Leaving Party

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , on February 25, 2012 by javedbabar

“Hey, I’m glad you could make it!” said Anna. “You’re just in time!”

“It was nice to be invited,” said Max, stepping into the third-floor apartment. “I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving. We’ve only just met really.”

“Never mind, I’m sure there will be other occasions. Just come in and make yourself at home. What can I get you?” Max saw a well-stocked bar behind her – there was beer and wine; whisky, vodka, rum, and gin; ports and sherries; some mysterious bright bottles of Mexican liquor. He also noticed many different smiling photos, likely friends.

“Just a beer to warm up, thank you,” he said. “I’ll pace myself.”

“Hey man, don’t be shy. Me casa es su casa! Here’s a cinnamon whisky – cheers!”

Max became conscious that he was the only guest present. “Am I too early?” he said. “You did say around nine didn’t you?”

“No, you’re right on time,” said Anna. “I’m not sure who else is coming tonight. I have a leaving party every week, so people don’t come every time.”

“You have a leaving party every week?” said Max. “Where do you go?”

“Well I don’t go anywhere really. But I could go. That’s the point.”

“Huh?” said Max. He wondered now if coming here was such a good idea.

Anna looked at him closely and said, “I have a medical condition. My kidney – I only have one – has reverse functionality. Instead of cleaning my body, it makes toxins which seep into all of my organs. So every week I am full of poison, and on Mondays I go to the health centre; they hook me up to their computers for checks.”

“Whoa, babe!” said Max. “That’s pretty heavy stuff.” She smiled at him broadly. “Well, I guess you’re right to celebrate… I think.” He scanned the bar again. “But what’s with all the booze? Wouldn’t it be better to cut back on that a bit?”

“I’m just like most people,” said Anna. “I do my drinking at weekends. But the difference is that I have a check up every Monday morning. Pretty responsible of me really, wouldn’t you say?” Max could only nod. “Hey, wanna help me with a jigsaw? I need to get it done by tomorrow.” He nodded again, and thought, what a strange girl I’ve met. She seemed so normal when we chatted in the library, and now its reverse-kidneys, full-bars, and urgent jigsaws.

Anna handed him a banana-rum, and led him to the dining table. Upon it was a giant goddess jigsaw, mainly completed, whose capacity was difficult to gauge. The image was of a starry woman floating in the heavens; so it had cosmic scale. However its physical size was the same as the dining table – so about human-size. The starry borders had been completed first, and pieces worked inwards from there. The outline of the goddess was finished, as were her limbs. The space within her however required completion.

“So what do you think?” said Anna. “Pretty neat puzzle, huh?” Max raised his eyebrows. “Well, shall we start?”

“Looks like you’ve done most of the hard work already,” he said. She looked at him strangely – nervously, he felt – and handed him pieces from the remaining pile. He spread them out; they all seemed approximately the same shape, and somewhat pinky-blue. Was there any real difference between them, he wondered? Were they interchangeable? He noticed the pieces’ strange texture – they were slippery to the touch, maybe waxed.

He hadn’t completed a jigsaw in years. It was a good test of patience, and exercised your peripheral vision, he knew. But it seemed pretty pointless. Instead of re-making something that existed already, why not make something new and better?

Max knew that the shapes were formed of rigid cardboard, but they also seemed malleable. He squashed them between his fingers. Anna was perspiring and looking dazed. “Are you ok?” he said.

“Actually, I’m feeling a little dizzy,” she said, “and a little silly. Maybe you were right about the booze. Do you mind if I go and lie down for a while?”

“Er, sure. Do you want me to go home?”

“No, please don’t,” she said. “Can you help me to finish the jigsaw?”

“I think I’m getting a feel for it now. I’ll do my best.”

Anna poured him a cherry gin, then went into her bedroom and closed the door. Max continued toying with the waxy, squashy pieces. There seemed to be too many to fit into the space remaining, and their shapes were strangely ill-defined. They sort of fitted together, but they also didn’t. The more he tried to squeeze them together, the more rebellious they became. Some popped out again after he’d fitted them; some slid into new arrangements; some were just plain impossible to fit. After an hour – maybe – he’d managed – amazingly – to squeeze them all in, though he was not sure how. Well he’d done as requested, and had better go home. He finished the lemon-flavoured firewater he’d poured himself, and put on his coat and shoes.

As he was about to go, the bedroom door opened, and out came beaming Anna. “Boy, I feel good again!” she said. “Thank you!”

“Me?” said Max. “What did I do?”

She said, “Please don’t be scared; it’s called sympathetic magic, used for thousands of years. What you did to the goddess, she did to me. You helped me to rebuild myself, piece by piece. Those clinic people can never believe that I’m still alive. I have my friends to thank for that. For me every leaving party is a living party; the day that no-one comes to my party is the day that I die.”

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100%

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry with tags , , , , on February 24, 2012 by javedbabar

BBC is a global brand, thought Ram, so this BBC10X must be a good product. His friend Amir always gave him good stuff. But printing was misaligned on one side of the box, which was itself a poor fit for the contents. He’d heard that private corporations were putting heavy pressure on BBC funding. They said that state-funded broadcasters had an unfair advantage and stifled healthy competition. Was cheaper packaging the BBC’s way of saving money?

Installation was straightforward – you just plugged it into your computer. The instructions recommended using your laptop rather than your smartphone, whose screen was too small. If you used the latter then expect reduced results. For a big brain you needed a big screen. A plasma TV or screen projector was even better.

The software self-loaded and started immediately. A dark graphic of a human brain began sparking red in various locations. These red sections lifted up and were brought together at the front of the brain. Their combined total area was much smaller than expected. A graphic appeared saying “1%”, and then, “Only 1% of your brain is used at any moment!”

Is that all, thought Ram?

The sparking expanded and came together again; its combined area once more smaller than expected. A graphic said, “10%”, and then, “Only 10% of your brain is ever used!”

