Call Me

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , on January 26, 2012 by javedbabar

John never felt the same in town. In the bush he felt free and open, but in town he felt confused and fictitious. He was not himself.

As a result of this he avoided going out. Not just going into town, but going anywhere. The best place for him was his cabin, where he stayed as much as possible. His dad used to say “An Englishman’s home was his castle”. The same held true for a Canadian’s cabin. He could build a glass room onto it, or kick it down; fill it with Swiss cheese, or start a sci-fi book club; butcher a goat and eat its raw heart, or make sweet love to a tattooed girl and then play Naked Twister. He was King here.

But the moment that he stepped out of the door, he felt different. It was subtle to begin with but strengthened quickly. And it depended on his direction of travel. Going up the Valley he felt no difference – still free and easy. But heading into town, the dread set in, and stayed with him until he got home, taking all night to dissipate.

One day John felt the dread still there in the morning. It made him panic – though the panic may have also been part of the dread. He went outside and called his friend Sham. There were five bars on his cellphone instead of the usual one. Wow, upgraded service! Despite this technological advance, Sham didn’t answer, so he left a message on his landline. He didn’t know Sham’s cell number. Then he did the stupidest thing imaginable. Fumbling with the ebony toilet seat, he dropped his phone in the bowl. It sank among turds. Fishing it out was a shitty business. It was dead alright.

Next morning John was out cutting firewood, and returned to find a package at the cabin. The phone company had sent a new phone. How did they know? He hadn’t told anyone. Maybe Sham, somehow? John decided not to open it yet, as additional charges were surely involved. His current phone may come back to life. Stranger things had happened in the Upper Valley.

John kept a good stock of oats, rice, and beans; he had meat in the freezer, plus a vegetable garden, but who can live without some processed junk? Driving into town that day for groceries, he felt free and easy. It was the strangest thing; no dread. The forests were shining; the river seemed miraculous; mountains gleamed with every colour, and pulled down the sky playfully; which replied with “Tag!”

Today, for the first time he could remember, John felt like King of the Village too, or at least a member of its Royal Family. But there was a problem – other Royals didn’t care for him much. They ignored him in the street, barged past him in store aisles, snarled at him at checkouts, and cursed him on the road.

He spotted Sham entering the deli. John parked the truck and followed him in. Sham sat among a group of sparkling faces, people he recognized – Upper Valley farmers. “Hey Johnny!”Sham called out. “King of Naked Twister! How goes it?” The farmers all laughed.

How could he! thought John. That wasn’t for public consumption. Some friend! But then he saw that people were laughing with him, not at him. They loved the thought of his playing Naked Twister. They may even try it themselves. They celebrated his sense of fun.

After a jolly lunch together, John thought he should clear things with the phone company. He asked to borrow Sham’s cell. “My friend, I beg your apology unreservedly,” said Sham with great exaggeration. “But, alas! I am not in possession of a mobile telegraph.” John looked at him confounded. “But I shall entreat our compatriots on your behalf. Sirs, in his time of greatest need, are you willing to loan Master John, Naked Twister, your mobile telegraphs?”

“No Siree!” said a farmer. “I am without telegraph.”

“Me neither,” said another. “I’m still awaitin’ on that Wichita Linesman.”

“Accept my apology, said a third. “But I can shout real loud, and so can my cousin in Strattus, and my brother-in-law in Squashy – though my sister shouts louder – whose voice may just reach the New City.”

“I’ll check the Sky Train times,” said a fourth. “If we can get his voice in before the doors shut – those commuters will repeat anything, and will carry it to The Phone Company, Inc. offices.”

They continued in this manner for many minutes, without “liking” or “sharing” anything, only a sense of fun, as if they had all the time in the world. John noticed that no one was rushing. No one was interrupting. No one was snarling or cursing. And what did these people have in common? They lived in the Upper Valley, true. But more importantly, they didn’t have cell phones.

This thought fired a synapse. After lunch he went to the library and asked for a good book on the brain. The librarian said, “It’s kind of crazy, but I liked this one.” She gave him “The Origins of Consciousness and the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind.”

Its hypothesis was that long ago, humans’ left and right brains were separate organs. The left brain was concerned with daily tasks. The right brain received divine inspiration – manifesting as prophecy, dreams, music, dance, and art. About 5,000 years ago, the two halves became networked and we became self-conscious. Our divine connection came to an end, and was, John realized, ultimately replaced by a connection costing $100+ a month, which also controlled our thoughts, and filled them instead with “news”, ads, offers, posts, updates, tweets, sound bites, comments, likes and dislikes, followers and “friends”.

John decided to return the package to the phone company, plus throw away the shitty cell. But before he reached home, the new cell tower – that had been switched on that morning, boosting his reception – managed to activate his new phone – still in the box –with countless new and enhanced features. His preference algorithms created a filter bubble. This ensured that it was impossible for his present impulsive self to resist opening that box.

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Egg Cetera

Posted in Organic Farming, World Myths with tags , , on January 25, 2012 by javedbabar

Freya loved eggs. She ate as many each day as her age, and by the time she was seven, this was significantly denting the household budget. People told her that she shouldn’t eat so many – think of all the calories, and the cholesterol, and all that fat. But she ran around and played all day, and seemed to be healthy. Besides the grocery bill, her mother wasn’t concerned. As Freya’s birthday approached, however, her mother decided to broach the subject. “Freya, would you like to have a hen house?” she said. “Where you could raise your own eggs? That could be fun.”

Freya didn’t need to be asked twice. For her eighth birthday, her father built her a henhouse and painted it red. He fenced off part of their yard as a run. There was no doubt – this was the best thing that had ever happened in her life. A box of eighteen chicks was on special offer online. Freya ordered them immediately from Celestial Chicks, despite their spelling mistake saying “Free Rune” rather than “Free run”. Freya didn’t sleep until they arrived.

The chicks grew quickly, and before she knew it, they were ready to lay. They all laid their first eggs together on the same day, which was even more thrilling. After this they laid one egg, each and every day, like clockwork. Freya only needed eight eggs daily, so gave the rest to her friends and neighbours, who said the eggs tasted really good. She had a mind to go into the egg business, but needed time to develop her business plan. You can’t rush these things.

