dreads, and chunky jewellery, and used street talk – Yo’s and Ho’s – never proper grammatical sentences. Nadia had tried to impress him with her tale of childhood, with which she’d taken considerable artistic licence, but he wasn’t buying it; what to do now?

“Girl, you’ve got ten seconds. What do they say at church? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

His Homies put their hands to their lips and said, “Shhhh…”

Scientists have proved that it’s always easier to tell the truth. Flux MRI scans, which monitor brain stimulation, show that lying requires about four times as much activity. So Nadia told the truth.

“I had a really lovely childhood, Mister Masta. My mother made nice dinners for me, and my father read me stories in bed. My brother is five years older than me, and always brought me little presents. I grew up being a happy girl, always optimistic, and because I’m happy, I make others happy too. Life treats me well and I have nothing to complain about.”

Masta threw his hands up in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about! That’s your story! You’re a happy girl! That’s fabulous, sister! I’m not looking for more people like me; there’s enough of us gangsters polluting the planet already. I’m looking for something different and authentic. So what are you singing for me today?”

Rather than saying, “I’m the Motherf***ing Queen of Babylon,” as she had planned to, Nadia said, “When a Child is Born.”

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Seven Generations

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on June 16, 2012 by javedbabar

Nobody in the village had spoken to Breda for twenty four years. Seven generations ago, one of her ancestors had committed a crime, and since then all villagers had shunned her family.  The Nooranis were Quieted, which meant that they were not to be spoken to or spoken about, ever. It was as if they didn’t exist.

Life continued though, and they quietly went about their business in the Upper Valley. They were farmers and thus largely self-sufficient. They had all the food they needed – roots, fruits, meat and veggies –and could make do with or mend most objects. They were also able to trade with out-of-towners, who held no taboos, and engaged with them freely, but Lucerne’s citizens kept away from them entirely.

The only exception was shopping. They were allowed to buy what they needed from the grocery and hardware stores, but always in silence. Mt Alba and Mt Negra – the white and black peaks at opposite ends of the Valley – had been better companions to Breda growing up than anybody in Lucerne.

“Good day, love,” said the grocery store cashier. “How are you doing today?”

Breda dropped her cabbage. Somebody had spoken to her! How? Why? What for?

The cashier continued, “How was your weekend? Boy, it was hot on Sunday. Did you take a dip in the lake?”

Breda said, “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”

“Sure I am. I quit talking to myself years ago. I always chat to my customers. That’s the difference between this place and a box store. We give you personal service. Wasn’t it…”

Breda interrupted. “Do you know who I am? I’m a Noorani.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. Who doesn’t? But that’s neither here nor there now, isn’t it? The baby must be coming soon. When’s it due?”

Breda held onto the conveyor belt. So that was it! It was her baby! The child would be born of the eighth generation, and the taboo would be ended.

“Oh, I see you’ve got some nappies. You’ll be needing plenty of those! You might want to get a bigger pack next time. You’ll get through those in a flash. Do you want to change the pack? I’m sure the people behind you won’t mind much. They’ll understand the situation. Wait! You don’t want to walk up and down the aisle in your condition. Let me call one of the assistants…”

Breda was lost for words. This rush of engagement was overwhelming. It was like a desert becoming a lake. She was not ready to respond.

For Breda’s twenty four years of life, nobody in the village had spoken to her or her family. She had been made an outcast for crimes that had nothing to do with her at all. She didn’t even know what her great-great-great-great grandmother had done in the first place, and what was the chance of a fair trial for women in those days? Was there even any evidence? It was likely a baseless accusation for personal reasons, by a vicious neighbour, a zealous parishioner, or greedy rival.

Breda declined the cashier’s offer of getting a bigger pack of nappies. She bagged her own items and headed out of the store.

Two women passing greeted her effusively. “Oh Breda! Look at you now! When’s it due?” These were girls that she had studied with. They’d not spoken to her during her schooldays – never, ever – yet now asked after her mother and sisters. She didn’t know what to say to them, so grunted and headed to her truck.

A guy in a white half-sleeved shirt, on his lunch break from the bank, helped to load her groceries into the cab. He asked after her brother, to whom he had never spoken.