That’s it, thought Ram?

Then the whole brain sparked like a coal that had become a firework. A graphic appeared saying, “100%”, and then, “With BBC10X you can access 100% of your brainpower!” There was a disclaimer saying, “BBC10X can only multiply your brainpower 10X. 100% target is conditional on user having 10% current usage. For 5% usage, maximum brainpower will be 50%.”

A gallery of “Successful Users,” showed portraits of Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Sir Isaac Newton, Buddha, Jesus Christ, and Lao Tzu. Then another disclaimer saying, “These geniuses all used advanced brain training methods of their time. BBC10X is the modern equivalent, but has only been available since 2010.”

Ram noticed that the “Successful Users” were scientific or spiritual geniuses; people whose notions had changed the world. Is that how they did it – by using 100% of their brainpower?

Three selection screens required completion. The first was a choice between “Religion” and “Science”. Ram thought about this for a while. Both were paths to knowledge of a sort – science to testable, provable knowledge, and religion to knowledge inherent in faith. Both sources were trustworthy if you believed what they had to offer was worthwhile. Ram was drawn towards mystical experience over rational experimentation. He chose “Religion”.

A quote appeared saying, “Credo ut Intelligam: I believe in order to understand.”

The second screen was a choice between “Introvert” and “Extravert”. This was a tough one, for Ram liked to spend much time alone, but also enjoyed laughing and joking at social gatherings. He was by nature a friendly fellow, but if he didn’t have quiet time alone, he felt his life was one of pointless activity, never alone with deep thoughts. He liked being both but had to choose, so clicked “Introvert”.

A quote appeared saying, “Solitude is essential to man.”

The third screen was a choice between “Reason” and “Passion”. This was probably about being a philosopher versus a poet. He’d never liked philosophy – endless navel-gazing – so he chose “Passion”.

A quote appeared saying “Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion.”

It was time to begin the process. The exercises were simple initially – just matching words and numbers. They got faster and harder, and moved onto colours, shapes, and sounds, which became faster and harder, and began to include smells and tastes. Ram was immersed fully in the process. He didn’t stop to think how he was performing smell and taste tasks through the keyboard with his fingers. There followed purely mental tasks. Objects appeared and disappeared on screen; he was somehow receiving and sending thoughts. All of his senses were united. He was aware of a medical condition called Synaesthesia, where people “smelt” sounds, and “tasted” colours – but that was mixing pairs of senses, not all of them combined. Ram felt that he knew everything, all at once, without need to either ask or wonder. His brain had expanded to its full human potential – which included the instincts of many lower animals: our ancestors; and the intuition of higher beings: our descendents. Once you had reached this plane there was no returning to the realm of ordinary mortals.

However there was one final choice for him to make within his soul, now with full awareness. Having witnessed the unlimited possibility of the universe, did he wish to become its Supreme Enjoyer; an eternal hedonist in a world of light? Or having also acknowledged the ultimate pointlessness of existence, did he wish to declare himself a nihilist in a world of darkness, and become an Extinguished Soul?

There was really no rush though. He had eternity to choose.

Brain Box China, makers of BBC10X, were unhappy with their new product launch. It was their highest performance gadget ever, and they thought that it would sell really well. But not one customer had recommended it to their friends, or become a repeat buyer. Trying to pass themselves off as the real BBC clearly hadn’t worked. They’d better sell off their remaining units and develop something else.

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Free Living

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on February 23, 2012 by javedbabar

Sandy didn’t think of himself as homeless; he thought of himself as nomadic. Like great peoples of the ancient world – Mongols, Tibetans, Bedouin, and Hebrews – he moved around. He accepted that his “people” numbered only one person, but every people has to start somewhere. The great peoples were herders, and moved with their beasts. Sandy did too till his dog ran away. Now he was both herder and beast.

He spent much of his time in the forest. He’d found a good spot a little ways uphill, just out of town, to place his sleeping bag nightly. There was a deep rock ledge there, almost a cave. He was comfortable enough from spring to fall, but wintered elsewhere – usually the City – where they had better facilities and wealthier people – not that he ever begged. But if people wanted to give him five bucks to make themselves feel better, that was their business.

His rock ledge in Lucerne was near the park. Friendly runners passed close by and often said, “Good morning,” though an increasing number were now saying, “Gooday”. That was another tribe of nomads – Australians. A tall Aussie girl – she must be a six-footer – ran by daily. Today, as always, she beamed a huge smile and stopped to chat. “Gooday,” she said. “Did you sleep well last night, Forest Saint? Any great dreams?”

“Well actually I did,” said Sandy. “I dreamt that I was a very lucky man living freely in the forest, chatting to pretty girls.”

“Well it looks like your dreams have come true then!” she said, and bounded off like a doe.

He chatted to East Indians. The best thing about them was their food; and of course the fact that they offered it freely at their gleaming temple, which used to be a church with a holy congregation of seven, but now held fifty turbaned warriors. They called him Sandy Sahib – which means Sir Sandy. He loved their steel platters filled with steaming food, followed by sticky cubes of dessert, and hot sweet tea. The elders told him about their journeys to get here from rural Punjab, but they were immigrants rather than nomads. Their holy book was installed in the temple, and they were staying put in Lucerne.

Sandy had no travel costs; he hitchhiked everywhere. Today he fancied heading up the Valley, and was picked up by a South African guy in a blue Tacoma. “Howzit?” he said.

Sandy had accepted rides from South Africans before, and knew that the answer to this greeting was not, “It is truly fine Sir, and what about yours?” The appropriate response to “Howzit?” was “Howzit?” right back; like he’d been taught by kids in the park that the answer to “Wassup?” was always, “Wassup?” as the answer to “Wag1?” (What’s going on?) was “Wag1?” There were only ever questions with some people. Everything was left open.