After a few days the eggs changed shape; they became more pointed. Her mother said this was due to the hen’s oviduct becoming stronger; its pressure caused the egg to distort. And the eggs became speckled. Her mother said it was due to the soil here lacking calcium; the spotting reduced brittleness. But her mother had no explanation for the patterns that began to appear on the eggs. Every day that week, each hen’s eggs had a particular pattern of speckles. “Quite unusual,” agreed her mother.

This was what could be called a USP, thought Freya: Unique Selling Proposition; something that differentiated you from the herd – or in this case, brood. She had already thought of her brand name: Egg Cetera; but she had a problem – people bought eggs in dozens, and she only had ten to spare daily. She decided to sacrifice two eggs a day to please her customers. She made a sacrifice to herself.

She tried the local restaurants first. They thought she was cute and agreed to try three eggs each. But when she went back the next day, they all said the same thing.

“They are too inconsistent in appearance and taste. Our customers won’t like them.”

“Why don’t you try some more?” she said.

“If the three you gave us are a good sample,” they said. “More eggs will only mean more difference.”

She showed them the patterns. “Look!” They couldn’t see them. “I’ll give you a discount – only 40 cents each instead of fifty.”

“Sorry kid. Try the store.” But the store said that they weren’t approved by the Food Police, so they couldn’t take them.

Freya noticed a strange thing. Whereas before, each hens’ eggs had carried a particular pattern, now they changed daily, with a random mix of designs.

An eagle began circling near the house. Her mother said, “You better watch your hens.” Her father fitted mesh along the top of the run. It made her feel sad, reminding her of battery hens. But she had to protect them.

Freya decided to sell the eggs privately. She would build up a local customer base. She decided her goal was seven customers: a box a week each. But before she began her marketing campaign, her mother said to her, “Someone’s here to see you. I think it’s your first customer.”

“May I help you, Sir?” she said to the bearded, one-eyed man.

“Yes you may. I hear this is the sales office of Egg Cetera.”

“You are correct.” She thought, boy word travels fast in the corporate world.

“I would like to purchase all the eggs you have,” said the man.

“Ok, we have twelve available.”

“Actually I need eighteen,” he said, winking at her. This was unnerving from a man with one eye. It made him seem both sleeping and hurt.

“Well, I am afraid we only have twelve available.” Freya repeated.

“I know that you have eighteen hens,” said the man. “I will pay you well for all of their eggs.”

In a moment of inspiration Freya said, “Ok, we can give you eighteen eggs, but they will be $1 each.” She could buy her personal eggs for 50 cents from the store.

“It’s a deal,” he said. “I will need eighteen eggs every day.”

“Now wait a minute, I only said today.” A quick calculation told her that $18 x 7 days was $126 weekly. “But ok, we will supply you.”

The man came daily for his eighteen eggs, and paid her cash on the spot. It was a sweet arrangement. This continued for a month. In that time the hens got older, and the patterns of the eggs more defined. They began to seem like letters, but no alphabet she knew (she knew Roman letters, and her friends had shown her how to write her name in Cantonese, Japanese, and Punjabi). She thought she’d better apologize to the man for the strange letters.

He said, “There’s no need to apologize, Freya. That’s why I buy them. I’m learning to read them.” Then he winked and walked away laughing.

One day he didn’t come for his eggs. Freya thought there must have been an emergency, and kept them to one side. He didn’t come the next day either, or that whole week. Seven day’s production was impacted. She managed to find other customers, but she was really angry with him.

One day while she was out on her bike, two ravens came hurtling towards her. She put up her arms in defence, but they flew around and landed on her shoulders. They whispered magical sounds into her ears and flew ahead to guide her. She reached a farmhouse in the Meadows. No one was there so she looked inside the barn.

One huge wall was filled with her eggs. They were arranged by the day, with patterns facing front. Beside them was a vast chart filled with cross referenced symbols. An old book lay open, titled, “The Secrets of the Runes”. Freya heard a scream and crash in the forest. She went to see. The bearded, one-eyed man lay bleeding beneath a giant tree, but was laughing. “Thank you, sweet child,” he said. “I have it! I have it! I have it! The Cosmic Egg revealed the mystery, and the Cosmic Tree confirmed it. I know their secret; I am Master of the Free Runes! Now let’s talk business. How big do you want to get?”

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Triangles

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village with tags , , on January 24, 2012 by javedbabar

Bruce was feeling sick this morning; he should have left that old takeaway in the fridge. It had something growing on it, but he’d eaten it anyway; it wasn’t even good to begin with.

The trucks annoyed him more than usual; there was always one on the road. They weren’t local drivers so didn’t know their way too well; they over-sped on Charlie’s Straight Stretch, and then pumped their brakes on Hutchins’ Curve. Bruce didn’t touch his brakes for thirty kilometres, all the way from Lucerne to the Golden turn-off. And these out-of-town truckers hogged the middle of the highway as if Knights of the Road, their reflective orange triangles heraldic signs.

Where were they going anyway? At first he’d thought they were hauling gravel. There was a truck every ten minutes, like a well-run road-building operation. But when a truck’s tarp came loose at the corner, he saw it was spuds. He didn’t recognize the variety; they were like Peruvian Purples but bright blue, looking like Space Spuds.

Why the hell were they hauling spuds up the Valley? They should be hauling them down the Valley, into the City, and across the border. He asked some people, but no one knew.

One day out hunting, he sighted a buck and was taking aim, when a truck’s grinding caused it to bound. Bruce was furious, and felt like shooting out the truck’s tires. As he was preparing to leave, another truck went by. Instead of heading home, Bruce followed it. That bright orange triangle would sure make a good target at night, he thought.

Just before the Golden turn-off, there was roadwork. The truck driver made it through, but Ben’s Frontier was stopped suddenly by the Traffic Control Person. He was annoyed but kept calm. “What are you doing here?” he asked her.

“Oh, just fixing up the road.”

