Sitara

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , on February 15, 2012 by javedbabar

Alison found a muddy little animal beside the road. At first she thought it was dead and avoided it, but Toto ran up and started licking the animal, and when Alison drew closer, she saw that it was breathing gently. If Toto liked the animal, then it couldn’t be a bad thing. Toto was never wrong about good things and bad things.

It was all curled up, and so was difficult to identify. It had fat arms and legs, and also a fat head, or was that a tail? There was a molehill nearby; it must be a mole, she thought. She’d found a little mole! What was it doing above ground though? Shouldn’t it be burrowing?

Alison picked up the little mole and found that it was much lighter than she expected – about the same weight as an apple, even though it was much bigger than that. And it wasn’t furry. Weren’t moles furry? And it didn’t seem to have any claws. How did it dig the hole?

She decided to take it back to her room; it could rest there. She would put it in a pillowcase and keep it in her bed. By the time she returned from school it may feel better, and then she could put it back in its hole. She would wash the pillowcase herself; Mummy would never know.

When Alison returned from school, the mole was still there, sleeping, with Toto curled up beside it. When she came up from dinner, it was still in the pillowcase, but had turned around. Later she saw the pillowcase moving. Little points appeared here and there, as if it was trying to get out. When she opened the pillowcase, she heard a little yawn. It was a squeaky yawn, like when you polish an apple and the skin squeaks.

Alison pulled the mole out of the pillowcase, and saw it was now less brown and more golden. Some mud must have rubbed off in the pillowcase. More surprisingly, after another yawn with its pointy arms spread wide, the little mole asked, “Is it night-time yet?”

Alison was so surprised that she didn’t think, just answered, “Not quite yet; maybe in an hour or so.”

“Oh good,” said the animal. “I better start getting ready.”

“Ready for what?” said Alison.

“To shine in the sky, of course,” said the animal. “That’s what I do.” As it spoke, its colour became more golden.

“Aren’t you a mole?” said Alison. “I found you beside a molehill.”

“I’m not a mole!” said the animal. “My name is Sitara. I’m a baby star.” Alison realized that the arms and legs and head/tail were actually five star-points, and in between them was a tiny dolly-face. “I felt dizzy last night, and came home early. I guess I didn’t make it. I must have fallen.” Toto nuzzled and then licked Sitara’s face; she giggled.

“Why do you live in a molehill?” said Alison.

“It’s not a molehill, silly. Haven’t you heard of starholes? We need a place to rest too. It’s hard work staying in the sky all night, shining. I’m still training and made a mistake.” Sitara looked sad; her little mouth stopped moving and her golden colour dimmed slightly. “My parents must be really worried,” she said. “They probably haven’t slept all day.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘slept all night’?”

“No, silly. We sleep during the day, because we’re out all night. Would you please take me back to my home before dark?”

Alison felt bad now. Her good intentions had not worked out. “Ok get back in the pillow case,” she said. “I’ll take you out. Toto! Come on. Let’s go.” Luckily her Daddy was watching the news. There was a story about a meteor shower. Alison sneaked out to the starhole.

Sitara was glowing brightly when she emerged from the pillowcase. There was also light emerging from the starhole. “Well thank you,” said Sitara. “That was nice of you to look after me last night. I won’t forget that.”

“It would have been nice to spend some more time with you,” said Alison. “But I guess you’ve got to go.”

“I’m afraid I do. There are always stars getting old and dying; so there have to be new stars ready to take their place. We must fill the sky each night; otherwise people would lose hope, and there would be no way for people to ‘follow their star’.” Sitara offered her golden arm, which Alison held for a while. Then Sitara said, “Goodbye,” and disappeared into the starhole. Toto tried to follow her, but Alison told him not to.

She stared at the glowing hole for a while and then began walking home. There was a scrabbling noise, and Sitara’s little face popped out of the hole. “My mum says I should show you something,” she said. “You might get a little bit dirty though.” Alison shook her head to indicate that was ok. “Ok, just push aside this dirt and peer into the hole.”