Sandy bathed daily in the spring – but of course downstream from where people filled their 18.9L gas station water bottles. Refill them once and you’ve repaid your deposit, and after that, its water free forever. Isn’t that how life should be always – free?

Sandy’s life previously had not been free. It had at times felt like a cauldron burning dry, and at other times, a roof leaking in many places; and now and then, somewhere in the middle; and too often, both at once. It was exciting to live in the City for sure; a world of commerce, industry, and architecture; untold opportunities; power lunches and grand dinners; urban music festivals; blockbuster action movies; dramas, operas, ballet, and modern dance. But there were also millions of other people chasing those very same things, leading to endless noise, overcrowding, pollution, traffic jams, bad tempers, no time to smile or talk to strangers, pushing and shoving, clock-watching, trying to succeed at your job and keep your head above water. The City was stressful. Those people weren’t free at all.

One day he’d said to his boss, “I can’t do this anymore.”

His boss had looked at him oddly and said, “You never could.”

“What do you mean?” said Sandy. “I always did well here. I hit my targets and achieved my goals.”

“You know what I mean,” said his manager. “This was never the right place for you. You should have married into a gypsy clan, or worked for the circus, and spent your life on the road.” He’d shaken his head and said, “I like you, Sandy, but you will never be a respectable member of society. You don’t believe in any kind of structure or fair exchange.”

Leaving full-time work meant that he could no longer pay his mortgage, and his house was repossessed. His wife was not impressed by this turn of events and left him soon after, moving far away so he couldn’t see the kids. He began to wonder whether families provided synergy – making everything better for each other – or were merely parasites – sucking each other’s life blood. Anyway, he was free of them; so that was that.

Sandy’s goal was to live in the now. Not in the past or the future, but only in the present moment which truly exists. And who existed really? In truth his consciousness extended only to himself. So maybe only he existed.

He began talking to himself more: the only True Being. He said, “I am living freely, without baggage, with neither obstructions nor obligations; I have no money and need no money; this world is generous, bountiful, and abundant. This moment is perfect, and I am free.” But in a secret place, a little voice said “Am I a star, alone in outer space? A ship cast adrift on the ocean? A forsaken lizard creeping through wasteland? The last snowflake on a sunny day? Am I no longer a herder but a beast?”

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Fresh Foods

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Organic Farming with tags , , , , on February 22, 2012 by javedbabar

“Darling will you get me some mint?” said Claire.

“Sure, how much do you want?” said Daved to his wife, cheerful despite nursing a hangover. “Just a handful?”

“One of my handfuls, honey – not one of yours.” Daved clipped young stalks from the container using chained-up-scissors. The rush of freshness cleared his head, but the dullness returned. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you get some cilantro?”

“Sure honey,” he said, and moved to other containers.

“Is my hunky husband in the mood for some heavy digging” said Claire, her trailing arm circling his waist. “Some spuds and carrots please. Not too many. Just what we need for the weekend.” Daved pushed his hands into the soil and rooted around. He yanked up ten medium-sized russets, and a dozen purple carrots. The freshness of food these days was astonishing. Since the implementation of Local Food Laws, supermarkets grew produce right on their shelves. It was all fresh, local, healthy food. What could be better for you?

“Perfect,” she said. “Let’s get some tomatoes. Where’s the hothouse section? Why do they keep moving it around? Oh, there it is, I think. Or is that exotics?” She ambled over and pulled open a flap. “No, it’s tomatoes.” Claire snipped off a pound each of Black Princes and Green Zebras. The peppers looked good, and she decided to get some of those, selecting ripe Hungarian Wax, Jalapeno, Cayenne, and – what the hell! – Habanero peppers; all conveniently growing on the same bush.

“What else do we need, love?” she called out of the hothouse.

“I fancy fish today,” said Daved. “What about you?”

“Ok, go catch something Ahab. I’ll be in the dairy.” Claire was still pulling the Gau MataTM  udders – invented by the great Indian scientist Dr. A.W. Cooraswamy-Muchilinda-Moghlai – when Daved appeared with his catch.

“He had some spirit, this one,” he said. “Zipping around the tank like crazy. I couldn’t get him with the line so zapped him. Anyway, we have grilled wild salmon with coriander potatoes and minted carrots on the menu for tonight.”

Claire finished her milking. She loved the feeling of pulling these udders, it was so authentic; just like the rosy-cheeked farm girl in the ads. She wiped her hands and said, “Ok, just some beef now. I think we’ve got everything else.”

The meat section was always quieter in the afternoons. People liked “fresh” beef grown overnight – they said it was more tender – but Claire had never noticed the difference. She felt that they were kidding themselves; they just didn’t want to pay the extra for Veal. Daved carved thick strips of soft red flesh from the block, each piece well textured. That Indian Doctor was a genius, he thought– it’s a shame he was assassinated; think what else he could have invented. The meat block shook and made a squealing sound. The Butcher rushed over and said, “I’m so sorry Sir. Some of these meats are restless this morning. I’m not sure why.”

“The fish are pretty spirited too,” said Daved. “I felt like I was chasing Moby Dick.”

The Butcher smiled and said, “Well Buster here’s not going anywhere. Would you like me to finish carving? How much do you need?” He wrapped up their bloody meat and said, “Enjoy your meal. By the way, have you visited our new Fair Trade Department? It’s across the other side of the store.”

“No, we haven’t heard about it,” said Claire.

“We’ve kept it quiet deliberately; we don’t want any trouble. Look what happened to Dr. Cooraswamy-Muchilinda-Moghlai. That SFPF is dangerous; they say that they don’t condone violence but every terrorist incident seems to involve one of their members. Anyway, good folk like you won’t cause any trouble, I’m sure. Why don’t you take a look?”