“Why didn’t you let me through?” he said. “Wouldn’t it have been easier?”

“I’m just following orders. One in, one out.”

After five minutes, Ben was allowed to go. No one else appeared. “Where’s the ‘one out’?” he asked her. She shook her head and waved him on. He watched her in his mirror. On her back was a reflective orange triangle.

The next time Ben saw a truck, he followed it again. Once more there was the same charade. The Traffic Control Person stopped him suddenly, for no reason.

“One in, one out again?” he asked her. She nodded. “Listen, where are these trucks going?”

“How should I know?” she said. “I just wave them on. I’m not paid to ask.”

Again no “one out” appeared, and she waved Bruce on. In his mirror, he saw her speak into her radio urgently, and turn to face his receding vehicle, squinting. Was she trying to read his licence plate? When he exited the other end of the construction zone, the man there also spoke into his radio, and squinted at the Frontier. Bruce had noticed that there wasn’t much work going on at this roadwork. In fact there was none at all. What was going on then?

Now Bruce wasn’t a conspiracy theorist in the traditional sense – meaning alien contact, shadowy elites, mass brainwashing, etc. – but he was a conspiracy theorist. A conspiracy was simply a decision made in secret by people with something to hide. No doubt there were plenty of those. And something smelled fishy here. Were they putting in a secret hydro project, or a geothermal installation? Avoiding all the bureaucracy and public consultations. Or maybe an oil well; could it be a mine? The price of metals had rocketed; it could be silver, copper, or even gold.

Bruce followed the next truck he saw. Again the same charade. But this time he drove ever so slowly. If he crawled along, he thought, the truck behind would surely catch him. Then he could see where it went.

As he crept along, he spotted an orange triangle nailed to a tree at the side of the road. He was surprised that he hadn’t seen it before. Up close, he saw a little letter at each corner: A-B-C. But there were no tracks leading off from here, only dense bush on both sides. He pulled his truck off the road a little further up, and walked back to the triangle. The vegetation was strange – so flat that it seemed more like a landscaped hedge than wild bush. He heard a truck behind and took cover.

He watched as the truck simply drove through the bush! He realized that the bush there was a kind of projection; overlapping greens – some light, some dark – blending substantially. He walked right through it, and followed a sharp-rocked forestry road. He hid whenever a truck passed. He reached a rocky entrance, marked by another orange triangle. He considered walking in but felt vulnerable. He awaited the next truck, and when the driver stopped at the entrance to turn and reverse, Bruce jumped between the truck and trailer.

He was taken 500 metres down a dimly-lit tunnel, and into a vast cavern. It smelled very cold and dusty; a bit mouldy. The truck tipped its load of spuds. Bruce jumped out and hid in the lumpy blue pile. Was this a strategic food reserve for the City, he wondered? In case of natural or man-made disaster, people could eat for weeks. Farmers had told him that potatoes required little water to grow, matured quickly, and stored for a year. And they were as close as you could get to a complete food, containing dense energy, proteins, fats, vitamins, and fibre. Everything you needed to survive for extended periods. They were an excellent choice for a regional food store.

Something moved beneath him; then something to his right, and his left. Strong sinewy arms embraced him, his sharp breath only helping the arms to grip tighter. Other finer arms then crept up his body. These knobbly sprouts held budded points. They made their way to his body orifices – the accessible ones: nostrils, ears, mouth, and anus – and ones that required a push – genital, navel, and eye sockets. As the sprouts entered his body, their alkaloids altered his nerve impulses: a-solanine stimulating their firing, and a-chaconine retarding it, until they reached a perfect balance.

The orange triangles Bruce had seen were symbols of Project A-B-C, high-priority research to establish self-nourishing, super-organisms. They must be capable of surviving Armageddon on earth, or existing on inhospitable planets. Bruce was the latest human being the super-organism had absorbed. Its potato base ensured it had plenty of Calories: C; and substantial Body: B. It just needed to boost its A: Awareness.

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Heavens

Posted in Lucerne Village, World Myths with tags , , on January 23, 2012 by javedbabar

Since ancient times, Albans and Negrans had their traditional territories. Albans’ home was of course Mt. Alba, but their lands extended up the Valley for thirty kilometres. Negrans’ base was Mt. Negra, with lands extending down the Valley for seventy kilometres. The accepted boundary between these lands was at the bend in the Valley, between Camel and Rhino Mountains. It was pretty tight there, only one kilometre across.

They had lived as neighbours for thousands of years, not totally peaceably, but generally so. Albans had slowly built up their land. They’d put in roads and power lines and telephone lines and water lines and sewers and bridges and dykes and houses and churches and shops and offices and stores. And they were allowed to. What they did with their land was their business. Negrans rose above petty differences and didn’t fuss. They lived in the forest simply, and focussed their efforts on inner development. But Albans’ powerful new transmitters did not respect boundaries. These objects designed for connection caused disruption and headaches. They were a step too far.

Negrans felt that they should do something, and at dawn engaged in extended communion. They had no need for wireless transmitters, for all their minds were connected. They simply shared their thoughts. Albans had also once shared their thoughts, but only until the two tribes had separated. Initially there had been no hostility between them, for they had all dreamed this great landscape together; conceived every rock and river; germinated every tree; they were holy brethren in this mighty work. But then differences began to show.

Negrans wanted to keep the land just as it was; to nourish and replenish it, and create an eternal sanctuary. Albans wished to use the land’s abundant materials ingeniously, in a continual quest for perfection. Neither of them wished to imprison the other’s vision, so they agreed to part, and established themselves separately at Negra and Alba.

Negrans had felt for some time that Albans were not honouring the spirit of their agreement. There had been many breaches of the accepted boundary; forestry roads here, subdivisions there, river bridges, and mountain huts – but these were small things, and Negrans let them slide. But that slippery slope had led to this – the powerful new transmitters. They requested a meeting with Albans to discuss the matter, but they said that they were too busy. Could it wait until next year?

Some action was needed to attract their attention.