When Alison did so, she saw six more baby stars inside. They were shining and wriggling, preparing to enter the heavens. A much bigger star entered the chamber, and said, “Hello, I’m Sitara’s mum. Thanks for looking after her last night. Since our last starhole got paved over, we’ve had a few, shall we say, navigation problems. You’ve probably seen the potholes in the road. That’s where we’ve landed in the wrong place. I wish they’d stop building roads everywhere. It confuses us. And then there are roads with all-night lighting – don’t even go there! In case you’re wondering, all stars are born on earth in starholes, and eventually die in space in black holes. And in between, we spend most of our lives shining.”

Alison stayed awake to watch the stars emerging from the starhole. One by one they shot into the sky and formed the Seven Sisters.

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The Great Equation

Posted in Conceptual Art, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on February 14, 2012 by javedbabar

“Is there a solution to everything?” asked Daniel.

Mr. Thompson said, “There may be, Daniel. They may be. But we can’t be sure of it. What we can do is to try to find it. And if we try hard enough, maybe we’ll succeed.”

“Are there solutions to war, or hunger, or hatred, or death?”

“These are unusual questions for a Grade 12 Mathematics class, Daniel. But Maths is a broad subject. I would be happy for the class to consider them. However, we must first complete today’s exercise in Algebra.” Mr Thompson wrote an X in the middle of the board, and then in his characteristic, ambidextrous way, spread his arms wide, and began writing a’s, b’s, and c’s on both ends of the board, the strings of letters converging towards the centre, marching towards the unknown X.

Mr. Thompson had entertained Daniel’s question, but it had not been answered, and it remained on Daniel’s mind for the rest of the day. He decided to pose that question to other teachers too. “Not to everything,” his science teacher said. “But we can use scientific methodology such as induction and deduction to explore the question.”

His English teacher said, “There is no solution to anything. There are only the words describing that thing, which are constantly changing their cultural semantics.”

His Religious Studies teacher said, “Yes, there is. For most people in the world the solution is God.” Daniel was not convinced by this. If God was the solution, then what was the question? “Please can we have war? And hunger? And hatred? And death?”

Daniel asked his parents the same question that night; “Is there a solution to everything?”

“Of course there is, Daniel,” they said. “The solution is love – like parents have for their children. Selfless love.” Daniel wondered how this differed from selfish love – where your love for a particular person, nation, tribe, or race leads to war, hunger, hatred, and death.

Of all the answers he’d heard, Daniel liked Mr. Thompson’s best – that there may be an answer, and we had to look for it. No wonder Math was his favourite class. Did the “we” include himself, he wondered? Or should such questions be left to professionals – professors at universities, and politicians in governments. But weren’t their solutions – theories and policies – just as flawed as everyone else’s?

Daniel recalled his mother’s book called The Power of Now. It said that the past was a memory, and the future a fantasy; the only thing that truly existed was Now. So if he wanted to find a solution to anything, he’d better start now. Daniel pulled out a large sheet of cardboard that he was saving for art class, uncapped a sharpie, and locked his bedroom door. He wondered how to begin finding a solution to everything.

Maybe he should start with the Known. This was usually represented by letters at the beginning of the alphabet – so he wrote down a smattering of a’s, b’s, and c’s. Next were the Unknowns, shown by letters at the end of the alphabet. He wrote a scattering of x’s, y’s, and z’s. He would have to get somehow from the Knowns to the Unknowns, so better throw in some Operations. He liberally spread +’s, –‘s, ×’s, and ÷’s.

Daniel stared at the cardboard sheet glumly. It was just a mess of letters and signs. What was the next step? Maybe Calculus? He slotted in a bunch of Integration and Differentiation symbols – long s’s and f (symbols). He added Real and Imaginary numbers – “A little imagination never hurts,” his Art teacher had told him – by throwing a heavy dusting of integers and i’s across the page. Then some Irrational numbers, like π and e. He didn’t have room to write them out – for they continued infinitely.