A uniformed security guard allowed them entry to what must have been a previously unused warehouse at the back of the store. Daved and Claire gasped in amazement. It was ten degrees hotter than outside, and pretty humid; the lush green area was divided into continents. In “South America” they saw tattooed Amazon tribesmen picking Brazil Nuts. In “Africa”, red-blanketed Maasai warriors tended coffee bushes. In “Asia” Saffron-robed Sadhus picked orange pekoe tea. “Australia” had ochre-smeared Aborigines tending mangoes. “North America” featured Navajo squaws growing corn, beans, and squash. “Europe” had men in black berets and women in bright dresses treading barrels of grapes.

“What do you think?” said the Manager, catching up with them. “We need to fine-tune the costumes, I know, but not bad, eh? Sorry I didn’t welcome you earlier, but I was keeping my eye on the protest outside. It’s those Slow Food People’s Front extremists. Some people just don’t see progress when it slaps them in the face. Whatever we do is never enough for them. I mean, ten years ago who would have thought that our entire food chain would be fresh, local, and organic?”

He chatted with Claire and Daved for a while, and then asked if he could show them something special. “We always like to run things by our customers first.” He showed them a device that the grocery store was testing, called MORE (Modern Organism Replicator Engine). “Wait till we get this going next month. You’ve never tasted food so fresh!”

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Cross-Ditch

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Conceptual Art, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 21, 2012 by javedbabar

It’s great that they’re fixing up the road, thought Stewart. It’s been getting worse since they stopped logging across the western face of Mt. Alba, and over the other side. It’s funny how forty-ton logging trucks don’t cause much damage to forestry roads, but a few rain drops running down them together make them to fall apart. It’s right when people say that water is the strongest force in the world; nothing can resist it. I hope the dark clouds up there won’t cause too much bother; they will add drama to my photos.

That’s a hefty cross-ditch, Stewart thought; a foot deep, and four feet wide – there’s no danger of any cross-flow getting out of that. It’s more that you need at the bottom of the road, but someone’s done a good job. He wondered when they made the cross-ditch, and whose excavator they used.

A hundred metres along, he came to another cross-ditch, also freshly dug, almost two feet deep. Better not to stress the front suspension – cause the truck’s nose to hit the ground – so he crossed it at an angle.

A hundred metres further there was another cross-ditch, which he also crossed sideways. He remembered when he’d first driven up the Syon River Forestry Road in his new Nissan truck, excited about off-roading – except no-one had told him about cross-ditches. He lost traction at the bottom of the first ditch, spinning foolishly, and then remembered that there was a reason why this was called a four-wheel drive truck. Because it had four-wheel drive. It was much easier going after that, till he hit the Mother of All Moats. He misjudged the bottom of the rocky river running through. He’d bashed both his front and rear ends, and damaged the cat-con. It had cost him $2,000 to fix.

There was a set of three cross-ditches all close together. Was there really that much water flowing across this road? It seemed pretty level here and sloping away on both sides. Someone had gotten really carried away. Maybe they were doing piece-work, being paid by the ditch. Was that a worker ahead wearing a purple safety vest? It was an unusual colour for a road worker. He had his thumb out like a hitchhiker. The next set of cross-ditches – deeper than the others – began here, and Stewart didn’t have another two grand to spare, so this was a stroke of luck. “Good job you’re here, buddy!” he called out. “I could do with a second pair of eyes.”

“Second pair of eyes?” said the man, looking confused. He had a strange accent. Stewart had heard the Dalai Lama speak at UBC in a halting, cheerful manner, which sounded pretty close. Could he be Tibetan?

“Yes, can you please help me get through the cross-ditches?”

The man grasped the idea, and guided Stewart mainly from the side, with occasional forays to the front and back. When they’d made it through, Stewart said, “Thanks buddy. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

The man looked confused again, and said, “Yes, up.”

“Ok then, jump in pal.” The man indicated for Stewart to wait, ran into the bush, and returned tapping a long white stick, and grasping a roll of black cable. He threw these items into the truck bed, and jumped into the cab. “Are you surveying the road?” asked Stewart. “It’s nice to see people using old school tools. I thought that everyone used GPS these days, rather than a rod and chain.”

“Rod and chain?” said the man.

“Yes – what you’ve got in the back there. You know, the long pole and cable – yes?” The man didn’t understand. They continued driving to the next set of cross-ditches, where the man indicated to stop. He said an approximation of thank you, took his rod and chain, and disappeared into the bush. That’s helpful, thought Stewart – just when I needed him. Hiring foreign workers was ridiculous; they didn’t have a clue. They must do a good job though; otherwise no one would hire them.

Another worker appeared ahead with his thumb up. “Second pair of eyes!” he called out, and guided Stewart through the cross-ditches. Then he went into the bush, and returned tapping a white stick and carrying a roll of cable. He threw them into the back and said, “Rod and chain.”

This pattern continued right up the road. There were dozens of new cross-ditches –

singles and sets of three or five – each with a Tibetan man standing nearby wanting a ride, who produced a white stick and roll of cable, then disappeared at the next set. Stewart considered abandoning his photography. But that meant not fulfilling his contract with the Village for a monthly photo from the top; and he was almost there anyway.

The sets of ditches got closer together, and eventually were only a few metres apart. What on earth were they doing up here? Were they digging out the road bed to reinforce it somehow? Stewart reached the meadow at the top of the mountain. It looked really different. The grass was all gone and replaced by a pattern of ditches. He stopped his truck and got out to see. He was right in the middle of a labyrinth.

A beam of light and a rush of energy lifted him somewhere. The next thing he knew he was among shifting clouds, bursting with energy. They seemed to be alive, engaging him, and he understood their language. There was a rich, dark cloud, surrounded by smaller white ones. The dark cloud was crackling; sparks flying about it. The white clouds were shrinking. “You fools!” the black cloud crackled. “Incompetents! You had all the research provided to you – Braille, tallies, signage, maps, survey marks, ley lines, and Morse code. But what did you do? You mixed it all up! Your road markings were incomprehensible to the being; your agents mixed up visual impairment aids and land measuring tools; they jumbled their roles too – workmen and hitchhikers are not the same. Now we have him here, totally confused. What do you suggest we do? I don’t want another one of those ‘kidnapped by aliens’ stories getting out.”