The Negrans sent a flood to warn them. It wasn’t a big thing, just a couple of days of hard rain overwhelming the watershed. Vast sheets of rippling silver clothed the land. Albans knew this tactic from previous disputes, and were well prepared. Their dikes held much of the water back, and their raised homes were mostly unaffected. But it resulted in a week of chaos.

Rather than responding, Albans entrenched further. They said they wouldn’t meet at all. The Negrans sent forest fires – just a stray shard of lightning, and a huge fir was ablaze. Flames spread quickly through stands of pine, spruce and cedar, until it seemed the Valley was clothed in fiery robes. Albans had also dealt with this before. They cut out firebreaks, dropped red powder from the sky, pumped water continuously from the river, and eventually controlled it.

Then Albans inflamed the situation by announcing that they were accelerating their energy projects in the Upper Valley – hydroelectric, geothermal, and wind turbines. Negrans caused a huge landslide, the largest ever known. It wiped out bridges, roads, and mines. The torrent of mud blocked the river entirely, and acted as a dam. A huge brown lake built up behind this barrier, ready to breach it, and run amok down the Valley. Thousands of years of Alban development would be smashed, covered, or washed away.

Albans finally panicked and evacuated the Valley. They sent word that they would meet at the boundary for talks, and reminded Negrans that they too had powers– dynamite sticks, chemical sprays, open-cast mining, and clear-cut logging.

When Albans and Negrans met, it seemed more a battlefield than a conference. Each side treated this stand off as a show of force. Negrans held fir staffs tipped with sharp crystals, and polished metal shields. Albans had firearms and Kevlar. Their leaders met on the sandbank in the middle of the river.

Albans pleaded their case for progress. They said it would bring comfort, prosperity, and security to increasing numbers. It was the logical thing to do. Were silly Negrans not still living in stick huts without telecommunications? Negrans spoke of natural cycles, and creating harmony and balance, which represented humanity’s true place in the world. It was the spiritual thing to do. Did not foolish Albans take aircraft to shoot golf balls from mountaintops?

When it was clear that there would be no agreement, Negrans threatened use of their ultimate weapon – Imagination. While Negrans had retained the ability to share their thoughts, Albans had become increasing reliant on artificial methods of transmission. What they didn’t realize was that Imagination has both individual and shared components. Negrans had, as goodwill to their brethren, for centuries now been providing the shared component. The time had now come to withdraw it. Each Alban, from now on, would have only tiny, trivial thoughts. They would spend ever more time with their technologies, trying to connect with each other. But each would always remain alone.

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Ajar

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

Iy hid among the produce; it was the nicest spot. Iy loved the beautiful colours, textures, and smells. Some of the round red objects were a little squashy, and Iy managed to squeeze out some salty juice. However the long orange things were hard; Iy scraped his gums along one of them, but the surface was bitter and impenetrable. The long yellow objects were also hard, but he found one whose tip was a little soft. When he sat on it, brown mush squeezed out. It was the sweetest, most delicious thing he had ever eaten. He squeezed out as much as he could.

Iy reached up for an orange ball, but as soon as he grasped it, countless others fell and scattered. Some of them hit him on the head, but they weren’t too hard. They bounced away, leaving a fresh, tangy smell in the air. Iy squashed one between his hands, and more smell emanated from within. He felt intoxicated, almost like… when? He rested a while among green bushes.

Iy wandered into a cooler area. The closer he got, the colder it became. He saw round tubs of something, and also cartons. Most of them were white, with colourful letters and signs, and pictures of a thing with black and white patches. This thing was somehow familiar. Iy found himself saying “Oom!” He reached for a carton but it was too cold to hold for long.

Iy ended up in a horrible area. It smelled of death. He left it and returned to his most reliable source of nutrition – the long tubes that you pushed and out came food. He was still amazed by the variety of things within them. How did you remember? How did you choose? There were hard, oily things the size of his toes. And salty, crisp things like his fingers. Plump things that for some reason reminded him of “Oom!” And sweet, bright mixes that made his head spin.

Iy had been here for a week now. Where he came from, he didn’t know. Why he was here, he didn’t know either. But he knew that he must keep himself hidden, and keep moving around. This all seemed wrong somehow. He felt this wasn’t the right place for him at all. Iy wondered if one day he would find that place, and maybe there would find others Iy’s.

There were alternating seasons. The first one was when beings with trolleys came with boxes and put things on shelves. Then many beings came and took those things off the shelves. Then beings with loud machines went up and down the rows. Then the quiet time, when lights were dimmed, and everyone left, and Iy could emerge for adventures.

Sometimes Iy wondered whether to show himself, but a voice inside said that he should never do that; these beings were not his friends; they were nasty beings. And this was confirmed when he saw the situation of other beings resembling himself. These tiny creatures were imprisoned by the giant beings. They were strapped to the giant’s bodies, or pushed around in mobile prisons. He knew about those somehow… Some of the tiny beings were allowed to move independently but only on a leash. They were made to repeat whatever the giants said, and often made to cry.

Some of the tiny creatures sensed his presence. They communicated enthusiasm and goodwill, and tried to alert the giant beings. Were they traitors, he wondered? Or maybe jealous of his liberty? Luckily their communication skills were undeveloped, and they were unable to give him away.

The scariest moment was when a new kind of being caught his scent. It came right up to his hiding place behind the long tubes, and sniffed and woofed. This being was familiar. He said to himself, “God”. This being was kind, and realized that Iy should be left alone. The god retreated, pulling one of the giant beings behind him, who had big black eyes, and a long white finger that tapped the ground. Despite his being guided by the god, the giant was clumsy and collided with a trolley, causing a box to fall off.

Iy felt a surge of awareness. Something inside that box made him feel angry and happy and sad. These were the strangest feelings that he had ever experienced. He needed to know what was in that box. Iy considered crawling over immediately, but a giant being appeared, so he hid himself away.

When the being was gone, Iy couldn’t restrain himself. He crawled over to the box. He lifted himself high and peered over its edge. But the box was empty. The being had already put its contents up on the shelves.