It was starting to look more like a galaxy than an equation. Clusters appeared here and there, like solar systems. What was still missing, he wondered? He stared deeply into the heart of the mess, and spun it around. He realized that the 3 looked like an unformed Om; the 8 was an infinity symbol rotated; + signs were crosses; 0 was the pagan symbol of nature’s cycles, and π looked like a torii shrine.

Yes! Holy symbols! They weren’t that different from mathematical symbols. Daniel added the symbols he had learnt in Religious Studies – Crosses, Crescent Moons, Stars of David, Wheels of Life, Khandas, Om’s, Yin-Yangs, Chinese water symbols, Torii shrines, and Circles. This universe was really taking shape! But as a solution to everything, it still had some way to go.

Then it struck him. It wasn’t a single Unknown that he was trying to uncover. His second question about war, hunger, hatred, and death had recognized this fact. This was a set of Simultaneous Equations – there was no simple solution, though maybe a very complex one. A grade 12 boy after the ultimate truth; how foolish indeed. He had been kidding himself.

He sat for a while sadly, and then beheld a spark of hope. What if the solution wasn’t logical or mathematical? What if there was no proof? What if he looked at things in a way that was irrational? What then?

He treated the mathematical cloud before him as a 3-D picture, and relaxed his eyes and mind. Things looked very different when he did this, but however hard he tried, no hidden pattern emerged. It did, however, start to look like something from science class – a map of Cosmic Microwave Background radiation; shock wave remnants of Big Bang. Then he saw something else – the empty spaces between numbers, symbols, and signs. Was this like Dark Energy: the universe’s hidden constituent?

There was a knocking somewhere, which broke his concentration. It was his bedroom door. “Daniel,” called his mother.

“Ok, hang on a minute,” he called out. He felt that he had been getting somewhere on his journey of deepest truth, and was annoyed at being disturbed. He couldn’t be bothered to get up so called out, “Come in, mum.”

“I can’t love.” Daniel had forgotten he’d locked the door.

He said, “Oh sorry, let me open it.”

As he opened the door, he realized his mistake. If the door was locked on the outside, what he had to do was open it from within. The answer did not lie in the Known, Unknown, Operations, Calculus, Real or Imaginary or Irrational numbers, nor in Holy Symbols, 3-D pictures, CMB or Dark Energy. The answer for him was the door he chose to open. He was the solution to everything.

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Circulation

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry with tags , , on February 13, 2012 by javedbabar

Daved liked company when climbing, but today he was alone. He’d planned the ascent as a two-day trip, though was prepared for four days in case of nasty weather; it could easily turn. He’d heard of someone going up and down in a day, but they must have been either a superhero or a liar. It was 9,000 feet of mountain, almost three kilometres up!

Mt. Alba stood at the near end of the Valley as a sentinel over Lucerne Village. 100 km away – at the far end of the Valley – was its darker twin Mt. Negra, which wasn’t visible from the Village because of a bend in the Valley. Daved wondered if it would be visible from Mt. Alba’s summit.

It was a tougher climb than expected. Clear cut patches had “grown back” as dense bush. They’d be okay in another 200 years, but calling this “sustainable” – are you kidding? Thank God for game tracks.

The rock was steady going with some pits of scree. Daved picked through them methodically. The snow near the summit made higher sections easier to navigate, and had a magnificent crunching sound. As Daved neared the top, he heard a miss-timed shuffling-scrunching. Was it his footsteps, echoing high above? It continued for too long afterwards though. He’d been pleased to see evidence of wildlife earlier, but now was much less so. He climbed the final section and saw the beast ahead. It looked like a man walking in circles. Daved rubbed his eyes. What on earth was he doing?

