Oxygen

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on April 5, 2012 by javedbabar

Adam and Lucy arrived at 9.30am to ensure a good spot at the front of the crowd. This was so exciting! Their first Canadia Day, in their first home together, in their new Village; somewhere where people actually knew each other, and made and grew things, and came together as a community. “The happiest, healthiest place in Canadia,” they’d heard it called.

Every resident of Lucerne was present. The street was filled with red and white balloons and flags. Red and white children chased each other through crowds, with silly spotted dogs running after them. It was a celebration of all that was good about this Village: happy children, uniformed and helmeted heroes, profitable, job-making businesses, lovers of cats, fish and, birds, First Nations singing and drumming, Seniors still rocking and rolling, the noble mayor-farmer and wise council, fifth-generation potato growers; those enthused by motorcycles and bicycles; and those who tinker with engines to make them roar like castrated dinosaurs.

Adam and Lucy cheered every float passing. They were confused however by the approach of an industrial fuel tank which caused the crowd to hush into reverential silence. Why had everybody gone quiet? Adam said, “They’re looking at us.”

“No they’re not,” said Lucy. “They’re looking at the fuel tank.”

“Well why are they looking?” Now people really were looking at them, as the only ones talking among the crowd of two-thousand. The sea of hush. They became self-conscious, looked at each other, and hushed too. As the tank drew closer, they saw that it was not borne on the back of a truck, but on the backs of people. A hundred of Lucerne’s residents carried it proudly.

Being new in town, they hadn’t heard the Story of Shirley. She was born to farmers in the Lucerne Valley, and her parents had both died in a horrific agricultural accident. Despite being “safe” in the house, noxious fumes affected her young lungs, which suffered irreversible damage and degeneration. They didn’t really fail, just fell apart gradually. She tried not to exert herself and stayed in the house as much as possible, but when she hit nineteen, like any young lady she wanted to get out. However her lungs couldn’t extract enough oxygen from the atmosphere and needed constant topping up, so she couldn’t go anywhere without an oxygen supply. A small water bottle sized container was adequate.

This proved to be an issue at the Lucerne Hotel, which had recently been fined for liquor licence infringements. The doorman had been instructed to be extra tough on customers. He said, “Sorry love, you can’t bring that in here.”

“Why not?” said Shirley.

“You can’t bring in bottles from outside. That’s the rules.”

“But it doesn’t have any liquid in it. It’s just oxygen.”

“Even if it doesn’t have any liquid, you can’t bring it in.” She could tell that the doorman was not being mean deliberately,  just following orders. “You could fill it with liquor and take it out.” He seemed relieved by his invented justification.

“Why would I do that?” Shirley said. “I could buy some from the bottle shop. It’s cheaper there. It even comes in its own handy bottle already.”

“Very funny,” said the doorman. “Ok, let’s just take a look at the bottle.” Shirley handed it over, and he twisted it open before she could stop him. He was surprised by its hiss, and peered inside and said, “Ok, you were right, it’s only air. I’ll let you take it in this time.”

Shirley teared up. It was impossible to enter now that her lifeline was gone. Her mother had taught her to not complain in life, and there was nobody alive to complain to. She returned home immediately.

Shirley’s lungs worsened and she needed more oxygen. A bar visit now was out of the question. She decided to visit the library, carrying a large Coke bottle sized oxygen container. But health and safety rules at municipal facilities forbade people to bring in unchecked containers. The security guard insisted that she open it up. Shirley cried at the hiss that once again forced her to go home.

Kind neighbours did her shopping, but sometimes she had to do it herself. As her lungs deteriorated, she wheeled around a bucket sized oxygen container. The grocery store guard repeated the all too familiar procedure. He said that Local Food Laws did not permit noxious gases near fresh produce. “But they sit in it for months in shipping containers,” she said. “This is just oxygen, you know, what we breathe.” He insisted on checking. She went home without food.

Eventually Shirley needed to push around a dustbin sized oxygen container. The coffee shop guard said its contents may ruin the roasting process. “But it’s oxygen,” she said. “Like the bubbles in froth.” But he needed to check this.

The Lucerne Hotel’s doorman found Shirley crying in the car park one day. She told him about her failing lungs and her need for ever-more oxygen. He sat with her for a while, and asked for her to accept his apology. The next week he went to visit her home. She now needed a twin bed sized oxygen container. He called six of his buddies and together they lifted it up and followed Shirley around town. Word got around quickly, and she was welcomed everywhere. New laws were passed. No smoking, no cell phones, and no electricity were to be live anywhere near her, as the risk of pressurized gas igniting was too great. The true measure of any society is how it treats its weakest members. Lucerne passed with honours. It became a quiet reflective town, where people listened to and helped others.

Adam and Lucy saw a weak, smiling girl walking before the industrial tank borne aloft by Lucerne’s citizens. When she raised her pathetic hand to wave, everybody began cheering. She seemed embarrassed, but also the proudest girl in the world.

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Cosmic Pillar

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , on April 4, 2012 by javedbabar

I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar. It was more a shape than an object, with dimensions that were incomprehensible. It was both see-through and substantial, though how that could be I can’t say. It arose from somewhere beneath me to somewhere high above, the space around it filled with fireworks exploding with brilliance of every kind. There were crimson flowers, old gold whirls, and neon green stars, set with bright blue puffs and lilac trails, plus tangerine flashes and clouds of silver sparkles. The darkness was forgotten, overwhelmed by teeming lights.

The pillar seemed a luminous tree trunk, rising out of some unknown earth, and into a boundless sky; the fireworks great bunches of bright foliage, filling the heavens. This tree of light shone in the night, with my soul set as a lamp upon it. It was the Tree of Life in the midst of all three worlds – memory, presence, and fantasy – making communication between them possible. It was nourishing and sheltering, inexhaustibly fertilizing, representing both evergreen, everlasting life, and deciduous regeneration. All roots fused and rose through the trunk, their journey ending as fat fruits with a mystical seeds of potential.

