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Dreamtime Pillow

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , on May 26, 2012 by javedbabar

Alli’s allergies were getting worse. Her doctor gave her many tests but couldn’t identify anything specific. He said it was GHD: General Hypersensitivity Disorder, and gave her a long list of “precautions against allergens”.

She cut all nuts and grains from her diet, avoided dogs, cats, and horses, hoovered her room daily, used mattress, duvet, and pillow protectors, and changed her linens twice-weekly. No peanut butter or bread was torture initially, and not stroking her friend’s pets made her sad, but after a while they became habitual. None of these “precautions against allergens” really seemed to work though. They had only marginal effects. Alli faced the fact that she would be puffy-eyed, sore-throated, blocked-nosed, scratchy-skinned, and always sneezing for the rest of her life, or at least till she became an adult. Her doctor said that many allergies disappeared when you were eighteen.

One day she saw an online ad for a special pillow. The Dreamtime Pillow was made of a unique material containing anti-allergens. Its memory foam adapted to your heat and weight, and was organic, fair-trade, local, and made by certified professionals, all over eighteen years of age. There was a double-money-back guarantee, meaning that if it didn’t help you sleep more soundly, they would give you twice your money back. Alli used her mom’s credit card to order one immediately, and the Dreamtime Pillow arrived the next day.

There were clear instructions not to cover the pillow, not even with a pillowcase. For maximum effectiveness, you should sleep with it touching your head. It was more a cushion than a full size pillow, so Alli put her usual pillow beneath it to avoid straining her neck. She remembered settling in to sleep, and then whoom! waking up the next morning. There was no dozing off, or easing out of slumber; she had fallen like a log and slept right through.

“Good morning, love,” said her mom. “How was your new pillow?”

“I don’t know,” said Alli, rubbing her eyes out of habit rather than need.

“I slept really well, and my nose and throat seem better, but…”

“But what darling? Did you have a bad dream?”

“That’s what feels strange, mum.” Alli stretched towards her for a hug. “I didn’t have any dreams. I always have dreams and remember them when I wake up, and sometimes change them while I’m still dozing. But I don’t remember anything at all this morning. I feel kind of empty.”

Her mom said, “That’s good though, isn’t it love? You usually feel bloated, sort of over-full, and now you feel empty. Maybe that pillow is helping your allergies.”

Alli decided to stick with the pillow. She used it all week and slept better than ever, but the feeling of emptiness remained. Where had her dreams gone?”

Alli woke one morning with her head fatter than ever. Her eyes wept, throat itched, nose ran, skin crawled, and she began sneezing immediately. Her allergies were really bad. Wasn’t her new pillow working anymore? Wait a minute, where was her new pillow? She saw that it was gone.

Allis’ mom was really angry with her. “I know it made you feel strange, but you shouldn’t have thrown it away. We could have got double our money back. That’s the last time you buy something on my card.”

Her mom wouldn’t believe that the pillow had disappeared. Alli decided to investigate the matter herself. She skipped school and took a bus to the City, and went to the pillow company’s store. Maybe they gave refunds for missing pillows. “I’ve come about the Dreamtime Pillow,” she said to the salesman.

“Ah! We have the perfect pillow for you Miss, just in. It’s pre-filled with dreams. All yours for the taking. But before buying it, why don’t you test this empty one. That’s right, just close your eyes…”

Alli was asleep immediately. She didn’t see the salesman press a red button beneath his desk, alerting the Dream Lab at the back of the store. They would be delighted to have a dream-subject personally available. The Returns Dept – whose job it was to retrieve dream-filled pillows at night – were always short on customer information.

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Black Light

Posted in Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2012 by javedbabar

The city had got too hot for Shama. Things seemed hopeless, like a blackout blind pulled over his life.  The landlord would keep his damage deposit, but he hadn’t paid last month’s rent anyway, so all’s fair-square. Not that he had any wish to please that asshole, but it was the easiest way out. He threw what he had into his backpack, took the bus to the edge of town, and stood beside the Sea to Sky Highway.