The man didn’t look at Daved or say hello or stop. He wore vintage climbing gear, a beaver fur cap, and boots that were clearly not fit for this purpose. He seemed to have walked out of – or should we say “be walking around in” – the 1920’s.

“Hello there!” Daved called out.

The man slowed momentarily, looked across at him and squinted. He gave a friendly wave, but otherwise continued as before, which Daved found annoying. He had braved a 9,000 ft mountain alone and met a fellow climber at the top. They should be sharing hearty slaps on the back, and whisky from their mickeys; but the guy had virtually ignored him.

Fortunately Daved was a reasonable fellow. He thought, maybe this guy has come here for solitude; he’s left the crazy world below to clear his head, and doesn’t want company. Maybe he’s practising walking meditation, or just keeping warm. But I have to engage him somehow; it is only good manners.

When Daved approached the man’s face lit up. He was about sixty, with a bushy grey moustache and piercing blue eyes. He seemed very friendly, which didn’t square with his ambivalence before. But he didn’t stop walking, so if Daved wished to converse, he had no option but to join him.

“So nice of you to come up, Sir,” said the man. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a visitor. What brings you to these parts? And will you be staying here long?”

“It’s always been there, right before my eyes,” said Daved, feeling at ease immediately with this possibly crazy guy. “But I’d never thought of climbing it before. I’m not sure why. It seemed more a backdrop than something real.”

“Few people notice what is square before them,” said the man. “But the day comes when they do.”

“What brought you up here?” said Daved. It was a deliberately broad question. He wasn’t sure whether to mention his antique climbing gear, and his walking in circles.

“I used to live a linear life,” said the man. “Always going from here to there, from there to somewhere else, and from somewhere else to who knows where? Climbing this mountain was no different. I was fiercely competitive when young, and the first time I climbed, I made it up and down in a day.” Daved’s face changed; was this the man he had heard about? He continued, “But then I realized how pointless that was. Why rush to the grave? We’re all going there soon enough, so why not take our time till then – taste the water, smell the forest, feel the rock, crunch the snow? So now I take my time. The world is different when you pay attention. It is yours.”

The ice was broken; Daved couldn’t help asking, “But why are you walking in circles?”

“Why are we walking in circles?” said the man. “You’re walking with me.”

“Ok, why are we walking in circles?”

“Do you know the meaning of the circle?” said the man.

“Of course,” said Daved, feeling insulted. “Who doesn’t? It symbolizes natural cycles; it means wholeness and completeness.”

“Yes it does. And that’s why we’re walking in circles. We’re making the world.”

“What do you mean, ‘making the world’?”

The man stopped suddenly. Daved did too. The man said, “Ok, do you want to try walking the other way? See what happens?” Daved nodded and they reversed their direction.

At the far end of the Valley – 100 km away – Daved saw the dark top of Mt. Negra glow orange, about to burst. He saw thunderclouds building along the Valley, filled with black rain. Snow slid to the edge of the icecap, about to rush down as an avalanche. Lightning caused a tree to ignite, its flames spreading to others. A vast landslide fell into the river, causing it to dam, building up a huge lake, ready to burst. A light rumble signalled earthquakes brewing.

“Stop!” shouted Daved. “What’s going on?”

“My friend, you have a choice with every step you take. You can either make, or unmake, the world. Which way shall we walk now?”

“The other way!” Daved shouted.

The man turned around and Daved joined him. They had plenty to talk about. He always liked company when walking.

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Bloody Tree

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , on February 12, 2012 by javedbabar

“Lovely day,” said Mavis, sniffing the air and casting a glance at her fat neighbour.

“Yes it is, indeed,” said Lucy, also sniffing.

“How long since you hatched?” said Mavis.

Lucy thought for a moment, and said, “I’m twelve – God I feel so old! Look at those young ones having fun. Where do they get their energy from?”

“We were just the same,” said Mavis, but thought, maybe you were a little less so, my chubby friend; or maybe you’re carrying more eggs than me; I’d like to know, but we’ve only just met.