This ethereal vision also had a physical manifestation. My huge erection wouldn’t go down. It was a sign of a potent year to come. Full of potential.

I may as well make use of what I’ve got, so called my occasional girlfriend Kitty, who was always in the mood for some action. Afterwards she said, “Wow, what’s come over you babe? I won’t be able to sit down for a week. Everyone will think I’ve been herding cattle. Have you been eating Superfoods? Or taking Superpills? Does it ever go down?”

I told her I didn’t know, but wanted to make good use of my blessing. “Well I’m out for the rest of this week, babe. You better find yourself another willing volunteer.” This was easier said than done. Who do you call on such an occasion? Then came divine inspiration. I called “Hot Rod” Escort Agency, who asked me what I’d be willing to do, and I said, “Everything”. I quickly became their most popular escort – always available, and never disappointing.

One of the ladies I serviced took me on as her gardener. She claimed it was a way of keeping me busy between our sessions, and had nothing to do with Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I grew to like my second profession involving fertility and planting seed. She had a “big job” for me, she said: planting a white oak tree in her rear garden. Using a buddy’s excavator I dug a hole and placed the tree in the ground carefully. At night it held a ghostly glow, with a million stars shining through its yet-bare branches, as if related to the heavenly tree of my vision.

My employer recommended my services to her friends. One was a very adventurous lady, especially in the area of landscaping. She wanted her garden to have the feel of an English village, so I suggested installing a maypole in the centre of her lawn. We celebrated Mayday with twenty handsome youths and twenty fair maidens drinking country cider, and clutching bright ribbons, weaved in between each other, losing our grips and our inhibitions, right there and then, not even making it to the woods.

My English village design was noticed by a City firm. They called me in for a meeting. “We love the thrusting nature of your work,” said the lead architect, licking her lips. “Its raw energy. We would like you to help us design a skyscraper.”

“But I don’t know anything about designing buildings,” I said.

“You’re a versatile guy, I’ve heard,” she said, winking. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You start Saturday at my home office.”

I told her that a building should really mean something. Imagine it as the Centre of the World. Show everything whirling around it. When Thrust Tower was completed, its metallic swirling design of caused a sensation. “This represents our new nation,” said the President on his visit. “Something to which we can all aspire.” He was photographed with me so many times that people began to associate my name with the highest public office. I thought why not aspire to that? A photograph of my pointing skyward became iconic. I used it on my campaign poster, and won the election.

One of my main achievements in office was doubling funding for scientific research, much of which went to our under-resourced military. It was a proud day indeed watching the Thrust One missile shoot out of its silo into the sky, blazing fire behind.

What should be my next achievement? To boldly go? Yes of course! I doubled funding for the space program. Within three months we had developed the world’s most powerful rocket, ready for launch. My announcement on launch day stunned the nation – that I would lead by example. I would head the mission, and be the only one in the shuttle entering the Black Hole. The first man ever to do so.

Via the external monitors I saw my slim silver pillar arise into the sky, surrounded by clouds of glowing fire. And some days after, I left the main craft and went beyond the Event Horizon, and as predicted by Dr. Einstein, entered the realm of curved time-space. In the Dreamtime I entered, each day lived is the First Day, a world of pure imagination. I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar.

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Crazy Garden

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on April 3, 2012 by javedbabar

Yvonne’s parents were really busy. They worked full-time and were only at home in the mornings and evenings, and at weekends just stayed in bed. They loved her of course but they never had time for her. They were always like this, having sort of given up in the world.

Yvonne did her share of washing, cooking, and cleaning, and the garden was completely her domain. Mum and dad wanted to pave it over. “Honey, it’s too much to manage,” they’d said. “Imagine how much time we’d save if it was maintenance-free?” She recalled pulling the worst face ever. “We could have some flowerpots if you like. And think about your own sports yard – to play whatever you want.”

“What would I play by myself?” she’d said.

Her mum had turned away, about to cry. He dad had flashed anger but quickly controlled it. He’d said, “Whatever you want, honey. Play whatever you want.”

The truth was that she didn’t want to play anything by herself. She wanted another sister. One that didn’t disappear.

Yvonne went into the garden daily. It was only a patch of lawn edged with some rosebushes, daffodils, and tulips, but she’d done a nice job of planting. She loved being involved with nature. It seemed magical that things just grew out of the ground. Mrs. Murdoch called over the fence, “How is Lucerne’s most promising young gardener?”

“Very well thank you. How is Lucerne’s hardest working gardener?”

Mrs. Murdoch lived by herself and didn’t go to work. How she paid her bills no one knew. She had made an amazing little world in her garden, and devoted her time to tending it. It wasn’t a big space – the same as Yvonne’s, about thirty feet square – but she had transformed it into something extraordinary. She was always out in her garden, come rain or shine, cutting, pruning, planting, and singing. There was a tall fence right around it, so Yvonne couldn’t see her when they chatted outdoors. She only ever saw her from above, peering down from her sister’s room. It made her sad to go there, but it was worth it to see her neighbour’s garden.

At its centre was a rough brick well with a pointy slate roof, reached by walking around a circular labyrinth made of stones. There were two prominent fruit trees, one with golden shining apples, and the other with what appeared to be black and white blossoms. There was a wall of metal mirrors on one side – had she had a TV makeover? – and a tiny bog on the other, always enveloped in mist. One corner held a rockery with many fluffy mosses, and the other was filled with spiders’ webs. A glass globe dangled from one corner of the house, with a luminous surface like oil spilled on the road, and on the other corner was a spiral metal drill spinning with the wind. There were bird, squirrel, and hummingbird feeders. A red-roofed, white shed seemed like home to the white statues placed around the garden. It was hard for Yvonne to note their features from high up, but she could see they were wearing angelic robes. A nice change from gnomes.

Her dad said, “Why would someone go to all that trouble to make something just for themselves? Something they never shared. It seems selfish to me.”