It wasn’t long before he caught a ride to Strattus, and on to Lucerne. Shama didn’t want to go way into the bush, what would he do there? He could barely manage urban survival; forget wilderness survival. Being in the bush may also attract attention. Fewer people but more bears.

He pitched his tent at the base of a mountain near a natural spring. The one thing he couldn’t do without was water. The river was nearby, good for washing. He walked into Lucerne Village daily, which took an hour each way. A few people started saying hello to him. He wasn’t rude, just unresponsive. He said hello back and moved on.

A weird-looking old guy became familiar, over six feet tall, unshrunken with age. His beard was a strange golden white. He walked around in monk-like black robes, and was clearly ethnic, though from where was hard to say. People seemed to treat him as special, but he remained always alone. His only activity seemed to be walking along the Lucerne Valley Road, at a steady speed, to God knows where. Shama had only been here two weeks, but couldn’t recall an occasion when he hadn’t passed him on the road when going in or out of the village.

One day at dusk, Shama spied the old man ahead. He gritted his teeth and prepared to speed past him. A car went by and the old man’s robes caught its headlights; it seemed as if their black glowed.

Shama wondered if the man had any money. If he robbed, or even killed him, who would know? He could wash his knife in the river. This was the thought going through his head as he approached the old man.

“Don’t even think about it.” Shama heard a soft voice inside his head. “Your weapon is useless against me. My mind is greater than your weapon.” He looked at the old man, but he couldn’t have spoken these words; he was too far away. Shama stopped and turned around, and then started walking again, faster. The voice continued, “One truth we know is that you can’t get away from yourself. Wherever you go, there you are.”

“Who’s saying that?” Shama shouted. “Who are you?”

“I am Guru Baba,” said the old man. “Walk with me awhile. Let’s talk.”

“But you’re talking to me inside my head already! Get out! Get out!” Shama moved threateningly towards the old man but knew that it was a useless gesture. From his days of street crime, you know when someone’s untouchable.

“I have a proposal for you. You see me walking every day. Despite the power of my soul, my mind is deteriorating. So many people still need so much from me. I need an assistant. Will you help me?”

Shama was surprised. “Me, help you? How?”

“We’d be helping each other. You can help me with administrative tasks, and I will gift you my lifetime’s knowledge and experience. I will help you imagine better, and become your best self.”

Only at that moment did Shama know that this was the goal he had sought in this and many previous lifetimes. To find his true master and fulfil his true potential. To turn internal conflict into external co-operation, and become part of the cosmic dance.

The next driver on the Lucerne Valley Road was surprised to see a scruffy vagrant and one of the world greatest holy men dancing together. The holy man’s robes gleamed black, showing the truth of illuminated darkness.

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Unseen Graffiti

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on May 22, 2012 by javedbabar

The Authority was tough on graffiti, which was seen was an early sign of degeneration of civil society. Fine arts were encouraged as ways to develop the soul: landscape paintings celebrating the sacred earth, and portraits honouring noble individuals. Conceptual art too had its place. Graffiti however was a stain on the community. It was made by those without formal art training, and usually in lurid colours. It was appreciated by youngsters and a worrying number of aesthetically illiterate adults.

The Authority came down hard. In this last year they had imposed many fines, issued Anti-Social Behaviour Orders, expelled students from high school, and relocated families to D-rated socio-demographic zones in the City where poor behaviour was tolerated. They could do what they liked there, but not in Lucerne.

Ali and his friends hung around the car park beneath the Transparent Temple. It was the only dry place to go. Water rushed down the ramp when it rained hard, but was channelled away, never causing a flood. It was a good place for them to ride their skateboards and BMX bikes, and play baseball and football. Ali’s father had a cricket bat, which was also put to good use. It was a popular game for a week or so before everyone got bored. They also jumped into the access ditch in the corner when it filled with water. So cool.