When the quiet time came, and lights dimmed, Iy attempted an audacious adventure. He found a stack of blue cans on a row end, and climbed upon them, one at a time. He made it to a shelf near the top. But there was no easy way from there. Iy hauled himself up as best as he could, grasping plum sauce jars, and catching footholds on pickles. He peered over the edge of the next shelf up.

There were jars filled with tiny beings like himself, all sleeping, with smiling faces. Their labels said, “Happy Baby Brand – Genetically Modified Meat – Too Cute To Eat!” He had a brief moment of elation, when “Iy” became “Iy’s”, followed by horrific despair. Iy grasped two jars – he wasn’t really sure if for support, or to pull them off – and fell with them to the ground.

Next morning, workers cursed the mess. “Oh shit!” said one. “I was rushing yesterday. I had to play hockey. Maybe I didn’t stack them well. What’s the worst they’ll do? Take some jars off my wages? I’ve never been able to eat them myself. It almost seems like they’re alive.”

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Pity Party

Posted in Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , on January 21, 2012 by javedbabar

Peter awoke feeling sorry for himself. There was no real reason, it was just an occasional indulgence. Pity for the things that could have been, but hadn’t happened. Oh, he could have been a world-class athlete, a devoted husband, a father to many smiling children, a vast landowner, a big game hunter, and so much more. He lay awake, looking at the ceiling.

In a high corner of the cabin was a spider’s web, and there was the little black rascal spinning it. The powers of this eight-legged creature were awesome: to create a world from your own body, and to entrap and enfold other beings within it.

Peter looked out of the window. It was a gloomy day. Why couldn’t it be sunny, so he could go for a run along the Meadows Road? The sunshine inspired him; it was something to run towards. But this weather was cheerless. Why would someone want to go outside in that?

After an uneasy sleep-in, he accepted that there was no way out. He had to get up and go to work. He did a fat shit, brushed his teeth, and had a quick shower. Pulsating eucalyptus  waters roused his spirits, but when he opened the fridge, they fell again. Fuck! He was out of milk. Why didn’t he buy some from the gas station yesterday? Or keep a stock of evaporated milk? But he hated that stuff. And cereal with water was just wrong.

Because of Peter’s sleep-in, his timings were off. He was a half-hour behind schedule. As he started the truck, he heard the closing bars of his favourite radio show. That Native comic was hilarious, and the East Indian one, and the woman with the lisp – talk about shameless! How could she even conceive of doing that with cayenne peppers! But shit! Shit! He’d missed it. There was some show about psychology, talking about how your thoughts affect your perceptions, which in turn affect your behaviour. Then flaky bullshit about affecting your “realities”.

He was late so pushed the truck hard, slowed behind an old lady driver, and once around the bend, flew past her at 160. No cops here ever. He saw her look of shock in his mirror. He, he, he!

But then his truck wobbled. Bastard! He realized that he had a flat. The low-pressure warning light blinked last night, but he hadn’t been concerned. That sensor was way too sensitive. But the slow puncture was now a flat. He changed the tire, cursing continuously. A spider ran out from somewhere. The old lady driver flowed past him, smiling.

Peter entered the office hoping for company, but there was no-one about. Where was that pretty new receptionist? He enjoyed flirting with her. Anyway, it was all good if she wasn’t there – he could watch porn and play video games.

He switched on his computer. It took forever, and then the blue screen wobbled and quickly died. Cunt! What the hell was wrong with that machine? He called the IT guy and left him an abusive message, telling him to choose between “the blue pill or the poison pill, either way you’re fucked.” Then he went out to grab a coffee.

The girl at the coffee shop seemed familiar, but he wasn’t sure how. Her golden orbs were pushed together, bursting out of her low-cut top. She tried to charge his card, but there was a system error. She swiped it again but still no luck. Peter said to her “Why don’t you swipe it down your cleavage, and I’ll give you a tip?” She bared her teeth uncomfortably, and tried a third time. This was successful. But while Peter was adding cream and sugar, the manager came over and asked him to apologize to her. Peter told him to fuck off, and was immediately asked to leave, and banned from the coffee shop. Idiot people around here, he thought, they can’t take a joke.

When he returned to work, his boss was waiting. She said, “Peter, may I have a word with you?”

“Sure, right now?”

“Yes,” she said severely. “Right now. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Complaints against you from staff, suppliers, and customers have built up to an unacceptable level. It seems that you do not comprehend good behaviour. The company can no longer be associated with such rudeness. You can either resign immediately, or I will fire you. Which would you prefer?”

Peter informed her of his choice – and plenty more besides. He left her shaking with rage and tears. At least he’d made a lasting impression.

He went to the pub and ordered an early drink. In the daylight the pub looked different; less shiny, less clean. More hopeless. It even had cobwebs. That barman should dust higher.

Peter stayed there all day, moping. He told each new customer his woes. Eventually he was too drunk to speak coherently, but kept bothering people, leading to a small tussle with the barman. Peter fell and bashed his head on a chair, and his mouth was edged with blood. “Bash-tard! You broke my tooth!” He slurred as he was thrown out. “I just wanted one more beer.”

Peter managed to start his truck and drove it a hundred yards, before red and blue lights flashed behind him. He pushed the accelerator to try to get away, and then the brake to stop. He was breathalysed and ticketed, and his car impounded. A taxi took him home, where he found an eviction noticed pinned to his door. “Your sexual harassment of my niece today at the coffee shop was intolerable. Please vacate this suite tomorrow. Your damage deposit will not be returned.” Peter ripped the notice off the door and tore it up.

He fell into bed but couldn’t sleep. In the high corner of the cabin, the spider’s web had grown larger. His unfocussed eyes made it seem that he was within it. His sunshine, his breakfast, his laughter, his truck, his job, his coffee, his beer, his home, and his dreams, were stuck in its strands. Each dark deed trapped him further. And Peter wondered if he was the spider, the insect, or the web?

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Water

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on January 20, 2012 by javedbabar

Valley water was crappy, filled with tannins and iron; it stank bright orange. And Village water was so heavily chlorinated that it tasted like laundry detergent. That’s why Jane went into the bush twice a month to get fresh water. There was a natural spring there, just off the forestry road beside the Syon River. A rutted hundred metre spur took you there.