Her mum said, “She’s a good gardener, she’s probably had horticultural training, or landscape design. But she just does it for her own pleasure.”

“What’s wrong with that?” said Yvonne. “Shouldn’t we make ourselves happy?”

“That would be a fine thing,” said her mum. As soon as I’m back from work, and have cooked dinner, done the laundry, changed the sheets, and washed up, I’ll get right on it. I’ll make myself happy.”

Yvonne saw she was raw, and said, “Sorry mum.” Her mum turned away, and Yvonne knew she was crying again. Her dad hugged her mum, and then hugged Yvonne.

There was a huge storm that night – thunder, lightning, and drumming rain so loud that Yvonne woke up. From her room she saw her own modest garden – the rosebushes were bending, and tulip and daffodil stems had snapped. How sad. She wondered about the garden next door. She crept into her sister’s bedroom to see.

Mrs. Murdoch’s garden was going crazy. The golden apples were shaking and flying off; black and white blossoms floated into the sky; the rough stone well cranked, and the labyrinth’s stones rearranged themselves; mirrors flashed back bolts of lightning, which lit up mists arising from the bog; the mossy rockery had become a little Niagara; the spidery corner held raindrops like jewellery; the glass globe reflected all of this; the spiral drill spun furiously; bird, squirrel, and hummingbird feeders swung violently, dispensing seeds, nuts, and sweet squirts; red tiles flew off the shed roof.

Suddenly the storm stopped. The house door opened and Mrs. Murdoch walked out. She smiled up at Yvonne and waved. She had a beautiful face. Yvonne waved back. Mrs. Murdoch beckoned her down. Yvonne felt compelled to go. Mrs. Murdoch opened a small gate and let her into the garden. Despite its disorder, it seemed beautiful and wonderful. Too late Yvonne realized that the statue next to her was familiar. Mrs. Murdoch touched Yvonne on the head and she joined her sister, asleep in a witch’s garden. Mrs. Murdoch was pleased with her dozen adopted children. They were better off here than with parents too busy to care for them. She would tend them instead.

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Train Spotters

Posted in Global Travel, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 2, 2012 by javedbabar

The railway station had been closed for years, but there was always something going on there. Mack had seen it operating as a Greyhound terminal, FedEx office, coffee shop, massage parlour, deli, toy shop, beauty salon, and art studio, and whatever the business, it was always called The Station. The only thing it didn’t do was operate as a railway station. How stupid, he thought.

The funniest thing was that the same small man always worked there. Regardless of the business, there he was. Mack wondered whether he was the owner trying different ways to make money, or a long-suffering employee being made to change jobs annually. Mack hadn’t much need to courier documents, have a Fairtrade Shiatsu massage, or buy crazy sculptures, but if he ever went in there for something the man was super friendly. He felt a kind of kinship.

Mack also noticed that however hot the day, the small man never wore short-sleeves. This was kind of strange. Ok he was indoors mostly, but even there it got sweaty. He didn’t even roll up his long-sleeves.

Mack was small for his age and got bullied at school. He hated being there, so spent his free time hanging around town by himself, often near the railway tracks counting trains. Though passenger service was no longer operational, there were still regular freight trains, and occasional tourist trains. The freight trains had dirty diesel locomotives and up to a hundred container-cars. The tourist trains had shiny engines and a handful of glassy cars, plus one with a clear plastic bubble filled with grinning idiots waving.

He loved hearing the warning bells at the level-crossing, seeing flashing lights, and watching barriers go down. That meant five more minutes away from school. While drivers dozed, sent texts, or made calls, Mack watched the rail cars fly by – each a daring colour, a mysterious container on a great adventure. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum.

One day at the crossing, waiting for a freight train to pass, Mack did a double-take. Was that a passenger car in amongst the freight cars? A regular passenger car, not a glassy tourist one? He hadn’t been paying attention and it was too late now. Maybe it was just a fancy-painted freight car, or had clever graffiti.

The next day he looked more closely. It was hard to stay focussed with so many cars going by. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. They sort of dazed you.

Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. Mixed colours overwhelmed.  Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. Fifty blue cars together entranced. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. Either way they affected your attention, delving into your imagination. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum.

Mack remained alert though. He stared straight ahead and didn’t miss a car.

Yes! There it was! A passenger car with passengers in it! They didn’t grin or wave though; they were busy working and talking, and looked like regular commuters – how was this possible? Mack went to find the small guy, but he was busy polishing a red steel sculpture, sort of like an alien. He decided to ask him next time.

Mack watched the trains very carefully every day after that. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. He counted the cars, and checked and matched them, noting their size, markings, speed, and direction. He felt less desire to go to school than ever.

Then one day, Mack felt a shadow fall across him. Uh-oh! Was it his Principal? “I see you like trains,” said the small man from The Station.

“Em, yes I do,” said Mack. He was suddenly nervous.

“I grew up here when they still ran passenger trains. I was totally obsessed by them. I thought I’d leave Lucerne as soon as I grew up, and imagined all the places I’d travel to. But they shut down the service, and I never went anywhere.”

“But there’s still passenger cars!” said Mack. “I’ve seen them! There’s one in the middle of each train. I don’t know where they come from or where they’re going, but there’s passengers in them – I’ve seen them!”

“How do you know that?” said the small man with mock surprise. “Have you been train spotting? You know that’s not a cool thing to do. What would your friends say?”

Mack suddenly felt like crying. He turned away and said, “I don’t have any friends.”

“Don’t worry, kid. You’ll soon be making some new ones. I was a loner like you when I was young, and still am, but I am part of one of the world’s greatest communities.”

Mack was scared. He blurted out, “I’ve seen how you never wear half-sleeves. You must have tattoos. Are you a gangster or a Hell’s Angel?”