Some days they stood around talking shit. On one of those days Ben produced a spray can. Ali said, “What are you doing, man? Are you crazy?” Before long however he was adding his tag too, a crescent moon to acknowledge his Islamic heritage. It couldn’t really be traced to him. It could be any of the three hundred Muslims in the Village.

“Neat idea,” said Ben, and added his Star of David. Mary sprayed a cross. Other kids added an OM, Dharmic Wheel, Khanda, Taijitu, Water sign, Torii gate, Pagan star, Bahai star, and mystical Black Spot.

Mary said, “Wow! It looks like a painted chapel in here. I saw some churches like that in Ethiopia. They’re a thousand years old, carved out of rock underground.”

“When did you see those?” said Ali.

“I lived there as a kid. My parents were missionaries in Africa for three years. It’s an amazing place. I want to go back there one day.” Ali and Ben curled their lips out as a form of recognition, and nodded.

They returned the next day to find their symbols all gone. They had been blasted off with a pressure washer and painted over. Every few days they repainted the signs and the next day they were gone.

This situation continued till July, the start of the Village’s financial year. Budgets were slashed by The Authority, and maintenance cut back severely. The Village couldn’t afford security so closed the car park, however this decision caused parking chaos on the main road, and was reversed immediately. Ali and his friends returned to their grotto nightly and played games and sprayed graffiti.

Samira, a blind girl, was new in town. She had been born that way. She had been teased horribly when young, but here, she was acknowledged as the coolest one among them. How she managed to look so good without seeing herself in a mirror was a mystery. All the boys tried to hit on her when she came along. Samira was nice to the nice ones but never fell for the charms of the rogues.

“I love the energy of the car park,” she said, and spent her nights hanging around with them there. She couldn’t skateboard, BMX, play baseball or football. She had a go at cricket, and sometimes took a dip. But she mainly felt her way around the walls, touching the graffiti that had built up there. She felt the truth of the holy signs. The symbols acquired extra dimensions as she felt their many unseen layers.

One day she called Ali over and asked him to touch the Black Spot. “What do you feel?” she said. Ali said nothing but shook uncontrollably. In that moment he saw everything. The painted chapel showed him the layers of his life, and the points at which they joined. The Black Spot connected Ali to Samira in ways unknown. They were joined within its darkness forever.

The next day the new village budget was approved. The graffiti was pressure-washed and pointed over.

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Cosmic Whee!

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2012 by javedbabar

Terry wondered whether to join the queue. It was always like this at Lucerne’s Halloween Fair, with lines so long that they put you off the rides; they were up to an hour sometimes – what for? Were some rides really so much better than others?

The annoying thing was that the rides he took were never that good. His friends waiting longer seemed to have a better time. They whirled, jerked, spun, and flipped in ways they couldn’t describe. His best friend tried, saying, “It’s like being in a blender, drunk, on the ice crush setting,” and then putting on a Sean Connery voice, “Schaken not schtirred.” Terry’s ride had been lame, just an irregular creeping that made him feel disgusted. You were meant to feel scared.

This year, he decided, he would be patient and wait. He joined the line for the newest machine, called Cosmic Whee!, which was shaped like a neon tree about the size of a mature fir. When operational, its arms extended more like an oak tree, and they flashed through every colour. It seemed to ascend and expand, and sparked, and shot flames. Terry wondered how safe its electrics were, not to mention the gas lines fuelling the flames.

People waiting were enthralled. Imagine what it must be like for people enjoying the ride! He could see why it had the longest queue.

Then Terry noticed something strange, that there weren’t any people enjoying the ride. Nobody was sitting on the arms. Where were they? What were people queuing for?

He tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him, and said, “Excuse me, what are we queuing for?”

The boy was annoyed at having his viewing disrupted, but then gave a quick smile. “It makes you disappear, you know.” He saw the troubled look on Terry’s face and added, “The Cosmic Whee! makes you disappear. That’s what they say.”

Terry said, “Who says? The fairground people?”