Jane would fill two 18.9-litre water bottles on every visit. A refill from the gas station was $10 including tax, so she was saving $40 a month, almost $500 a year. Not bad. She also filled some 4-litre milk jugs for convenience.

She was usually alone during her ten-minute turn around. This was good, as she wasn’t entirely sure if this was Crown Land or private land. The occasional entrance of another vehicle created a logistical issue – she couldn’t back out – but these situations were resolved with her water brothers and sisters in a friendly manner. They would assist each other filling up, and then back out together through bushes.

One day Jane found a naked, dreadlocked hobo floating in the spring. Her immediate reaction was shock – was he dead? This changed to fear – would he attack her? Then anger – he was polluting the spring! Then helpless laughter – what on earth was he doing?

Her laughter took a while to reach him, as he was muttering to himself. When he sensed it through the ripples, he blinked his eyes rapidly, covered his genitals with both hands, lost his balance, and sank promptly. His arms and dreadlocks flailed around. The water was chest-high and he settled in the gravel. He sat there with his mouth open, looking fishy.

“Excuse me,” said Jane, suppressing giggles, “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Oh, I was,” he said, looking into the ripples, rather than at her. “Just topping up my seventy percent.” Then he smiled up at her. “They must have taught you at school that the human body is seventy percent water? And that seventy percent of the earth’s surface is covered by water? And that seventy percent of fresh water usage is for agriculture? And that the search for life in space is seventy percent about locating water?”

Jane nodded along, not sure if she was agreeing with or humouring him. She said, “Yesss…”

“Do you know the expression, ‘As above, so below’?”

“I recall it from science class, or was it religion?”

“They’re much the same. It’s a reminder that everything on earth is yoked to the heavens. The moon affects the tides. The sun makes rain. Other planets and stars have subtle gravitational effects. And thus we accomplish the miracles of the One thing.”

Jane was about to say that the “one thing” people used this spring for was drinking water, so would he please get out. But it somehow seemed right that he was there. He was so unexpected that context was impossible. She learned his name was Michel, said goodbye and left.

The next time she came, Michel was floating upside down. This time he’s dead for sure, she thought; he’s taken “As above, so below” too far. But then she heard a sort of gargling, and saw bubbles emerging. He turned around, saw her, waved, lost his balance, and sank. When she asked what he had been doing, he said, “Wu wei. Doing without doing.”

Next month she couldn’t get into the spur road. There was a sign saying, “Do not drink,” and tape saying, “Do not cross”. The Health Police had poked their nose in. She parked her truck and walked in with the 4-litre bottles. When she mentioned the new signage to Michel, he promptly destroyed the sign and tore off the tape. “A just war,” he said.

One day he was coughing. “Just getting used to the water again,” he said.

“But you’ve been in water every time I’ve come,” said Jane.

“Yes, but it’s going to take a while to adjust again.”

“How so?” said Jane, filling her 18.9-litre bottle.

“It took us billions of years to leave the oceans, so it may take a while to get back.” Who were we, Jane wondered – bacteria? algae? – and why would we want to “go back”? Something broke the surface. It was a large red carp. Michel stroked its head, and the fish submerged. “Just getting reacquainted,” he said.

The next time she saw him, Jane gasped and dropped her bottles. They rolled into ruts. She ran to Michel who was sitting beside the spring, tending wounds. “What happened to you?” she said.

“Not everyone feels the same as you do about me being here, Jane. I guess it’s time to move on.”

“What!” she shouted. “Someone did this to you?” Tears started down her cheeks, racing to the spring.

“Yes, but don’t worry. They’re superficial wounds.” He refused to be taken to the medical centre, or to the cops. He said, “It is other people’s water too.” She tried to talk him into coming to her house, at least for a hot meal. He thanked her for her kind offer, but said he was fine.

The next time Jane went to the spring, Michel wasn’t there. She ran back down the spur road towards the river. Far away she saw him – she thought – waving at her, losing his balance, and sinking. She could only smile.

Jane was happy that Michel had blessed the spring with his presence. She knew that pure water was tasteless, colourless, and odourless; but his muttering and strange behaviour had affected the spring somehow. She had heard about the Japanese Professor who said that human consciousness affected water’s molecular structure. Had its negatively and positively charged particles been reconfigured, and its attractive and repulsive forces rebalanced, by a quiet reverse baptism? Water is called the universal solvent for a reason. Whenever Jane took a sip of spring water after that, she felt peace, joy, and love, and all her worries disappear.

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Teacup

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , on January 19, 2012 by javedbabar

Raj sat cross-legged in bed and drank his tea. This was how he started his day always: slow and civilized. Then it was off to work at the popular tea, coffee, and whisky merchants, Brown Stuff. He was going nowhere there, but it was a steady job.

Raj couldn’t handle coffee in the mornings – it was way too harsh. He would lose his sleep immediately, and with that the crazy wonderland between sleeping and waking that produced his best ideas. He rationalized this as unstructured thought – a Rubik’s cube of possibilities that you solved in reverse. You started with the colours aligned, and twisted them into any arrangement that pleased you. That, rather than uniform colour blocks, was somehow always the answer.

“Good morning!” said a cheery British voice. “May I help you?”

“Huh?” said Raj. He wondered if he was still dreaming, or sick, or hung over. His “whisky tasting” had gotten a little out of hand last night.

“Hey! I said good morning!”

Raj had been sipping his tea with eyes shut, and now opened them wide. Had he left the radio on? Maybe the television? Or Skype?

“What’s wrong with you man! Did nobody teach you manners?”

Raj shook his head and blinked hard. The sound was very near. It seemed to be coming from his teacup. “Getting warmer!” said the voice. “By the way, I must commend you on that. You warm the cup first. I know it’s not quite a pot, but it makes such a difference. These North Americans murder tea. They have no idea.”

Raj peered into the cup, almost expecting to see a little person in there. A sort of lep-tea-chaun. But there was nothing there, just a few drops remaining, and a shiny bottom.