The small man was amused, and not angry at all. “My community is much older, and much greater than those. Look.” He rolled up his right sleeve. Running along it were tattooed railways tracks – endless rails and regular sleepers, his muscles providing ballast, his fingers tracing rolling stock. “I am a member of the Occidental Rail Brotherhood, ORB, founded by Periander. Have you heard of him?” Mack shook his head. “Periander built the Diolkos, the world’s first public railway, in Ancient Greece. It was a limestone trackway running from the stormy Aegean Sea to the sheltered Ionian Sea. A hundred men hauled ships on wheeled vehicles along parallel grooves. The Diolkos saved much precious cargo and thousands of lives. By running The Station, I proudly serve Periander.”

“The passenger cars among the freight trains, who rides on those?”

“We do. Our Brotherhood has branches worldwide. We’re always travelling on business. As well as the Greek systems, there were Egyptian systems – how do you think the Pyramids were built? And the Indian Chakra system, and Chinese chi meridians are railway systems internalized.”

Mack said, “But you want to travel, so why don’t you? You can.”

“Someone must run The Station. I can’t abandon it.”

Mack felt a jolt in his heart, and said, “I could do it.”

The small man said, “Do you mean that?” Mack nodded. The true work of the Occidental Rail Brotherhood was accomplished by spiritual passion, which provided the rhythms of their lives, and the means by which their journeys to distant destinations were fuelled. “Then you must be initiated. It will mean one year of much pain.”

“What do I have to do?”

“I will change this place into a tattoo parlour and we will begin immediately.” The crossing points of this world must be left open. He was pleased to have found The Station’s next keeper. He would ink him, and then be free to go.

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The Joker

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 1, 2012 by javedbabar

“Who has come here today to laugh?” said The Joker. Everybody who could raised a hand. “Who has come here today to drink?” Hands went up again. “And to feast?” Hands up. “And to die?” Hands shot up, accompanied by cheers.

The Red Barn was packed as it was every week with an older audience. The high ticket price did not deter them. What else would they do with their money anyway – get squeezed for more taxes, or leave it for their children to waste on foolish things? It was time for the show, and people were laughing already, a visual expression of their joy.

The Joker was pleased at another good crowd. A hundred people times a hundred bucks each, that’s ten grand. After insurance and legal costs, he would clear almost half of that. More importantly though, The Joker was a twelfth-generation healer with a divine gift to share for which there was a six-month waiting list. They were sitting down wanting laughter, sharing laughter, living laughter, and maybe dying laughter.

“How many times does a baby laugh?” he asked the audience. He picked on people as their hands went up. “Fifty… Hundred… Seventy… Hundred and fifty… Ten? What kind of miserable mother are you?… Ninety… One? Ok, you mean one long laugh? Boy it must be fun at your place! Actually the answer is three hundred. A baby laughs three hundred times each day. What about adults?” Again he picked hands. “Fifty? Is your answer always fifty? Ok, how many extra-marital affairs have you had? What about extra-marital, sado-masochistic affairs? Bi-sexual, extra-marital, sado-masochistic affairs? Meet me later!… Hundred… Thirty… Two hundred… Zero? Are you a police officer?… Forty? Close. The answer is thirty. So adults laugh ten times less often than babies. Why is that?”

He picked on hands. “Work… Tax… Mortgage… Marriage? Well certainly if I was married to you… Children… TV? Surely Teletubbies isn’t that much funnier than Family Guy? Simpsons? Ok, maybe… Yes, all of these are true, but let’s take a deeper look. May I have some volunteers?” Half the audience’s hands went up. The Joker invited five of them onstage. They hobbled up, some with canes.

“We’ll start with laughter psychology. Madam, what’s your name? Helen? Ok, Helen, I’m going to tell you a joke. A patient says, ‘Doctor, I’ve got a strawberry stuck up my bum.’ The doctor says, ‘I’ve got some cream for that.’” Helen chuckled, and much of the crowd laughed. “Not a great joke, just an average joke. But your laugh was a signal of acceptance and positive interaction. It shows we’re all friends here.”

“Sir, your name? Robert? May I call you Bob? Bob, are you ticklish? Not much? May I reach into your armpits? It’s a habit of mine. I do it all the time. Ooh! So you are ticklish after all! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Shall I stop now? Shall I? Shall I?” The Joker finally stopped. “So this was a little different. Tickling creates neurological stimulation, causing inward feelings of joy. Thank you, Bob. By the way, do you use antiperspirant? You should do. Do you have a towel at least? No? Never mind. Thank you.”

The Joker asked the next volunteer his name. “Jamie? Wonderful. Now sit down here. Can we dim the lights please? A little more, perfect.” The Joker switched on a desk lamp, and held his wrists together but with palms apart. The theme from Jaws played suddenly. His fingertips created the vicious silhouette of a sharp fanged mouth, opening wider as it approached Jamie’s head, about to consume it. Suddenly the music stopped, the lights came on, and the fanged mouth disappeared. Jamie burst into a high-pitched breathy laugh. The Joker continued the tune, “Daa-Na! Daa-Na! Daa-Na! Daa-Na! Now Jamie, why were you laughing? That’s right, because you were scared and then felt relief. That’s what Freud said. Laughter is a coping mechanism for when we are angry, scared, or sad. It releases tension.”

He turned to the next volunteer. “You are… Janet? So Janet, why did you laugh too? You were not the one about to be consumed by a Giant White Shark? That’s right, you also felt relief. But Morreall said that it’s even more than that. Laughter has biological origins – it’s a shared expression of danger passing. Jamie is safe, and we all are safe. Hoorah!”

The Joker turned to the fifth volunteer. “Now Sandra, please take the hot seat. Lights down again please. Perfect.” He again made the jawed silhouette, but his time there was a sudden scream. Sandra jolted and then laughed. “Sorry for the shock,” he said. “I just needed your reaction. So what did that sound like? Someone screaming? Who? That’s right Sandra, it sounded like yourself. It was your own scream. Nietzsche said that laughter was our response to existential loneliness and despair, a recognition of our mortality. A joke creates a cognitive puzzle which we see solved, and realize that it isn’t dangerous at all and laugh with relief. Some people have fits of laughter, and periods of excessive elation – known as sham mirth. But these are the result of psychological or neurological conditions.”