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Dicewoman

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 20, 2012 by javedbabar

“May I ask you a silly question?” said Martha to the shop assistant.

“Of course, Madam. I am at your service.”

Martha relaxed. “Ok then. Why do some people call a dice a die?”

“Die is singular, Madam, and dice is plural.”

“Ah!” she said involuntarily. “That solves the mystery. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He waited for a further question; when there wasn’t one, he busied himself with arranging figures in a minutely-detailed miniature castle.

Martha realized she had another question. “Excuse me.” The assistant half-turned and looked up. “Is the word for this….er, gambling device,” she flashed a smile, “related to the word for a…. metal mould?” She looked unsure of herself. “The one you use to make models; you know, when they say something is die-cast.”

“I’m sure that it is, Madam. Do you have an interest in models?”

“Not really,” said Martha. “But my brothers used to play fantasy games. I remember their ugly little monsters; they used to scare me.”

“There’s no need to be scared, Madam.” The assistant smiled kindly. “It’s only a game, after all.”

She also wanted to ask if die and dice were related to the word for the end of life, but felt embarrassed. All she wanted was an ordinary die to replace her lost one, so she could play Snakes and Ladders with her husband. Their bedroom routine had been disrupted. Most nights they played quick games of Snakes and Ladders, Chess, Ludo, and Strip-Poker; took all of their clothes off and then put on their pyjamas. On Saturday nights they kept their clothes off. She hadn’t got pregnant in eight years yet. Her husband had given up, but she felt that there was no harm in still trying.

Martha looked at the display case and said, “Could you please tell me about the different dice?”

“Certainly Madam.” The assistant opened the case. “These ones are common Western dice. See how their spots are widely spaced out? These Asian dice are smaller and rounder; their spots are closer together; notice how the ‘one’ and ‘four’ are coloured red for good luck. These clear ones are casino dice. Their markings are drilled, rather than moulded, then filled with similar density paint – so differing number of spots will not affect their performance – then polished and given serial numbers.” He threw the casino dice and scored double-six.

He pointed to some others. “Now these ones you may know already,” Martha nodded. “Role Playing Game dice with ten, twenty, and one hundred sides.” She hadn’t seen the latter before; the assistant passed it to her and said, “It is called a Zocchihedron.”

He indicated what appeared to be mathematical and biological models. “These Platonic dice are collectors’ items; each has a different number of sides. These talus bones from Sudan are the original form of dice used in ancient societies. This set of three, twelve-sided dice – used for astrology – are printed with planets, lunar nodes, and astrological houses. And this single-sided die is a joke die; nothing but a sphere with the number one.”

Martha had never seen so many; she was dazzled by the dice. Knowing their purposes enhanced her fascination, but something was bugging her. This huge variety of dice had one thing in common: their outcome was random. If that was the case then what was the point? She said “Is there any kind of die which is not random?”

The assistant gave her a severe look and said, “There are many kinds of loaded dice – mercury tappers, those with melting resins, and electromagnetic kits – but this is a reputable establishment, Madam. We do not carry any of those.”

“Oh,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to break the bank of Monte Carlo. I was just curious.” She looked around the store and eventually returned to the dice counter. “Ok, I’d better get what I came in for. Just an ordinary dice please, for Snakes and Ladders.”

“An ordinary die?” He reminded her of her grammatical error. “I’m afraid there is no such thing Madam.”

“I mean that one there with six sides, and one to six spots.”

“That is a die, indeed,” he said. “But it is not an ordinary one.”

“What do you mean?” said Martha.

“Madam, every style of die has its own magic. I wasn’t entirely honest with you earlier when you asked about non-random dice. Just take a look at this Western die. See how the spots are arranged? That’s right, numbers on opposite sides always add to seven. That’s because of its internal vertex, where all possible outcomes merge, and are then manifested according to the moment’s needs. There is in truth no randomness in dice.” He stared at her intensely. “Don’t you imagine that Indian and Greek gods, Biblical prophets, and medieval knights used them for a reason? Your Snakes and Ladders, by way of example, is an ancient game revealing the journey of life; each ladder is a virtue and each snake is a vice; which your soul must experience, and learn from, on its royal road to perfection. The outcome of every game is known. The die merely starts the action.”

Martha fingered the dice nervously. He continued, “Take this die as a gift from us, Madam. Use it to play Snakes and Ladders tonight. You may be surprised at the outcome. I think you know already. We look forward to you returning soon to purchase some children’s games.”

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Blue Man

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 19, 2012 by javedbabar

“Has he been here before?” the customer whispered.

“I can’t say that he has,” said Hari. “And I’m not sure why he’s here today.” He looked at the blue man slyly; it was the first time that one of them had entered his barbershop. There wasn’t a notice forbidding them, but they knew they weren’t welcome; they weren’t welcome anywhere, but it never stopped them from coming.

This wasn’t your average blue man though, for he had said nothing. From what Hari knew, they never stopped talking. Their incessant chatter drove people mad; it sounded like turning train wheels, and to humans was incomprehensible. They tried to conceal it in public, but were rarely successful. This blue man, however, was very well behaved. He just sat there quietly, looking out of the window.

“What will you do for him?” whispered the customer. “Is his hair like our hair?”

“I’m none too sure,” said Hari. “I’ve heard it’s much thicker, like a horse’s tail.” He glanced in the mirror at the blue man. “A huge curly horse’s tail.”

After their unusual skin colour, blue men’s most distinctive feature was their mass of golden hair. It went down to their waist and often beyond. They wore it loose, never tied up with anything; for it was necessary for their hair to “see the sun”. It was rumoured that if their hair was covered for a day they became ill, and if covered for a week they died.