“You’ve got nice long legs,” said Lucy. “Does it run in your family?” She didn’t wait for an answer and continued. “My family is chunky; we have sturdy legs. That makes take off and landing easier, but sometimes walking on water is awkward; especially in my state.”

Mavis felt mean now. She decided she would be nice to her neighbour, and said, “I started feeling whiney a couple of nights back; surprisingly soon after my last batch of eggs. It was Saturday night so I would have gone out anyway, but was now a girl with a mission…”

“I know what you’re saying, Sister!”

“I have to say, I did feel old though. There were all these young lads flying around in circles, showing off, and full of juice. For a moment I lost my nerve. What would they see in an old girl like me – bigger and harder-bodied? But I know they have a fetish for older females these days. They call us MILF’s…”

Lucy interrupted, “Mosquitoes I’d like to F…” They both burst out laughing, their wings vibrating with a little whine. “Don’t you start that now,” said Lucy. “You’ll have one on your back again before you know it – double dipping!”

“I might not mind if someone did,” said Mavis. “What did I get on Saturday night? Ten seconds of glory? You’d think after all that wing-beating and whining, they’d do better than that!”

“They never have in my long lifetime, Sister!”

The trees in the forest were thick with their sisters; boys tumbled about in swarms. Mavis looked across at Mt. Alba; what a beautiful place, she thought, but something inside her knew that it wasn’t a good place to live; much too high and cold. She laid her last batch of eggs in a lovely, swampy area across the river. She’d started off laying them singly, jerking on the water, and once she’d got a rhythm going, then forming them into rafts. She’d waited to check the eggs were settled, and then flown away. She’d never see her eggs become wrigglers, or tumblers, or emerge as adults; but she’d love them all the same.

Mavis and Lucy had already detected the presence of prey – through smell and heat sensing – but were waiting till dusk, their feeding time. While Mavis was musing, Lucy had been scanning for a full blood meal. “Look down there,” she said. “That looks juicy.”

“Which one?” said Mavis. She saw two different preys: a fat white one and a thin black one, both laid out across the edge of a pool of flat water. How inviting, she thought: a place to feed, and a place to lay eggs, so close together. Rather than answering though, Lucy shouted, “Whoa! Watch out!”

An iridescent shimmer tore right past them into the crowd of males, which scattered immediately; but the dragonfly then hunted them individually till he’d had his fill. This seemed unfair as they lived only half as long as girls anyway. Mavis and Lucy returned their attention to the prey below. It wasn’t moving, just lying naked, sweating, smelling, beside the pool of flat water. “Well, we shouldn’t wait around all day,” said Mavis. “It’s getting dusky. Time to move in.”

“Ok sister,” said Lucy. “Shall I lead the warrior ritual?” Mavis nodded, her proboscis waving in the air. “O Great Liquid Mother, we thank you for this day. Bless our noble sisterhood which hunts life and creates life, and will continue until we die.” They beat their wings, making a light whining. “Grant us one drop of holy blood, which shall feed hundreds of new lives.”

They flew off together. Mavis headed instinctively for the fat white prey and Lucy for the thin black prey. Lucy flies beautifully for a heavier girl, thought Mavis; she has more weight, but also more strength. Look how she twirls and jives, working with the slightest breeze, like a swirling snowflake. But Lucy suddenly disappeared. Where did she go? She must have found a sweet spot. Hee! Hee!

Mavis homed in on her prey. She had species memory of feeding on these creatures since the beginning; and on many beasts that they herded; there had been a time of luxury; of fatted bellies; of excess. Mavis felt a swishing sensation. Her prey was suddenly on its feet, and was moving quicker than she was. Her final memory was the shock of slamming against something where there had been nothing before.