The Joker told many more jokes and provided insights into laughter. He elevated the audience’s mood and relieved their tension. He created intimacy and connection, his playful communication bringing them all together. The final part of the evening approached. He said, “Please call out why you wish to die.” Hands went up. “Depression… Divorce… Bankruptcy… Alzheimer’s… Parkinson’s… Bowel cancer… Heart disease… Multiple Sclerosis… Cerebral Palsy… ok, a good selection. You are very brave people, taking charge of your own lives. I’m going to make one of you very happy.”

Using his ancestors’ secrets The Joker now crafted an incomprehensible joke. The only person who understood it was a man with Huntington’s Disease whose suffering had become unbearable. He recognized the truth of The Joke of Life and died right there laughing.

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Re-Search

Posted in Global Travel, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 31, 2012 by javedbabar

In Varanasi Robby had met an old man with waist-length dreadlocks wearing saffron robes. He was sitting on the banks of the Ganges with a mass of jumbled jewellery, and marigolds in his hair being nibbled by the occasional cow. He said to Robby, “There is no search; there is only re-search.”

Saffron-shirted Robby was fully immersed in India, and had even taken a Vedic name, Karma. He said, “What do you mean by that?”

The old man said, “Do you think that this is the first time we have lived? We have existed countless times in an endless universe! Everything is known already! It has been done already! You have no power. You cannot do anything. So re-search for true knowledge. Otherwise you are just wasting time.”

“But if time repeats itself, then why does that matter?” He was all for Indian holy talk but also needed logical veracity. Why would it matter? Why would anything matter?

The old man said, “This you must discover for yourself.”

“Can’t you tell me?” said Robby, annoyed. Why was he talking to this guy anyway? He wasn’t telling him anything new. Just another holy man wanting cash probably. But he hadn’t yet asked Robby to make a “donation to God”. The old man instructed him to bathe in the Ganga River, to chant great mantras, to pray to the home of the Gods, Mt. Kalash, and to make holy designs with coloured powders. “Do re-search,” he said and turned away.

Robby had pretty much forgotten the old man, but every now and then his silly phrase came to mind. “There is no search; there is only re-search.”

After many years of travelling, Robby washed up in Lucerne. It was a beautiful Valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains, cedar, fir, and pine forests, and glacial rivers. He spent most of his time in a cabin on the riverbank, and worked occasionally stacking shelves or pumping gas. It was an easy life but he felt that something was missing. The old man’s words came back to him, and also his epilogue, “Otherwise you are just wasting time.”

What did he mean by re-search? Did that just mean finding again something that was lost or forgotten? This sounded like a regressive activity. Maybe that thing had been forgotten for a reason. The vegan yogini he was dating in India told him of horrors such as witch-burning and widow-burning. Why would you want to re-search for these? Best to forget them.

Could he have meant research, meaning looking into things further. This sounded more progressive. You could look at old newspapers, magazines, and books, or search online. There was plenty of information on everything, you just needed the skills to delve and sift. Decide whether to trust Wikipedia’s 4 million amateur articles, or stick with the 100,000 professional ones on Encyclopaedia Britannica. Grass roots versus experts.

But surely even better than research was search – actively finding things, real things, rather than their records? Real people and places during real adventures! The Knights of King Arthur’s Round Table didn’t sit in Camelot doing research; they went on a Quest for the Holy Grail. Robby had heard that there was a difference between looking and seeing. Everybody looks – for example at a blank canvas, or empty steppe desert – but few people see – like Picasso saw Guernica, or Genghis Khan saw Mongolia. Underlying any search lay the ability to see. It was all about awareness.

But was not seeing also a secondary act, witnessing what existed already? Prior to seeing must come creation. Was this notion contained in the S of see, a fluid symbol of being like the Taijitu –Yin-Yang – symbol. SSSsss… like a snake. The serpent that lay coiled at the base of your spine, awaiting stimulation. Ready to arise, energizing your chakras one by one – your base, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye, and crown. Like the serpent at the base of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, that tempted Eve to offer Adam the evil apple. A being of power but also of danger. The serpent lives in both worlds – both upon the earth in light, and beneath it in darkness. By coiling a snake around Mt. Meru and churning the milky ocean, gods and demons created the world.

The old man had said, “There is no search; there is only re-search.” Was this his ultimate meaning? The S curving like the shape of the lingam – egg shaped symbol of Siva, the world’s destroyer and regenerator, which curved like Einstein’s notion of space-time. A completed curve made a circle, a circus, a circuit, a cycle. A beginning and returning.

Robby sat beside the river and repeated the old man’s rituals as best he could there. He bathed in the River Lilly, chanted forgotten mantras, prayed to Mt. Negra, and made holy designs in sand with his fingers. He recalled his Vedic name, Karma, meaning action.

Then he thought to himself, what on earth am I doing sitting on my ass here in the forest – a grown man with no job, house, money, or purpose – when I have the whole world and my whole life before me. Robby’s ten years of re-search were complete. He arose, got dressed and walked down the road.

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Cash Centre

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on March 30, 2012 by javedbabar

Harry had worked nightshifts at the Cash Centre for five years. It was boring but steady work. Lord knows there are few good jobs in Lucerne. Most families sent their earners to Strattus, but here was a way for an unskilled man to support his family locally, for which Harry was grateful. He was not an ambitious man, and had a friendly yet somewhat oppressive relationship with his boss.

“Morning boss,” Harry said to Timothy.

“Morning slave,” he replied. “Did you sleep well today? Do your neighbours still think you’re a vampire? Do you still howl at the moon?”