Hari allowed only classical music in his salon. He knew that his apprentices played dance tunes in his absence, but as long as it was back to sitars and tablas, or the news, upon his return, he was ok with that. He listened beeps, and then: “This is the twelve ‘o clock news on Global 12. Riots continue for the fourth day in the City. There is a heavy police presence. The Authority is not blaming anyone, but says that both humans and blue men are involved. It has threatened stern punishment for anyone caught and convicted of crimes…”

“Bloody hell!” blurted out the customer. There was a mutter of bloody hells around the walls, from others awaiting their short backs and sides. Everyone looked at the blue man, wondering if he’d begin his train wheel chatter, but he didn’t say anything, just kept sitting there, looking out. The customer pushed Hari’s hand away, spun his chair around, and said to the blue man, “What do you have to say about that?”

In Hari’s book this was not good manners. He spun the customer’s chair back round, and said, “There’s plenty of time for chatter later. Let me finish your haircut first.” His years in the merchant navy had taught him the value of running a tight ship. He was captain here and must retain good order.

The blue man turned towards him and smiled. His perfect golden teeth seemed to increase the light in the room. They dazzled Hari momentarily and he lost concentration.

“Ow! Ow!” said the customer, pulling away. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Sir,” said Hari. “No harm done. It’s just a tiny nick. No bleeding.”

“Leave me alone.” The customer swung his chair around again. “I want him to answer. What does he think of the rioting going on? Is he going to do anything about it?”

Hari swung the chair back around. “You can have a beer with him when I’ve finished your haircut. Till then sit tight. And if he…”

Police sirens rent the air outside; there was thumping and running; garbage cans clattered and car alarms wailed. The sound of a helicopter somewhere and…. turning train wheels.

The customer pushed Hari’s hand away and stood up. “See! I told you! Look what’s going on!” He stared at the blue man.

Hari said, “Sir, you are welcome here. However please stop bothering my other customers.”

“Bothering your other customers? Bothering your other customers? Who are you kidding! I think your ‘other customers’ are bothering us!”

The blue man looked over. He was no longer smiling but his golden teeth still showing. Was he grimacing?

Hari had a flashback. Upon leaving the merchant navy, he’d taken over his father’s salon. Those days were different. People came in once a month, sometimes weekly, and you built good relationships. You sold them razors, scents, creams, first aid materials, and of course, “something for the weekend”. You got to know their families. Now it was only quick ins and outs between phone calls.

Hari wondered about the blue man’s age. Though it was an unforgivable cliché, they really did all look the same – short, sturdy bodies, blue skin, and golden manes. Like those two staring in the window right now – they could be twins. Others running with garbage cans, and those throwing real estate boards and poles, could also be related.

“Bloody hell!” shouted the customer. “They’re coming in here!” But the only action “in here” was that the blue man arose, walked to the window, and went outside. They heard turning train wheels and the radio signal was lost. “That bastard’s joined them! We should have nailed him here while we had the chance. Lads, get ready to fight!”

Beeps and dashes repeated on the radio. Though his Morse Code was rusty, the third time around Hari got it. The message said: “These young ones are foolish. You have done what you can with your people in here. Now I will go and speak with my people outside. Please offer my turn to someone else. I’ll come for my haircut later. What time do you close?”

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Another Day

Posted in Alternative Energy, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , on February 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Was it morning already? wondered Marcus. God, it seemed like he had only just gone to bed. Was it something to do with yesterday? What a rotten day! The break up of yet another relationship. “What is wrong with me?” he said to himself. “Why don’t they last?”

Still, it was nice to sleep alone again. There was no grunting or snoring, no hogging the duvet, no rolling around in the middle of the night, no huffs and puffs, sudden arguments, or crying. Relationships were hard work. And besides the obvious – bill and rent sharing, occasional laughter, and regular sex – he wasn’t too sure what the benefits were. You put a lot in, and you got out – exactly what?

Yesterday’s conversation went something like this:

Marcus: “How was your day, honey?”

Squeeze X: “Why should you care, idiot?”

Marcus: “Because I love you, sweetheart.”

Squeeze X: “Well it was worse than yesterday, and better than tomorrow, asshole.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so cheerless, love.”

Squeeze X: “Well what do you suggest, you donkey?”

Marcus: “Don’t be so mean; it doesn’t suit you, beautiful.”

Squeeze X: “Fuck off and get out of my life forever, you total dickhead.”

Who could understand women? thought Marcus. Maybe he should put an ad in the paper to form a male support group. Maybe start Fight Club in Lucerne? Or maybe just continue to focus on his brain training. There was no girl now to send his waves astray.

Marcus got up and thumped across the wooden floor. He splashed his face, eyes, and nose with warm water, and did some gargles. The splashing water was comforting and refreshing, and put him in a new state of mind. Like tides washing over him periodically, he felt the long motions of Delta waves.

He pulled on a T-shirt and sauntered to the kitchen, where he filled his old-fashioned kettle from the repurposed 18.9L gas station bottles he used to bring home bubbling spring water. The kettle boiled slowly; its bubbles appearing gently, and then ascending; moving faster than the long tides earlier; now slow Theta waves.

He mixed half a cup of oatmeal with a cup of water and a cup of milk, added a spoon of sugar and a pinch of salt, and turned up the heat. His signature porridge took a while to heat up, but soon got busy. Within two minutes it was bubbling like crazy, making loud pops, and throwing out droplets of searing mush. A steamy fatness filled the air. His relaxed state of mind responded and was fully awake, in flowing Alpha waves.

Marcus followed his usual routine, but this morning felt different. Things were somehow easier and lighter. Waiting for his porridge to cool, Marcus performed his regular stretching routine: a mix of athletics and kung fu warm-ups. Their easy movements required concentration, producing Beta waves.