The boy drew up to him closely. “No, the people. My friends told me. That’s what they say. You’ll see for yourself. Don’t say I didn’t say so.”

Terry was confused. How could this ride make you disappear? He watched the next customer walk up to the contraption. A small round door slid open and he climbed inside. Then the door shut. It was only one person at a time – no wonder the queue was so long! Again the ride’s arms extended, flashed, ascended, expanded, and sparked, and flamed. Three minutes later, the round door opened, and was empty. Where had the rider gone? Had he disappeared?

The boy in front turned and raised his eyebrows, and said, “See?”

Terry noticed a figure at the back of the ride. Was it the rider? No, it was a young girl, much too young for this ride.

Terry waited in line for an hour and a half. He thought there must be some trick being played, with people exiting elsewhere. Maybe there was a tunnel to another part of the fairground, where they popped up and went home. He looked around at the other rides – traditional ones like dodgems, carousels and rollercoasters, and modern ones like Booster, Freak Out and Top Spin. There were also games of strength, skill and luck. But there was nothing as dramatic as Cosmic Whee! and nothing with a longer line.

Terry reached the front at last, and was greeted by a man in neon blue tailcoat and orange trousers and hat, who said, “Come on in! This is the real show!” He directed Terry towards the round door, which slid shut behind him. He felt claustrophobic at first but soon was comfortable on this bridge of darkness.

Twisting light rings appeared around him and then slid downwards with increasing speed, as if he were in a giant elevator with a crazy barber’s pole spiralling down around him. It was disorienting initially but became habitual. It seemed quite normal; a part of life. He was alive and part of life, at the heart of life, a twisting strand of DNA. He lost track of time. He could be here forever.

He didn’t disappear, just appeared in a different place, almost like this one. A parallel universe within the multiverse. And a being from a fairground there came to the fairground here. In ancient times there were shamanic flights and ecstatic rituals. Now there was technology and leisure. The goal was the same as ever – to cross-fertilize universes. A diverse cosmos is healthy.

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Baby Split

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Baby was very active. He kicked his legs like a little martial artist, threw punches in the air, and cried continuously. Despite this pointless show of ferocity, no one minded and rather than shout, kick or punch him back, they looked on adoringly.

Mother cuddled him more closely, and said, “There, darling. You’re back with mummy now. There, there. Welcome to our crazy world. You’re the best thing that’s appeared in it ever. My angel. My love…”

Father’s smile grew bigger as he pointed to his newborn son and said, “That’s my boy! He’s going to be a fighter, this one. Look how he’s throwing out hooks already, and he can sure scream. Scare his enemies to death. The warrior…”

Naomi was allowed into the room right after the birth. She was crazy about her baby brother from the moment she saw him. She wondered if his arrival would stop her parents from arguing now. Many of her friends’ parents had split.

Uncle Bobby was there, proud to have a nephew. He’d known the birth process may go on for a while, like it had when Naomi was born, so he’d bought biscuits to share. He was down to his last one, snapped it in two, and offered half each to his sister and brother-in-law.

Baby’s mind was filled with energy rebounding. There were crazy bright patterns, wilding and assembling. He was suddenly cut off from his source of sustenance but still growing at a phenomenal rate. He would grow infinitely.

Where had these patterns come from? How had the growth originated?

He sensed two forces, far apart, but destined to come together. Black and white; yin and yang; masculine and feminine. A faceless horde of long-tailed warriors pouring into a dark valley, fearless, thoughtless, with only the urge to enter the round citadel. The palace of wonders. The hidden treasure. The Grail.

Very few survived the journey. A few brave lucky ones charged ahead and reached their destination, and threw themselves at the final barrier but only the first one made it in. His magical charms gained him entry and the gates closed after him immediately.

The warrior was welcomed. The princess had awaited him forever, for she knew that he had treasures of his own to give. They shared their riches, and realized that together they could grow. But growth also meant change.