“All of those things,” said Harry. “Now do you want me to stand around chatting, or do some work so you can get your bonus?” He switched on his Daylight, Ultraviolet, and Infrared lamps and sat down. He often thought how strange it was to work in a place like this – a high-tech workspace on the edge of the wilderness, toiling in artificial light through the darkness.

Harry worked in the Operations team counting cash. Trucks arrived throughout the night, bearing labelled and tagged canvas bags. Workers were allocated eight bags each, one per hour being the standard work rate. Harry emptied the bags into a raised metal bin and worked through the bundles conscientiously. Most were Clean #1, meaning that they contained what they said – a hundred twenties, a hundred fifties, or a hundred hundreds – but some held misallocated notes. There were fake notes and foreign notes; torn and worn ones too. Occasionally there was a cheque – how those got in he had no clue.

The process was simple. Stage One was sorting the notes through machines. They were macro- and micro-weighed, and graphically, structurally and chemically analyzed. Every note, and each batch, must be acceptable, or the bundle was rejected. Stage Two was manual checks. His hands had developed incredible sensitivity. His fingers were like radio antennae – picking up every bump, hollow, and ridge. Stage Three was alerting Timothy to irregularities. Stage Four was the CCTV monitoring everything, though this was out of his control.

“What are you doing?” Harry had warned a new colleague. “You’ll never get away with it.”

He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know what I’m talking about. You’ve been up to something all week. Why are you being so stupid? And coins! Why coins?”

“It’s a test to see if I can get them out. They won’t care about coins. It could be loose change in my pocket. How will they know?”

“Believe me, they’ll know,” said Harry. “They’ll know.” Harry never saw that worker again. Another man arrived at and left work in a taxi daily. It was only a $10 fare from the Village, but that was $100 a week, and $5,000 a year. He could never afford that on his lowly salary. There was a reason that Timothy called them slaves. After five years Harry was only making $25,000 annually. It was company policy to pay people badly, so they didn’t attract ambitious people – like the taxi guy. Eventually he was caught with notes rolled into his nostrils. That’s why they’d never found them in his ass. You’d think that three rear cavity searches would be warning enough. He was caught when he sneezed one day and Queen Elizabeth shot out. GB. Great Booger. HMS. Her Majesty’s Snot.

With hundreds of thousands of dollars passing through your hands daily, even millions some days, sure it was tempting to steal. But Harry was a practical man. He knew that he wouldn’t get away with it. He also liked to think that he was honest.

Staff were required to be discreet about their employment, and only to tell their immediate families. Wilderness, discretion, and nightshift – boy they expected a lot for their silver. But he knew others that couldn’t resist showing off. It was human nature. Some daytime workers had big houses and flash cars. They must be working in the other half of the operation – Analysis. But there seemed to be so many of them – what did they analyze? Everything was done already by the Operations team.

Timothy called Harry into his office for “a chat”. Harry sensed that it was more than that. He was asked if he was happy with his job. He said that he was, but could do with more money, for he had a family to feed. “Well how about triple your current salary?” Harry didn’t know what to say. Here was his boss offering him a cut in some high-level scam. If he refused then he’d be fired for sure. If he accepted then he’d be caught for sure. He was being set up here. What could he do?

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Timothy. “That I want you to commit a crime. But that’s the furthest thing from my mind. You’ve proved to be an honest and loyal worker. I’m offering you a promotion. You will leave Operations and join the Analysis team.”

“Doing what exactly?”

Timothy said, “Follow me.” and took him into the other half of the building. The labs where fingerprints and DNA from every note was collected, deconstructed, and integrated. Every user of that note was recorded. The Authority used the information from notes to value individuals – their worth to the province, how many services they were entitled to, and which opportunities they deserved. Ordinary people had forgotten that money itself has no value. It is merely a symbol of what can be done by people. They create its worth, and by that, mark their worth.

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Hope Springs

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , on March 29, 2012 by javedbabar

“That puff of cloud’s been hanging there for days,” said Rab. “Strange isn’t it?”

“I guess it’s a little strange,” said Sarah. “But there’s always mist in the Valley, like there’s a little factory somewhere in the forest producing it.” She watched the silvery cloud swirling, as if boiling inside a large invisible kettle.

“But it’s only there in the mornings, and clears by midday. The mist is never there all day for three days, love. Shall we go and take a look?”

Sarah wondered if he meant driving up the forestry road and looking down from the mountainside, or hiking into the bush. It was a gloomy day, and she didn’t fancy either. Her silence betrayed her. “You don’t have to come, love,” said Rab. “You can stay in the cabin. I’m just curious about this land we’ve bought. We’ve barely explored it. There could be anything hidden within these 72 acres.” They’d got a great deal and bought it immediately, despite silly stories told by local farmers of it being “bad land.”

“Ok if you keep the monsters away from me, I’ll come along.” Sarah put on her coat and boots. In truth she was as keen as Rab to explore the patch of wilderness they’d bought together, 30 km up the Lucerne Valley Road. It was mainly second growth forest but with scattered patches of first growth. “It’s near that big depression in the centre,” she said. “The one we tried to get to, where you sank to your knees. Feeling brave, Tiger?”

“Is it there?” said Rab. “Are you sure?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to have great spatial awareness,” she said. “This humble woman awaits your word.”

Rab said, “Watch it love. Not everyone who enters the woods returns.” He made a face like a serpent and hissed.

“Well are you coming then?” said Sarah grabbing a machete and heading out. Rab grabbed the other one and followed her. It wasn’t a tough trail to cut, and within an hour they were at the the rim of the depression. Within it was a large pool of water draining the surrounding area. Then they noticed something that they hadn’t before. The rim of the pool was higher than the surrounding land – so water wasn’t draining into it, it was emerging from it. Something else was also apparent. “Man, it’s hot!” said Rab. “Can you believe this water’s hot! That cloud is steam! Shall we?” Rab tore off his clothes and so did Sarah, and both jumped right in.