He wondered if this mental state could have caused his girlfriend-till-yesterday to respond differently today. Here was the rerun:

Marcus: “How was your day, honey?”

Squeeze X: “Oh, it was alright. Why do you ask?”

Marcus: “Because I love you, sweetheart.”

Squeeze X: “But it made me so sad to spend the whole day away from you.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so cheerless, love.”

Squeeze X: “Sorry, but compared to you, my warrior-prince, every man is a warty toad.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so mean; it doesn’t suit you, beautiful.”

Squeeze X: “Come and kiss me right now, my heart burns for you.”

He felt a strange power developing; not instant power, but latent power. Charges were coupling and building, like a storm arising. While twisting his body, reaching his right hand across to his left side, the hand didn’t stop and kept going. Then his left hand, reaching across to his right side, also didn’t stop and kept going. His hips kept circling clockwise, even when their direction reversed. When his arms rotated like propellers, they didn’t stop either, even when their directions reversed. His shoulders kept moving in opposite directions, and his head rotating both ways. He felt like a circus performer, spinning hoops and plates. There was a little too much going on for his liking; crazy chaos all around; a jumbled whirlpool spinning outwards, with centripetal force, in an endless flowing. These Gamma waves were too much for Marcus to handle.

Whether he slowed the motions, or they slowed of themselves, he couldn’t say. They acquired gentler rhythms; he became restful; though they continued spinning somewhere beyond. These were his natural Mu waves.

Marcus had run a full Wave Test this morning; the first one in weeks. He had moved from slow Delta, through drowsy Theta, relaxed Alpha, active Beta, into crazy Gamma, and appreciated the background testing of Mu waves.

His relaxed solo state this morning was a blessing. It allowed him awareness of his full cycle of rhythmic and transient activity. There were fewer biological artifacts – her bothering his eyes, heart, and muscles in bed – and environmental artifacts – interference from her laptop, cell phone, and iPod. Now his girlfriend was gone, his brain once more exerted centralized control over his body’s organs.

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One Stop

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , on February 17, 2012 by javedbabar

The gloomy day was disappointing; Jason had been expecting sunshine, at least in the morning to get people out. He needed customers on his first day as a stall holder. His college fees were due by the end of the month.

His uncle had dropped him off on his way to work, way too early, but he was here at the Transparent Temple – nickname for their fancy community centre – before everyone else. In business this is known as an opportunity.

Jason set up three decorating tables, and arranged his Grandpa’s stuff upon them. His mother had not handled his loss well, and her way of coping was to erase his memory entirely. His Grandpa had been a hoarder all his life and she had wanted to throw everything out, but Jason had said he’d sell it instead.

The annual spring sale was a Village tradition – full of juicy jams, wild cakes, herbal candles, and forest art. But no other traders were setting up. Jason’s heart dropped – did he have the right day? He checked the Spring Sale application form. Yes, it was today – March 20th, Spring Equinox.

Midday came, and Jason realized something terrible; there were no other vendors. The plus side to this was that he had the best – and only – place in the market – right in the middle of the hall, visible from every direction. But he wasn’t sure how beneficial this would be as there weren’t any customers either. It was raining very heavily outside, like rippling sheets dropping down. He should have realized that business would be affected.

Jason was alone in the great hall, surrounded by his Grandpa’s memories. His holy books; his English tea set, his German cutlery, and Japanese crockery; his antique typewriter; his pinstriped 3-piece suit; his top hat and cane; his shirts, his socks, and his shoes. There were also many unpacked boxes that his mom had wanted out of the house immediately.

There was commotion in the doorway. What was going on?

A sullen crowd rushed in; Jason didn’t recognize any of them. A man walked over to him. “Oh, it vaz so terrible!” he said with a German accent. “Our bus vaz stuck in vater. It vas up to our chests. Ve had to carry de children on our shoulders. It vas a great big flood!”

Jason hadn’t realized the Valley was flooding. Heavy rain must have burst the dikes. These poor people seemed tired and scared. His first thought was to make them some tea in the bone china tea set, but then realized that he had no means to heat water. But hang on a minute – didn’t his Grandpa have some camping gear? Jason looked inside the boxes and found a camping stove and tin kettle. He filled the kettle up from the bathroom and soon had it boiling. He passed around cups of tea.

“Danke,” said the German man, taking trays of tea to his fellow wet passengers. They smiled at him from around the room.

They must be pretty hungry too, thought Jason. He rummaged around in the boxes and found some powdered egg and hard biscuits. He’d seen his Grandpa’s army uniform and campaign medals, but never his rations. He’d kept them for over sixty years! Jason recalled him describing army food as “indestructible.” He’d said, “They should have made the tanks out of that stuff!”

Jason pulled out a pan and cooked up a mess of scrambled eggs, and laid blobs of it on biscuits. His German friend passed them around his fellow passengers, and there was a chorus of “Dankes”.

The caretaker of the building came in looking troubled, but smiled when he saw the catering operation. He said, “Good job, lad. Keep our visitors happy. The tourist dollar is half the Village economy.”

“Excuse me,” said the German man. “Do you know vat iz de situation regarding de vether?”

“I’m afraid the whole Village is flooded,” said the caretaker. “I think you’ll be here for a while. Maybe a day, maybe a week; no one can say.” The German man’s face fell, but then recovered. “Just make yourselves as comfortable as you can. I’ll come back with news.” The German man shared the news with his tour group; a wave of muttering ran around the hall perimeter.

Once the shock was absorbed, people began wandering over to Jason’s stall. They rummaged through Grandpa’s stuff, asking questions about items, and how much they cost. He had a captive market. He thought of doubling the prices, but thought that Grandpa would not have approved. Grandpa had both seen Prisoners-Of-War and been one himself. “They were just like us, boyo,” he’d said to Jason. “Cold and hungry and frightened. They were just like us.”