The voice continued. “Let’s get this awkwardness over with. Come on, look deeply into the cup. That’s it. Don’t be shy, put your nose in. Don’t breathe so hard, you’ll fog things up. Now can you see me?” Raj mumbled something, peering into the black shiny teacup. “I’ll take that as a yes. I know that I may look like a creepy reflection to you. Believe me, I’m not too happy about it either. But that’s the best I can do right now. People have been doing this for hundreds of years – looking into tea leaves – and sorry about the C-word – coffee grounds. And studying goat shit and cattle guts – you have to admit I’m better than that.”

Raj was speechless. He could see something moving at the bottom of the cup. But it held only his distorted features.

“Look, I know that you could throw a dice, flip a coin, open a book to any page, or see who comes along next. But stick to the old ways, my friend. They’re tried and tested. The Way of Tea has been with us from the beginning. Think of India and China. And look at the nations promoting it in recent times – Britain and Japan. Both world leaders! Now who pushes – sorry again about the C-word – coffee? Italians, Indonesians, and Ethiopians. All disasters! Need I say more?

Raj nodded his head, forgetting it was still in the cup. He banged the bridge of his nose and top front teeth. He pulled away and put down the cup. He held his nose and teeth.

“You have been initiated my friend. Let’s get to work.”

Raj thought of taking the day off – he was clearly unwell. But he couldn’t stay here either. He needed to get out. So he showered, dressed, and left.

He was drawn to the office kettle. It was in an offset kitchenette, where two was a crowd. A foxy brunette from Sales almost came in, but saw him and retreated. He returned to his desk with his first cup of tea. He was somewhat fearful, and nervously gulped it down.

With his last mouthful, he heard a kind of throat-clearing. “About time too!” said the voice. “What kept you? Anyway, I’m here for you my friend. That sweet lady back there – your heart jumped. You like her, don’t you? Well that’s hardly a challenge, but we should start slowly, so you can build confidence in your new buddy. So look, here’s what I want you to do. Next time she comes in, offer to make her some tea. In fact, insist on it. Say it’s a new blend that she just has to try; her customers will love it. Leave the rest to me.”

Raj made the foxy brunette some tea. By the weekend she was in his bed.

“Next up, my friend, is to strengthen your position here. I’ve noticed that new guy makes you uncomfortable. Why do they keep bringing in consultants? Overpaid buffoons. I know he’s examining your department, looking for cuts. Make him a cup of tea.”

The consultant realized that Raj’s team were the key drivers of profitability within the business. He recommended cuts in the coffee team.

“You are going places, my friend. But your boss has been in that big corner office for far too long. Wouldn’t you say it’s time for him to move on? Let’s give him a good brew.”

The boss announced that he was taking early retirement. He would sail to Kenya with his wife on a tea clipper.

“Sorry for the C-word – coffee is not good for you; it’s got thrice the caffeine of tea. And when you ask for a double-double grande soya mocha frappuccino, who knows what other junk? And whisky is a toxin. It’s not even brown! Just caramel colour. Call a board meeting, and let’s serve them a cuppa.”

The board agreed with Raj’s mantra that there was “No C in Strategy – No W in Future – But both contain T”. Brown Stuff sold their coffee and whisky businesses, and used the funds to buy other tea companies. They became North America’s biggest tea merchants.

Sitting cross-legged in bed one morning, Raj looked into the bottom of his teacup. For a moment he saw his own clear reflection. Almost immediately it was replaced by the distorted version. “You have a meeting today with a scientist who says that tea increases the chances of throat cancer. Make him some tea. Then in your desk drawer, you will find a handgun…”

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Morning Light

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , on January 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Grandma’s ritual was to light a candle daily. She said it kept the spirits away. “There’s good spirits and bad spirits,” she said. “But you don’t know which is which. So you better play safe and keep them all out, or you’ll be in for a nasty shock one day. You’ll run round looking for matches, but won’t find any.  And even if you do, the candles will have disappeared. And if you find the candles, they’ll be damp or rancid. The spirits are quicker than you. If you miss your chance in the morning, that’s it.”

Grandma never missed her chance in the morning. She was up at dawn to light a candle, wherever she was. This was tricky when travelling, as naked flames are forbidden in hotel rooms, but she’d say, “Spirits know if you haven’t lit a candle; hotel managers don’t know if you have.” This proved to be generally true. Except for the time when the hotel manager was alerted by the smoke alarm, and activated his sprinkler system. Grandma claimed that he was an evil spirit who didn’t play by the rules.

Grandpa didn’t like her lighting candles. Firstly he thought it was dangerous. Burning candles were the number one source of house fires in the country. Secondly, he thought it was superstitious. Thirdly – despite secondly – he felt that if you thought about something, you made it more likely to occur. So lighting candles was self-defeating. It was best to not think of spirits at all.

Grandma said, “Now there are five hundred people in the Valley, and two thousand in town. But when we first came here, we were the only ones living out here in the bush. I was a city girl who’d married a country boy. It was a greater wilderness than any I’d imagined. It frightened me. That’s when I began lighting candles. And that’s what my grandma used to do too. She lit hers to honour God. Mine were mainly for hope.”

A country boy works hard to survive. There’s no easy money or taking days off. As well as being a trapper, logger, and miner, Grandpa was also a hunter, carpenter, and farm hand. He did it all. The logging and mining kept him away for weeks at camp; he could be gone for a month or more. These were the most difficult times for Grandma. The candle became a reminder of him. A light to keep him safe. A beacon to guide him home.

The light was Grandma’s daily companion, and she saw its subtle changes. Of course these depended on the type of candle she used – beeswax, paraffin wax, soy wax, tallow, or spermaceti. The flames burned mainly orange, but within that hue were many others. Like a lover of fine wines, Grandma saw their infinite variety. Every flame had something to say.

A good candle was a good candle for Grandma, whatever it was made of – except resins and gels, which were unnatural. If the candle was well-constructed, unscented, and undyed, it burned well. But in truth it was the wick that made the candle. Its capillary action drew melted wax up to the flame to vaporize and combust. And as the candle burned, a good wick curled back into the flames. It was not the fuel, but was itself consumed.