Sarah shouted, “We’ve got a forest spa! Yippee!” They spent the rest of the day, and many coming days and nights there.”

They told their friends and soon there were people in the spa daily. They had Roman, Venetian, Atlantis, Titanic, and Amazon-themed parties that went on for days. The pool was 12 feet at its deepest point so all kind of antics were possible, with no neighbours to disturb, and no internet or cell reception to distract them. It was a swirly steaming world as if back in the Chaos of Creation – or at least the chaos before social media updates. There was always nudity, and sometimes debauchery. Rab and Sarah’s spa acquired a reputation. They tried to control usage by putting up notices, but people felt entitled to use what was now thought of as a community amenity, and ignored them all. They also tried fencing it off. Completely pointless. Even the occasional spotting of unidentified creatures did not scare people away. It was assumed that the observers were stoned, which was generally true.

Rab’s friend Loki said that he’d like to live there, but because of the danger of wildlife eating his foodstuffs, or his person, he wanted to build a treehouse. Rab and Sarah agreed. At last, they thought, someone to keep order. He wedged a ten-foot square platform between two cedars, twenty feet off the ground, and built a network of suspended rope walkways around the pool.

One day he came to the cabin and asked Rab and Sarah to follow him to the Spa. He climbed up to his treehouse and along a rope walkway, and then said, “Watch this!” He jumped feet first into the bubbling pool and disappeared. After 30 seconds Sarah was worried. After a minute Rab said, “Oh my God! Where is he?” He stripped and ran into the pool, but couldn’t find Loki. He shouted out to Sarah again and again, “Oh my God! Where is he?” After five minutes of panic, they heard raucous laughter. A soaking wet Loki tramped out of the bush. “Where the hell did you go?” said Rab. “You idiot! We were terrified! What happened?”

Loki said, “Clear away some rocks and there are caves down there, my friend. A huge network running along the Valley. The ones near the river are flooded of course, but the ones near the mountain are clear. There’s endless caverns filled with crystals. You wouldn’t believe it. Come and see!”

Loki took them down into the caves, saying it was a “third world” for them to know. They had enjoyed the Air, walking along the walkways. They had swum in the Waters. Now they toured the Underworld. It was just like Loki said – caverns of crystals, filled with strange light, reflecting itself endlessly. What he hadn’t told them was what these three worlds together represented.

The Upper World, the Middle World, and the Lower World were separated only temporarily. The Cruel Monsters of Hell were just resting a while. Now that the passage between worlds had reopened – as it had when Mt. Negra first exploded two million years ago – they were in the mood for another outing.

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Asteroid

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 28, 2012 by javedbabar

“Ok! Back up! Back up! More! More! More!” Lugus called out. “Ok! That’s it!”

The truck stopped and hissed, dropping an inch. Its cab door opened but no person emerged. There was a faint noise like someone talking, but someone far away. Was it the radio? Eventually a hand appeared, drawing his attention, beckoning him. Lugus walked to the cab and peered upward. The driver’s ear was glued to his phone, with a hellish woman’s voice pouring out, sounding like pork skin crackling and spitting. The driver listened intensely but also tried to break away. Clients these days were really rude, and changed their minds like the weather. The poor trucker was not to blame.

Lugus waved his left arm about and mouthed to him, “What do you need?”

The driver covered his phone’s speaker and said gruffly, “Road job – Footballs – fill her up.”

Lugus wandered to the loader. Rocky’s was Lucerne’s premier, and only, sand and gravel merchants. The gardening centre and hardware store sold some material too but you couldn’t take them seriously. Any serious project – a road, driveway, or private beach – required a visit to Rocky’s.

Lugus bore responsibility for maintenance of the fourteen bays. It was his idea to give the different aggregate sizes memorable names. The smallest size of sand was called Pollen, the next up was Smack – a British term for heroin, then Coke, Salt, Peppercorn, Coffee, and Granola. The Gravel range began with Pea, followed by Bean, Eyeball, Football, Basketball, Swissball, and ultimately, Asteroid. The latter was anything over a metre wide. The colours of the sands and gravels varied dramatically, but Rocky’s dealt in size rather than colour. The colour was just whatever it was.

The driver’s arm appeared again, wanting attention. The pork skin crackling continued on his phone. Lugus had started up the loader, preparing to fill up with Footballs. He left it running and hopped out. The driver covered his phone and said, “Sorry pal, change of plan – beach job – Salt – fill her up.”

Lugus wasn’t annoyed. His job was to serve. So he nodded and headed back to the loader. His boss had told him about the Wentworth Scale for particle sizes, ranging through Clay, Silt, Sand, Pebbles, Cobbles, and Boulders. It was a comprehensive spectrum but lacked a sense of humour. His Pollen to Asteroid system was way more memorable, and made work fun. That’s why truckers drove to Lucerne rather than Strattus. It gave them a word to reflect upon – for example “Eyeball”– rather than a dull descriptor like “One-inch-minus crush.”

The drivers liked coming here but their bosses tried to dissuade them, saying that Lugus’ system was flaky. What did they know? Had they ever even held a rock? He looked into a more descriptive system covering composition, texture, and genesis – including weathering, explosion, earth movements, and meteoric – but then thought, “Screw them!”

He was about to fill up the truck with Salt. The arm appeared again waving frantically. “So sorry – Dike job – Swissballs.” Lugus closed his eyes and nodded. He pointed the loader towards the Swissballs.

Two years back he’d spent a summer working an excavator. It was really hard initially – with many controls and twelve motions to master – but after some days he’d became proficient. It was a huge infrastructure job on a Valley farm, but seeming more an excavation of an ancient culture. He’d imagined being in Greece, Egypt, India or China, digging out a temple. Maybe it would be fun to work with archaeological teams, finding tombs, treasures, and mummies. Working with a mix of delicacy and brute force. The Mughal culture of India, he’d heard, “built with the might of Titans and the skill of jewellers.” Uncovering wonders also required this approach.