Breda started the truck and headed up the Lucerne Valley Road. As she rounded a bend near the river, she saw more people she knew that had never, ever spoken to her. They now waved cheerily and made signs to call them.

Breda considered swinging her truck towards them. Hitting them hard and sending their bodies flying into the river. These people had condemned her for things she hadn’t done; at least then they would have a reason to hate her and the next seven generations of her family. But then she thought, why not make this eight generation different?

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Sweet Spot

Posted in Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 15, 2012 by javedbabar

People in Lucerne were excited. It was The Place’s official opening night. The renovated car park at the centre of their village was already in use, but tonight it would be baptised by village notables and elders, an important ritual in any community, and more so with controversial developments.

Sophie set up the main shot. HOT TV’s coverage tonight was devoted to the opening ceremony, rather than yet another film with dancing girls in hot pants and bra tops showing the joys of living in Lucerne. Yet the girls were all here. There was Jeannie, founder of the monthly People’s Kitchen, where spare food was cooked into delicious meals for every needy member of the community. There were Alli and Sami, and Donna too.

Among the crowd Sophie saw Danny, to whom she’d drawn closer over the past few weeks. Was he the right one, she wondered? Or maybe, as her British mother would say, he was a right one. This meant something else entirely.

She really liked The Place’s central element, a water feature with dancing jets, and a plinth for a statue, which was rotatable and retractable, meaning it could also be used as a small stage. There must be several statues stored in the vault below. In between the time The Place was completed and its official opening ceremony, Sophie had seen statues of Lucerne’s claimed founders St Lucy (favoured by Anglo-Saxon women), Cernunnos (favoured by Anglo-Saxon men), and White Bear (favoured by natives, and who most likely did found the village). Tonight the plinth remained empty, for it was in use as a stage.

Sophie noticed that the acoustics were strange here. The ceremony was starting, and it was too late to make adjustments. She should have realized before.

The famous holy man Guru Baba, who had made Lucerne his home, was too weak or too tired to come here personally, so sent a video message instead. “The centre of every place is sacred,” he said, dressed in saffron turban and sarong, and white string vest. “It represents the heart of things. The place from which everything emerges, and around which all revolves…” The rest of his words were unclear. He continued speaking for five minutes, but the words seemed to stop dead, as if they were killed in his mouth. Maybe it was just her headphones. Sophie removed them, but nothing changed.

Next was the new age mystic Ozwald Malchizedek, also known as OM, who mounted the plinth in person, in full golden robes. He was popular with those who didn’t like the discipline of Guru Baba’s methods. OM operated by the Principle of Pleasure (POP), whose objective was to do whatever you liked. “Good people of Lucerne,” he said. “I am pleased to be here with you on this historic occasion. This village was created by historic accident, by confluence of railways and powerlines, roads and rivers. Till now it didn’t have a real centre. Today we celebrate this Place.” The delivery of his words was just right. There was a – maybe – one second reverberation, adding richness and power. Sophie wondered what he was doing that Guru Baba wasn’t.

He spoke for five minutes before Jeannie was invited to the stage. She talked about the People’s Kitchen, the monthly dinner for everyone, cooked by volunteers with donated ingredients (the butcher gave hamburgers, the grocer gave salad, the baker gave buns and sometimes cakes); it assisted those in need and cultivated community. Then Jeannie and the other HOT TV girls shook their female assets; which they knew was sure to get good coverage. Sophie noticed the reverberation period had lengthened to over two seconds. Jeannie’s words all ran into each other, but the music sounded great.

The Global Grandmothers mounted the stage and sang and danced together. It was a mix of throat-singing, choral, beatbox, and chanting, with a backing track of rousing trance. Their voices soared individually and together. They found the Place’s sweets spot, its Point of Control, and their magical voices entranced the crowd.

Nobody noticed when it became dark and when it became light again. The grandmothers had harnessed the holy powers of the earth. All were in a daze. As the sun rose to the bless The Place, Sophie returned to full awareness. She had been awake but not aware; a slave to higher vibrations. She saw her camera had been filming for twelve hours – from 6am to 6pm – and tried to recall all that had happened this night. She felt there was truth in Guru Baba’s words about a centre representing the heart of things, from which everything emerged, and around which all revolved.

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