The naked humans jumped up without warning, brandishing large circular pans. In this world destroyed by radiation and disease, the only animals that flourished were insects, which grew to ten or more times their previous size. They provided vital sustenance for survivors still inhabiting the ruined homes of the Lucerne Valley, who regularly lay naked, sweating, smelling, to attract clouds of giant mosquitoes, and then caught them in steel pans. They mashed and roasted them into protein-rich burgers. There would be a poolside barbecue tonight, even though the old pool now stank and was being farmed for mosquito larvae.

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Tea-Jay

Posted in Global Travel, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , on February 11, 2012 by javedbabar

Natasha waited in line at the Transparent Temple – the nickname for their state-of-the-art community centre. Damn, she thought, there’s almost two hundred people here already; I wish I’d come earlier. Still, she remained hopeful.

“What do you think of our chances?” said the boy. He was being friendly, but also chatting her up, she thought. He appeared somewhat nerdy, but didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. There was no need yet to pull out her pepper spray.

“Pretty good,” said Natasha. “But I wish they were better.”

“I came at six am, and there was hardly a soul here,” said the boy. “So I went for a…”

“A coffee!” Natasha burst out laughing. “That’s what I did too. How stupid. I was only gone half an hour, and came back to this. By the way, I’m Natasha.”

“Hi, I’m Bobby. Have you attended a Tea Party before?” The queue eased a little, and they moved forward two feet.

“No, but I’ve been dying to go for ages. I missed the one in the City, and the one in Strattus. I’m so glad they decided to do an extra date here.”

Tea Parties began in England last year, and were now a global phenomenon. Their Anglo-Indian founder had very fond memories of clubbing from his youth, but now he’d hit forty, could no longer take the pace. He decided his future lay in being Teetotal: totally devoted to tea.

There are two origin stories for tea. The first concerns the Chinese Emperor Shen Nung. He was sitting beneath a Camellia Sinensis tree while his servant boiled water, a common practice to purify it. A leaf from the tree blew into the water, creating a pleasing aroma.  Shen Nung tried the brew and declared it an auspicious drink. The second story is that of Indian sage Bodhidharma, who spread Buddhism to China. He practiced very fierce austerities, believing in the power of ceaseless meditation and prayer. He fell asleep one day, and was so disgusted with himself that he cut off his own eyelids, and threw them away. From these holy relics the first tea bush sprouted.

The founder of Tea Parties was inspired by this story, and adoped the name of the sage. The new Bodhidharma decided there was a higher way to have fun, to connect with others, to avoid the toxins of alcohol and drugs, and negative effects of dehydration and sleep deprivation. The Way was all day Tea Parties.

“One of my friends has gone crazy,” said Bobby. “He’s taken a year’s sabbatical from his law firm, and attended Tea Parties all over the world. He started in England, where he had the most amazing luck. A girl he met in an arty bar knew one of the Tea-Jays. She got him into the Tea Party at Buckingham Palace! It was a classy affair; Will and Kate were there.”

“Wow!” said Natasha. “Now that’s what I call networking. Where else did he go?”

“The English Party was prim and proper. There was Earl Grey tea in bone china cups, followed by ballroom dancing. He wanted to try another country so went to India. He must have turned on the charm, because he got invited to attend a Tea Party at the Taj Mahal. They sat in rose-gardens and drank spicy chai from small clay cups, and then engaged in bhangra dancing, before smashing them. Next he went to Russia, and believe it or not, made it to the Kremlin. They mixed teas from a giant samovar, added vodka, and did Cossack-dancing. He particularly enjoyed that one. He went on to China, Korea, and Japan. In Japan they…”

Bobby cut the conversation when the line jumped forward. Within a few minutes he and Natasha were at the front of the queue. The bouncers waved them in. “Well aren’t you going to search me?” said Bobby. Natasha was surprised; most people would have gladly been spared the indignity of a body search. However you attempt to civilize it, it is, essentially, hairy dimwits groping you. But Bobby insisted upon it. And now that this protocol was established, bouncers searched Natasha and everyone else.