The doctor came into the delivery room. He was mainly concerned with practicalities – the execution of his tasks – but he remained aware of the wonder of the matter. That two beings had merged and created a being that was the same as them yet different. Through mitosis, cells had separated their shared chromosomes into two identical sets, which became sibling cells that multiplied, and continued the growth process further. The point of conception was the vortex around which life spun.

Baby’s body wasn’t the only thing splitting and growing. His mind was also breaking off from his mother. There was a time within her when her mind was his mind, and his thoughts were variations of hers. But now he had a second mind, his own. This was his nature, beyond her nurture.

Every act of creation is cosmic, as if a nuclear reaction at the heart of a star; binary fission creates charged fragments; exothermic reactions release electromagnetic energy and kinetic energy, causing both charge and motion. The total binding energy of the elements resulting is greater than that of the element starting. A nuclear transmutation creates fragments that are no longer the same; free energy released is millions times greater than before.

As Baby kicked and punched and cried, he released this energy into the world. He could change this world. He could start or end it.

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Guru Baby

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , , , , , on May 17, 2012 by javedbabar

The visitor waited in line, and when his turn came said, “Excuse me, is Guru Baba here today? We’re visiting from the East Coast and would love to see him.”

Sami said, “I’m sorry Sir, but he is busy with official business today.”

The visitor turned to look at her husband, who curled his lips. She turned back to Sami and said, “But the flag is up at the Transparent Temple.” This was the popular name for their fancy community centre. “Doesn’t that mean he is here?”

Sami hated disappointing people. They came so far to glimpse Guru Baba, one of the world’s leading holy men, who had made his home in Lucerne. He’d wanted to retire to “that nice village with the white mountain above it,” and since then there had been a procession of world leaders coming to see him, and behind them came the masses.

Sami said to the visitor, “Yes, he is here, but I’m afraid he’s tied up with official duties. Will you still be here next Wednesday when he has his monthly audience?”

“Didn’t there used to be a weekly audience?” Sami nodded. “Well, that’s what we came for, and then found out it had been changed.”

The end of weekly audiences had been a disaster. Donations had fallen by three-quarters but Guru Baba’s expenses continued to rise. His charitable projects, especially Free Giving, had proved very popular and taken on lives of their own. Sami had heard of Peak Oil – the notion that the world’s oil supply was diminishing, but population, and thus demand for oil, rising exponentially. This was Peak Toil; he had to work harder and harder in Guru Baba’s gift shop to meet his sales targets. Visitor numbers were decreasing but project costs were rising. It was entirely unsustainable.

“I’m very sorry,” Sami said to the visitor. “We have some new items that you may like though. How about these I Am Here For You Too dice, with one word on each side? It is Guru Baba’s most popular saying. And we have these I Love Change T-shirts. The logo of the eye in the heart in the triangle was designed by his good friend Mr Giorgio Armani. Yes, he was here at Easter. Did you see the photos? Guru Baba loved the holy robes he bought. We’re thinking of adding them to the product range. Would you be interested in those when available? You can leave us your email address.”

Sami tried his best to cheer up visitors but there was only so much he could do.

The visitor said, “If we can’t meet Guru Baba, can we at least get a signed photo?”

“Let me see,” said Sami. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Sami found Guru Baba in his chambers. For the past few months he had spent much of his time sitting silently or walking around ranting. Today he was walking around ranting. “You were not there for me, why should I be here for you?” he shouted, and, “I hate change!”

Poor guy, thought Sami. One of the world’s wisest, kindest men, reduced to this. Old age was a curse, particularly its gift of dementia.

Sami wondered who would be hurt by his signing the photo instead of Guru Baba. The visitor would be happy and donations would increase. He pulled out the black pen he used for checking off deliveries, and scrawled the world famous initials GB.

The visitor was thrilled. So were people who came the next day, and the day after that. There was a boom in visitors and donations. The charitable projects thrived.

Sami went to Guru Baba every day with photos, and returned with them all signed. One day the old man asked him, “Who signs all my photographs?”