The arm appeared again, and Lugus raised his eyebrows. The trucker was deeply embarrassed saying, “Driveway – Peas”. Lugus nodded and began immediately – to help the trucker as much as himself. Once the load was in, ownership transferred. He filled the truck with four scoops of Peas. That’s it. A dust cloud arose and drifted across the yard. All was lost for a moment. He could be anywhere; any place and time. The trucker waved his arm in panic, then both arms. He jumped out of the cab and spoke into the phone urgently. He called out to Lugus, “Why did you fill it so quickly? There’s been a change of plan!”

“I’m sorry pal. I was just following your orders. I can take it out if you want, but there will be a 25% charge.” The trucker relayed this to the client, and then said, “She says we’ll take it.” He whispered to Lugus, “Thanks pal.”

Lugus knew that there wouldn’t be any problems. The client would be happy with whatever he sent, and would use it for something. All rocks were the same essentially. During his summer excavating at the farm he’d made an important discovery. He had uncovered an asteroid deep in the earth, a smooth black block 2 metres wide, with glassy sides. Set within it were fossilized pollens. That’s what had inspired his aggregate naming system – running from Pollen to Asteroid. He knew that their source was the same.

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Is There Space?

Posted in Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , , , on March 27, 2012 by javedbabar

“There’s fifty passenger seats on the bus,” said Norm. “So the first fifty of you will make it to the City today. The rest of you will have to wait. The next bus leaves in four hours.” There were grumblings along the line winding through the morning mist. Norm wondered why there were so many people today. Where were they going? What for? He counted off the first fifty people and separated them from the rest. “Ok I’ll load up your luggage and then let you onto the bus. This is an express City service, with no stops en-route.”

Some people said, “What?” and “Huh?”

“So any of you going to Strattus or Squashy should not take this service. Take the local bus to Strattus, and an express service from there.” Six people left the queue. “Ok, we’ve got room for six more.” Six more people stepped up from the grumbling mass, grinning now. Another couple also came forward but he ordered them back. Norm’s military service stood him in good stead. He was used to commanding people.

He loaded up everyone’s luggage and then opened the door. He checked tickets carefully and counted fifty people on. The last passenger – an East Indian guy – was sweating and seemed slightly nervous.

The waiting crowd was still hoping that seats would appear magically. He said, “I’m sorry, folks, but the bus is full. As I said, the next service is in four hours. If you don’t want to wait that long, you can try your luck at hitching. Either way, I wish you a good journey. Maybe see you on the other side.”

He boarded the bus himself and started the engine. It would take five minutes to warm up – the lights and air conditioning in the cabin, and fluids and motor beneath the hood. There was a tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” said the East Indian guy. “I do not have a seat.”

“Have you looked carefully?” said Norm. “Have you walked right along the bus?”

“I have looked carefully,” he said. “Yes, I have walked right along the bus.”

“Wait a minute,” said Norm. He liked having people around him, if not his buddies then at least these passengers, that’s why he liked working on the bus. He pushed the tannoy button. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems that one of our passengers can’t find a seat. This service is full, and we need every seat. So anyone taking more than one seat please remove your personal belongings from the extra seat.” There was a slight commotion which Norm assumed was somebody shifting their bag, or their dumb ass, from the seat next to them. “Thank you for your co-operation.” He said to the East Indian guy, “Ok Sir, there should be a seat for you now. Enjoy your journey.”

If he was still in the army, he would have done things differently. The fool taking two seats would have been made to do fifty push-ups, load and unload everyone’s bags, and maybe enjoy the journey from the comfort of the hold. But he was a civilian now and couldn’t boss people around. He had to be nice to them.

This was ok most days, but some days – just some days – when he’d drunk too much the night before, or when he was feeling lonely, or when some young punk gave him lip, or tourists complained about lateness, he felt like announcing to the bus, “Do you know what I have done for you, and where I where been? Can you imagine the things I have witnessed that I can ever forget? Do you know the nightmares I endure most nights, and how scared I still am of loud noises? How I play classical music on headphones and stay indoors every Halloween? Did you know that my marriage disintegrated? She said that she didn’t know me anymore. Did you know that my buddy Tom was blown up trying to save me? He looked like a pile of butcher’s offcuts. Do you know about my sessions with the psychiatrist, and how hard it is to reintegrate into society after killing other men?” But he never said any of these things. He would lose his job. God knows it had been hard enough to come by. He just wished his passengers bon voyage.

There was a tap on his shoulder. The East Indian guy was back. “I am sorry, I have still not found a seat.”

“Ladies and gentlemen. You are making me unhappy. Despite my request, somebody is still taking up two seats. I’m going to walk down the aisle and see who it is. God help them.”

Norm walked down the bus, once more a sergeant-major, inspecting turn out. He checked people’s clothes and shoes; their faces and haircuts. He was back in Afghanistan… No he wasn’t! He snapped out of it. He was a normal guy driving a bus. Every seat was full. He didn’t get it. He had counted fifty people on. There were fifty seats. Why was there no seat available? “Ladies and gentlemen. We have a logistical problem. I’m going to ask you all to leave the bus, and count you on again. Just to ensure all is in order.”

The passengers grumbled and disembarked. The queue of hopefuls cheered, thinking that seats may yet appear. The passengers lined up again. Norm checked their tickets and counted them onto the bus. “One, two, three… forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.” The East Indian guy again found no seat. “Please Sir, my mother is very sick and I must get to the City immediately. My flight home is at 2pm.”

Norm was about to lose his temper. Bloody idiots wasting his time. Fooling around like this got people killed. He ordered all passengers off the bus again. Then through the mist he saw one extra person exit the bus. He was uniformed, familiar. It was his buddy Tom, barely defined. So Faint. His ghost often yearned for company, and came along for the ride. But this bus was full, and a passenger was distressed. Tom gave up his seat, like he had his life, for another. He saluted Norm and stood to attention, awaiting the next bus.

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