“What was that about?” said Natasha. “Because of you my pepper spray and mickey of rum got confiscated. No one else seemed bothered.”

“I’m sorry to upset you. But the essence of a Tea Party is purity. We can’t have people bringing in additives. That would ruin the whole effect.” Natasha shook her head. Maybe he was a creep after all – and now she was defenceless. She decided to distance herself from Bobby. She smiled and said, “See you later.”

The Tea Party wasn’t starting for another hour yet, but the Tea-Jay was already at his blending desk. And it wasn’t just some local lad with an ipod. Tea-Jays undertook a one-year, full-time apprenticeship. Internships in Ottawa – or at Google, Facebook, or Goldman Sachs – were child’s play compared to acceptance onto the Tea-Jay program. It was said that twelve people had been trained by Bodhidharma, of whom only six graduated. Their identities were never revealed. Today’s Tea-Jay wore a V for Vendetta mask. It was a little creepy.

Natasha seated herself on a cushion in half-lotus position. There was an even split of girls and guys, maybe 250 people in all.

The lights were dimmed, and soft chants filled the hall. The first cup was served. It was a delicate brew.

Chants became stronger. The second cup was served. It had a fresh flavour.

Light beats kicked in. The third cup was served. It had a hint of cinnamon.

Beats became harder. The fourth cup was served. It tasted of maple and chocolate.

A counter melody came in. The fifth cup was served. Its taste was of peppermint, and vanilla, and clotted cream.

The melody ascended. The sixth cup was served. It held many flavours – toffee, whisky, and yeast; melons, quail, and burnt caramel.

The melody expanded, and filled the room. The seventh cup was served. It was the agony of leaves unfolding, giving every part of themselves. It did not contain the previous mistakes of starting at the bottom – with bohea leaves, and working your way up to flowery orange pekoe. Instead you started at the bud, and worked downwards, encompassing all possible flavours. There were no broken leaves that had been crushed, torn and curled; only whole leaves that were withered and rolled by Masters. High rainfall and high elevation were there. Black, White, Oolong, Green, and Fermented teas. This final cup was brewed at the highest temperature to extract the large complex phenolic molecules. These active substances were shared with all the Tea Lovers present here now. They spoke of love, and beauty, and poetry; of hope, faith, and courage; of sadness and despair; and of dreams coming true, and spending forever immersed in bliss.

Bodhidharma didn’t mind filling in for his Tea-Jays in a crisis, and he enjoyed queuing up with the crowd. It gave him a feel for the energy present, plus helped to preserve his anonymity when entering and leaving. He preferred being known as Bobby rather than Bodhidharma. He smiled behind the blending desk and thought, “Another successful Brewing; Complete Infusion.” He wondered if they even knew that they were all on their feet, dancing and chanting, “Camellia Sinensis!”

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Green Power

Posted in Alternative Energy, Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 10, 2012 by javedbabar

They had all lived in hope; a belief that things would soon get better. But the world had continued to fall apart, and BC was no exception. The roads became rutted, power was erratic, water became polluted, and food – when available – was often spoiled. It was a joke among South Asian immigrants that it was becoming “more like home”. Everything was heading downward, but there was the belief, particularly among South Asians – whose religions foretold this dark age – that it was part of a greater cycle, where everything would fall, but then arise.

However, the arrival of grid dismantling teams surprised even them. In units of ten trucks, they took down a whole kilometre of power lines at a time. They used eight-axle logging trucks; the first unit loaded with hydro poles, and the second one with wire spools. The residents of Valley Road were given no warning. One day they had erratic electricity, and the next day it was gone.

A leaflet was delivered to Ashok’s house, titled “Lucerne Valley Energy Independence Pilot Project”. The Authority stated that the world had changed immeasurably in our lifetimes, with the System bearing many new stresses and strains. The “opportunity of our generation” was that of self-reliance. There was no longer a need to be tethered to global, national, or even regional infrastructures. We should become independent in every way possible, and return to living in small, self-sufficient communities. A first step in this process was dismantling rural areas’ electricity grids.