Grandma noticed that similar candles burned differently. It had less to do with the candle than the day. She saw that all candles burned violet on birthdays, and green near Christmas; they burnt red at Easter, and blue on anniversaries; they burned yellow on happy days, and darkly on days of sadness. When they finally got television, she saw that good news led to pink flames, and bad news to grey. The flame was still orange, but its hidden colour was revealed to her. She didn’t tell anybody about it. It was her secret knowledge, and she didn’t want people to think she had cabin fever.

As soon as she lit a candle in the morning, usually with an Agni match – made by East Indians in the City – she knew what kind of day it would be, and was able to prepare herself for it physically and mentally. If it was indigo, she would pin back her shoulders, shove her chest out, hold up her head, and push against the assaults lined up for her. If it was lemon, she looked forward to a day with her feet up.

One winter morning the candle wouldn’t light at all. She tried many times with her Agni matches. This had never happened before. She changed the beeswax candle to a paraffin one, then a tallow one, then a soy wax one, even her Grandma’s antique Spermaceti. But none of them took. Grandma went upstairs and put on a black dress. Maybe today was not a day to keep spirits away with candles. There was a soul far away that needed to come home.

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Orchextra

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , on January 17, 2012 by javedbabar

Knock-knock! Dana ignored it. Knock-knock! She ignored it again.

“Honey, may I come in?” said Tony.

Dana withdrew her mind from Supersoul. The divine colour of water-filled clouds eased into that of pale blue wall. It wasn’t so different – more a question of quality than hue. “Yes, honey,” she said slowly. “Come in.”

“Hey Firecracker” – he’d called her that since she’d gone from blonde to redhead – “I know you are doing yoga, but I thought you’d like to see this.” His lips quivered when he was thrilled about something. She wanted to kiss him right now.

Tony brought over his laptop, hesitantly. “Honey, I need to focus,” she said smiling broadly. “That’s why I could do with a distraction. Go ahead.”

“Are you sitting comfortably?” he said. His lips quivered again.

“Only enough to merge with the Supersoul. I guess that’s pretty comfy.”

“I knew I had it somewhere. Good job I didn’t empty my recycle bin. It was hiding there. Ready?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a historic moment captured on video.”

“Hey, I told you to get rid of that video! You never know where it might end up. Do you really want to see your wife on the internet doing that?” She felt her brow furrow. Sudden tension. Just what she needed to avoid today.

“No, not that!” said Tony, waving his arms as if flapping the idea away. “I got rid of that, honest! Though it was a minor classic of Sea-To-Sky sensuality….”

“Tony…”

“Just kidding you. Look…” he clicked. The Transparent Temple – their nickname for the fancy community centre – appeared, surrounded by crowds. It was last year’s Canada Day. The camera zoomed towards the first floor balcony, showing a dozen people in smart black dress. Amongst them was Firecracker holding her cello. The small orchestra sat down, tuned up, and began playing. It was Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, reworked as a dance tune. It started off gently – flowing like caresses – and then burst with beats – like your brain was your heart. The crowd went crazy, threw their arms in the air. It was classical music renewed. It felt great to move people so strongly and deeply; more than she’d ever done before.

And that was the day when she’d heard the sounds. At first she thought it was feedback harmonics, but listened more closely, and was confused. She wasn’t playing those notes, they were way too deep. Long, long frequencies, like hundred metre strings being bowed. And a big boom somewhere, and mighty clangs, and long whistles like trains. She wondered whether she was going a bit crazy. But others told her that they’d heard the sounds too. The mysterious vibrations resonated with her vision of Supersoul. They had sparked her idea; the one that had brought her here today. She was tuning herself for the biggest day of her life.

“Do you remember what the District said when you suggested it?” said Tony. “And BC Hydro? And the lawyers?” She smiled completely. He liked that red lipstick, setting off her hair. “I’m so proud of you, honey. Tonight will be unforgettable.”

It was only when CBC got involved that things had started moving. Initially she wasn’t keen on the name “Orchextra”, but after a while got used to it.

An hour later, Dana left the house. Cranes and scaffolds were set up along the Meadows Road. They were concentrated at the end of the power lines near Camel Mountain. This was Dana’s place – pole position. The production crew fussed over her. They adjusted her hair, her makeup, and her dress, and then clipped on a microphone and earpiece. Two hours later, she was ready to start.

At 11.30am they did final checks on the power lines. A micro-current ran through them. They put her in a zoom boom and raised her up thirty feet. She was ready. At exactly midday, she put her bow to the neutral wire. From down the Valley she heard the sounds of people striking big boulders, which sang out like clear bells. From up the Valley, others beating the trunks of huge cedars, which hurt like vast drums. Everywhere in the Valley, people used compressors to push air through their chimneys, and blew into car exhaust pipes. A range of shrill, strong whistles filled the air, everywhere. It was time.

The front of her cello was spruce, the sides maple, the bridge pine, the bass bar willow, the sound post fir, the purfling ebony and abalone; all affixed by hide glue. Many fine craftsmen had built that instrument. But her instrument today was an insulated copper cable. Her bow was of brazilwood, stretched with horsehair. Dana drew her bow across the wire, which stretched from here to the Village, an instrument of thirty kilometres, ready for her touch. She was the lead player, with cellists raised up every kilometre to strengthen her sound. It would meet the sounds coming from elsewhere in the Valley to create a mighty circuit of sonance.

Today was September 22nd, 2012, fall equinox. This was the great practice.

The great performance would be on December 21st, 2012: the winter solstice. The “X” in Orchextra came via Ancient Arabic, Old Spanish, and Mathematics. It was used by Malcolm X, X-Rays, Generation X, and the Illiterate to sign their names. In all these cases it represented the same thing: an unknown quantity. On this night, ancient and modern, natural and cultural, vibrations would fuse together. This would be the sound – a last brave howl, as the planet Nibiru approached earth, its collision now confirmed – of the end of the world. What the future held for humanity after this was unknown.

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