Sami dropped his pen. Guru Baba smiled and said, “I think you understand Karma. It means action.”

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Near East

Posted in Global Travel, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on May 16, 2012 by javedbabar

“Can we go this way?” said Isis.

Osiris stopped on the edge of the bridge, where a path ran along the river. He remembered when he was a kid. Lucerne was just a clutch of farms and stores, and there was no bridge over this road, at least not one you could drive across. It was just a sham wooden structure that a farmer had nailed together so he could hop into town. The bridge was a short cut to their community centre – the modern glass structure known as the Transparent Temple.

Osiris wondered why she wanted to take the long way around. It was funny that so many people in Lucerne had ancient names, particularly Egyptian ones. Their parents must have been hippies, fascinated by Pharaonic lore. He recalled a book near his mother’s bed called Pyramid Power.

He said, “Sure love. Are you in the mood for a longer walk?” The past three months had been the best of his life. Meeting Isis had rocked his world. She was everything he’d wanted – pretty, funny, smart, cultured and spiritual.

“I prefer the scenic route,” she said. “Let’s walk along the river, then through the fields. We can go through those new houses and enter the back of the Temple.”

“Okay love, let’s do that.” Osiris was so used to doing things his way that whenever Isis expressed a differing preference, his instinctive response was to reject it, but this was followed by curiosity so intense that he agreed to her request immediately. And he found that most of the time her way proved better. If he had to pin a number on it he’d say that she was right seventy-five percent of the time. When he’d explained this to his best friend, the friend had been incredulous. “What? You reckon she’s right seventy-five percent of the time? That can’t be possible!”

“Why not?” Osiris had said. “She’s a clever woman.”

“But you are more clever, my friend. If you are right twenty-five percent of the time, and you accept that she is right seventy-five percent of the time, then that makes you right one hundred percent of the time!”

Osiris and Isis held hands and followed the river east. Its flow was higher than usual. This must be because of early warm weather melting snowpack, whose waters poured into rivers running through the Lucerne Valley. The snow levels on both Mt Alba, rising above the village, and Mt Negra, one hundred kilometres away at the source of the valley, were rising up their respective slopes. Imagine being the last snowflake, he thought, disappearing.

It was a pretty crazy route for such a small river. It twisted and turned, looping back on itself at one point, plunging into pools, and braving small waterfalls. It was said that the first man to find Lucerne had floated along this river. He had fought and escaped his enemies, and been aided by crocodiles and buffaloes. He had climbed out when he had seen the White Mountain and made this his home.

The river continued through green fields. When this first man became old and feeble, he was killed by his descendants and buried in these fields, and from his head sprouted potatoes, his slim arms became carrots, his plump thighs produced beets, his brains made garlics, his lungs produced hemp, and from his manhood grew the first banana.

They came to new houses. The original houses had been built by the first man’s descendants, who became a prosperous tribe. Their wealth had attracted roving bands of hunters, who looted them annually, just after harvest, raping and pillaging and leaving their mark – mixed-blood children, who became present day Lucerne’s inhabitants.

Beyond the village was wilderness, like the original chaos before the first man.

Isis clutched Osiris’s hand harder as they neared the Transparent Temple. It was the heart of the village. Government officials met in Room One to set village strategy. Business leaders met in Room Two to discuss the local economy. Village councillors met in Room Three to promote political agendas. Artists met in the bar to discuss cultural grants and collaborative works. Holy men and women met on Saturdays to promote the memory of the divine founder of their settlement, the first man, called Osiris.

On Saturdays they served falafels, which legend said were first made by Coptic Christians. Pha la phel means “of many beans”, as the Church was formed of many souls, all rolled into one Great Soul. People united by The Authority.

Osiris and Isis were greeted by the Supreme Guardian of the Transparent Temple. He was a crippled, olive-skinned man called Seth. He cast a mean look at Osiris, but winked at Isis. Seth knew it would soon be time for him to regenerate and to leave this chamber, chase out Osiris, marry Isis, and begin the creation cycle anew.