The leaflet said that “The Authority is following the philosophy of the 3 R’s”. They would Reduce electricity usage by downsizing the system. They would Reuse the raw materials – primarily wood and metal. They would Recycle any subsidiary materials. There was basic information on generating your own power – via solar-electric, solar hot water heating, wind turbines, geothermal fields, and biogas. And in the short term, using gas generators or burning wood. There was also advice that the best route to efficiency was not producing more energy, but reducing your usage. It said, “With wise materials choices, earlier rising, and extra sweaters, you can cut your power usage by 90%”. And they had decided to begin with the Lucerne Valley, “an isolated community with a proud history of self-reliance.”

When residents saw the grid coming down along Valley Road, they sprang into action. A century of tax payments had paid for its installation and maintenance – so in truth it belonged to them. Those able to work quickly stayed ahead of the eight-axle logging trucks, and took some spoils for themselves.

Ashok claimed two large spools of wire and two small transformers. His workshop was full, so he loaded the items into his truck and drove to his cabin. It was two hundred metres off the road, and pretty well hidden. That would be a good place to store them.

The grid dismantling work was completed in two weeks. Some people struggled without grid power, but most were coping, at least for now. They’d pulled out their old oil and propane lamps, and used woodstoves more often. The Authority provided cheap golf cart batteries to store energy. That way your generator didn’t need to be running constantly; just two hours daily to charge them up.

“Have you heard about the break-ins?” said Ashok’s neighbour. “It’s pretty strange; houses all along the Valley Road, but nothing stolen. And they’ve ransacked sheds and workshops. Nothing much taken from those either. Only things missing are grid components. I guess some people got greedy and wanted them all.”

“Have the police caught anyone yet?” said Ashok.

“No-one’s reported the thefts to the police, you dummy. What do they say: ‘Officer, I stole some cables and cans, and now I’ve lost them; what should I do?’ It’s opportunists, maybe not from the Village; probably some City crew.”

Ashok went to check his cabin. The bastards had better not have broken into there. He was pleased to see they hadn’t, but he was nervous now and considered returning the grid components. What would he do with them anyway? He could leave them at the side of the road. No-one would know he had taken them.

As he pondered the best course of action, the end of a wire spool caught his eye. He was no electrician, but that definitely wasn’t copper or aluminium; it seemed like fibre-optic cable. Why would they use that in power lines? What a strange thing to do. He studied the transformer can for clues. There was something about that too; but he couldn’t say what. Hey, was that a USB hub near the bottom? It seemed to be. That was curious. And the can was really light; was there anything in there at all? There were only six screws to undo, which he managed in a minute. The can was filled with computer components. Is that the inside of a transformer, thought Ashok? Just like a PC. He plugged a USB cable from his computer into the transformer. No security code was needed; a series of folders appeared. It made no sense. Files on a transformer.

He thought a search may be fruitful, so typed in his address. A related file appeared. When he opened the file, it had nothing to do with stepping down voltage for transmission to his home. It was a series of snapshots and notes about him. The photos were taken from outside his house – recording his comings and goings. There was a prominent note – an e-sticky – on the file that read: “Grid Systems Analysis: This individual is by nature suspicious. Post-deregulation, he is likely to be disruptive. In the event of his becoming aware of Valley-Wide Surveillance, he would add significant risk to T/T (Telecomms/Telepathy Projects). We recommend elimination.”

Ashok heard the floor creak behind him, but turned too late to see. An elite Hydro Service bullet went right through his head, and hit the transformer. Like a gong marking the end of a great cycle, it clanged too loudly.

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Golden Thread

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to the animals?” asked Andrew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Divine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Counting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell for?” said Gav.

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

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

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

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

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SS

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, SS?” said Stephen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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