A lady examinded cooking utensils. The caretaker appeared with bags of spuds and carrots. He said, “A farmer left them here yesterday but hasn’t shown up today. Can you use them?”

“Yah,” said the woman, and called over her friends. They grated the potatoes and cooked a stack of rostis. Flour and sugar appeared – and soon there was also carrot cake. Someone began to play Grandpa’s accordion, and an old man raked spoons along the washboard. People began dancing in pairs, and then in groups, like flowers opening outwards, and then returning to their centres. They began opening their suitcases, removing items, and sharing them out – Schnapps, fruit breads, chocolates, and ginger cakes. It became a great festival of spring gift giving. “Just is like Fruhlingsfest,” said a pretty blonde girl.

Jason too offered his items freely, but the Germans insisted on paying for them. They had heard that he was raising money for college. By the end of the day, all of his grandpa’s items were sold and Jason had made $5,000. The only thing left was a framed photograph of his grandpa, which someone had purchased and then returned, saying, “Your grandpa saved us today. You mustn’t forget him.”

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Long Shower

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , on February 16, 2012 by javedbabar

Adam loved the shower. It was so gentle and warmly refreshing, so very comfortable, so wonderful! How he wished it would never end.

He couldn’t stay there forever though; he had to get to work. But when he tried to turn off the water, the knob got stuck and wouldn’t budge. Water kept gushing forth. Maybe his hands were soapy and he needed a better grip. He rinsed them under the running water, and tried again, but still no luck. Damn! The washer must have broken; he’d better replace it.

He tried to get out but the door was stuck; it didn’t even jolt or shudder. Was it his new soap, jamming everything up? He should have known better than to get it on special offer from the gas station, at a dollar for twelve bars.

So the door was stuck and the shower was pouring. What to do? As long as the drain didn’t block, he could just stay there. There’s that saying about lemons and lemonade. Give it five more minutes, he thought, and something would loosen up for sure. Till then he may as well enjoy it. After five minutes he tried again, but the knob and door were both still stuck. Let’s wait another five minutes. He would be late for work, but what could he do?

Adam had been in the shower for fifteen minutes now – a pretty long stretch. His girlfriend took longer, especially when he was in there with her. He started to feel tired. He noticed his hands were wrinkled. He never knew why this happened; was a person’s skin expanding, or were they dehydrating? He looked at his feet, which were also wrinkled. The water spread across his skull like ants; poured off his ears and nose like a shoddy drain-leak; ran along his shoulders and arms like a river; then dripped like jewels from his fingers.

If he was dehydrating, he’d better drink some. He tilted back his head and opened his mouth wide. Let the water of life pour in. The water tickled his tongue initially, then his tonsils. It made him laugh and he gagged and spurted. He shook his head. What on earth was he doing? He was having the equivalent of water torture, and was grinning like a fool. But what else could he do?

Adam sat cross-legged with no option but to endure the torture. He covered his head with his hands for a while, but his arms became numb, and eventually dropped into his lap. Now it was water torture proper, with drops falling on his head continuously.

It wasn’t one drop at a time like Chinese Water Torture – where the irregular dripping drove you mad, like a Pavlovian dog – or the Medieval European version – where the dripping was regular, and you began to fear a hollow forming in your skull. He had thought it may feel like waterboarding – where a cloth is placed over your mouth and water poured onto it continuously, giving the feeling of drowning – or maybe Houdini’s water torture cell – where your feet are bound as you are lowered into a glass tank filled with water, from which you must escape. He knew that forced ingestion, or competitive drinking of too much water, led to water poisoning – liquid flooding cells by osmosis, causing them to swell and burst. Other watery ways to die were  dunking – typically used for witches, where they were immersed in a vat of water repeatedly until they drowned or confessed (in which case they were immolated) – or an alternative was to be left bound underwater; if you floated you were guilty, and if you sank you were innocent (but drowned). Not to forget Chinese water dungeons – where prisoners are kept neck-deep in filthy, stinking water for days, so their bodies fill with festering sores – or Dutch ones – where a cellar quickly fills with water and the victim is given a hand pump to try to save themselves – or the Nazi house of terror – where you stand on a metal stool in a cell filled with ice water, until you tire and fall into it.

Adam however was at home, enjoying a steaming shower. So all in all, his situation wasn’t that bad. He was however getting hungry. What could he eat? He noticed that all this steaming water was creating the beginnings of a jungle in the shower corners. It looked like green slime rather than shoots, but may be a relative of watercress, or seaweed; and it was good to eat your greens – full of iron. “And what would Sir like to order?” he asked himself. “Oh, the house greens today, I think.” “Very good Sir.”

He should engage in mental activity to keep his mind fresh, and started counting as many drops as he could manage. He reached 1,001 and decided that was enough. It may be better to use his fingers to draw pictures on the steamed-up panels. He drew a man in a box with squiggly streams running all around him.

He squirted a bottle of gel into the shower base, and was richly enrobed by mango and vanilla, “Mmmm.” Then he awakened to eucalyptus and tea tree, “Ooh.” Next he was intoxicated by chocolate mocha rum raisin butter candy, “Aah, that feels so good.”

The substantial slime build up offered another opportunity. He shaped it into a human figure. A companion. This wasn’t the end for him at all! He would make a new race of water people! They mated successfully, and just as their tiny amphibious offspring escaped down the drain, there was a pounding somewhere. “Escape, my children,” he cried. “Go quickly now! Before the monster comes!”

His girlfriend burst into the bathroom in her dressing gown. “How much time exactly, Mister, are you going to spend in the shower today? It’s getting longer every day. And I’ve told you before; don’t do that in there, it’s disgusting. It’s hardly going to make me change my mind. You’re way too strange for me; I can’t handle your bizarre fantasies. I know you said that no longer having sex was like torture for you – but you’ll have to deal with it.”

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