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New World

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 12, 2012 by javedbabar

“It’s time for dinner, sweetie,” said Bobby. When there was no response, he said loudly, “It’s time for dinner Naomi. Your mom is coming in half an hour and I’ll get into trouble for not feeding you.” There was still no response. “Naomi, can you please come into the kitchen?”

Bobby found her sitting on the floor of the lounge, still drawing. They’d been drawing together all day – starting with a jungle, which they’d erased to make a village, which grew into a city that was in danger of destruction by strange black spots, which seemed to be bombs. Naomi had averted war by entering the drawing and somehow defusing, and not diffusing, the bombs. But she needed to stop drawing now to avert another war between him and his sister, who would say that he was an irresponsible uncle for not feeding his niece.

“Naomi!” he said sharply. “I’ve been calling you for ages. Why haven’t you come for dinner?” He softened his tone. “It’s your favourite – rainbow roast.”

She was rushing to finish the drawing; to colour the world that she had just saved; to make it cheerful. The botanical gardens at the edge of the City were lovely already, filled with exotic, strong-smelling blooms, but a large bed of flowers still required shading. She was blitzing those blooms in red, blue, purple, tangerine, and gold.

“Naomi!” he called again.

His niece’s hand jolted and knocked a glass of water that she’d been using to dip her pencils, whose colour acquired a special consistency when wet; their shades became softer and richer, and according to Naomi, “lovelilicious.” These were special fat pencils, natural wood coloured, with only their leads indicating their colours. They had been given to her by an old man called Dada who she met in the park, walking his black and white wolves who he said were “the best pets possible”.

Some water spilled from the glass onto the drawing. Nothing too serious, but when Naomi tried to wipe it off, she knocked and spilled the whole glassful. The drawing didn’t smudge but its colours faded and disappeared. The bright botanical gardens suddenly became a black and white world.

Naomi called out, “Uncle Bobby! What shall I do? The colours are disappearing!”

Bobby rushed towards the drawing and helped her brush off the water, but it was too late. What had been a beautifully drawn and shaded city, filled with golden marble temples, red brick houses, verdant parks, with a turquoise river snaking through its middle, was now composed of hard lines, like a gothic graphic novel, with no shading at all.

Bobby’s attention returned to the room. He realized that Naomi was missing, and wondered if she’d slipped into the drawing again, like she’d done when it was jungle, and periodically during its development. She had been easy to find in the rainforest, which, despite its dense vegetation, was still and quiet; it was easy to spot leaves wobbling. It had also been easy to find her in the village, for it had only one main square and one main road, and she was generally somewhere along it. But she was impossible to find in the city, a vast anonymous place, even more so without colour. In a sense the essence of the city was now revealed – soulless monochrome.

He’d better go and find her. Her mother was due in half an hour. Boy, he’d be in trouble if she wasn’t washed and brushed and fed – and most importantly – here!

Bobby pushed aside some lines in the drawing. They had a consistency like heavy pasta and moved easily enough. In places they were tangled, and needed to be pulled apart. Thin lines could be hauled in and reused, and made into pathways, and climbing ropes, to reach tricky vantage points from where to look out for his niece. Then he remembered that he had a pen in his pocket, and could draw his own lines too.

He wrote her name to attract her – first as graffiti, and then in a speech bubble. Where was that girl! He had a bright idea – why didn’t he call her using his smartphone? Signals would travel as lines along every possible pathway until they found her phone.

This was a big mistake. The phone’s electrical signal transformed the drawing’s analogue world into a digital world. It moved from a spectrum of possibilities to duality. One and zero. Binary code. Bobby and Naomi were just numbers now. In the distance Bobby heard black and white wolves howling.

Naomi’s mom knocked on the door but no one answered. “Naomi?” she called out. “Bobby?” But there was no one there. Where had they gone? she wondered. She’d told Bobby she would be back at eight to pick up her daughter. She saw a notebook sitting on the table. What great drawings, she thought. The wet paper on top would ruin the other pages though. She tore it out, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the garbage.

Naomi and Bobby felt a sudden wrench. They were now trapped in their monochrome world. “Let’s built a shelter,” said Bobby. “I think we’ll need it.”

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Great War

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on May 11, 2012 by javedbabar

There was a downside to the Nobbys – black spots that Naomi and her uncle Bobby had drawn all over the page. They were indeed points of possibility, from which any image could appear spontaneously, but they were also holes into which objects could disappear. They were points of both creation and destruction.

Naomi pulled up her socks and smoothed her hair. “What are you doing?” asked Bobby.

“I’m going into the drawing,” she said. “To look around.”

“Wait a minute,” said Bobby. “Let’s think about this first. What’s happening in there? We should know before we go back.”

Naomi pushed her nose up against the drawing. She was looking too closely, thought Bobby, she must have weak eyes. Did she need glasses already?

She said, “They look like holes when you look closely. Not like mole hills or star…” Bobby half-turned his head and said, “Sshh! Listen! Can you hear something?”

Naomi half-turned her head the other way, trying to mirror her uncle. She heard rumblings far away, like flour sacks hitting the ground every few seconds. She wondered, what are these tha-booms?

“Get down!” said Bobby as he felt a wave of hot air rush across his fingers. It seemed as if the air pushed first one way and then the other. He also felt a blast of heat, and tiny sharp fragments. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” he said, pulling back his hands. Naomi had already ducked under the table.

Bobby looked into the drawing and saw a black ball with a wick at the top, a classic cartoon bomb which makes a spiky flash saying “Boom!” But it also had a long fuse running along the ground, which joined with other fuses coming from other bombs, all making a thick tangle heading off towards a nuclear reactor with the tri-lobed International Radiation Hazard sign. It seemed these small chemical explosions were part of a larger system to trigger a nuclear explosion.

“Stay under the table!” he shouted at Naomi, and entered the drawing. He smelled cordite and a chilli tang. The site of the nearest Nobby was a blast seat – a point of detonation and destruction. He wondered what had been destroyed at this dark heart of explosive power. There was no obvious wreckage to show type, quantity, or quality of explosive used, not that he was any expert; what he knew was by watching footage from Iraq and Afghanistan. He looked for evidence of mechanical stress, penetration of projectiles, pressure damage, and other explosion-generated effects. Exothermic reactions of explosive materials provide sudden violent energy release. There is no mistaking a bomb.

“Uncle Bobby! Can I come out now?” Naomi’s voice was faint, but audible in the drawing, as the rumblings were far away.

“No! Stay where you are!” he shouted.

He wondered what had been destroyed here. Was it an actual physical object or just its image – this was a drawing after all. He saw another Nobby and walked towards it, crushing loose mortar fragments and crunching glass. This Nobby was different. Its blackness was diffuse.

If these blasts had occurred already, then how had they affected the nuclear reactor? Had it been destroyed, and its radiation released? Bobby checked his hands to see if they were flaking or glowing. They seemed quite hairy but otherwise fine.

He recalled a news item about Thermobarbaric weapons, which produced a vicious combination of negative shock waves and extreme temperatures, incinerating objects immediately. It was a way for governments to kill people horribly yet claim that they were acting morally, because it was a “conventional weapon”.

Bobby felt a great separation in the drawing. It seemed that great powers had assembled into opposing alliances, with black and white pulling apart. Buildings were standing and trees were lush but humans were absent. Some wretched plot had been hatched. Was this drawing a place of secret destruction?

He fell to his knees unexpectedly. He felt overwhelmed and lost. This was a future battlefield where millions, even billions, could be killed by the press of one button, but “valuable infrastructure” preserved. What future was there for anyone?

A little hand touched and then held his hand. His niece Naomi had entered the drawing. She smiled and he smiled. He laughed and she laughed. Her mouth was a little black hole full of everything, including words of innocence and dreams of truth.

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