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Sitara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready for what?” said Alison.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you mean, ‘slept all night’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Great Equation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said, “Oh sorry, let me open it.”

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

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Circulation

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello there!” Daved called out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok, why are we walking in circles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The other way!” Daved shouted.

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

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Counting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell for?” said Gav.

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

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

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

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

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Compass

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags chainsaw, holy cross, salvation on February 2, 2012 by javedbabar

It was a bad situation. A crossroads of life. Peter had gone out that morning with good intentions, but things had not gone to plan. He’d found a beautiful Douglas Fir, thirty feet high with a full fat taper. Its green-blue needles gave a sweet, citrus-like smell when crushed. He was also pleased that this vibrant Fir sat among a group of dead ones, making it easier to pull out. Just perfect, he’d thought.

Peter had decided on a big tree this year so brought his chainsaw; his Nissan Frontier was ready to drag the tree to his cabin, 200 metres back along the trail. Imagine the tree hooked up to eight strings of fairy lights; it would look magical from the road.

But cutting it down proved tricky. A hidden knot sent his chainsaw astray, and as the tree came down unexpectedly, it also pulled down others. The dead trees around it were no longer a bonus; they were a burden, because they sat squarely across Peter’s body. This wasn’t the plan at all.

At least he hadn’t broken any limbs. He tried moving the trees sitting upon his body but they wouldn’t budge. They were way too tangled and heavy. He wondered if he could squeeze himself out. He wriggled about a fraction, but only succeeded in receiving sharp jabs to his ribs and thighs. Ah! Maybe he could make a few inches of crawl space. He scraped snow with his fingertips, but realized that the branches went right through it.

Feeling faint, he rested awhile. He must recover and think. He saw sky, trees, snow, and… animal tracks! He tried to look away but couldn’t. A wide paw, five round pads, and claw points – Grizzly bear. A triangular pad, four asymmetric pads and claw points – gray wolf. Smaller versions of the same – coyote. A little mountain and four widely-spaced, drop-shaped pads – cougar. Uh-oh.

Peter decided to focus. Like animals’ made snow prints, maybe his mind could imprint a solution. He should focus on something. What was the clearest symbol he knew? The first thing that came to mind was a cross. This surprised him, as he wasn’t religious, but it seemed to make sense.

First, the cross was an ancient symbol, a Pagan sign pre-dating Christianity – in the same way that a Christmas tree did. It represented the union of opposites – the horizontal earth, and vertical sky – at whose junction we existed. Second, it was a co-ordinate – a meeting point of longitude and latitude – at which he now lay helplessly. Third, it was his framework for decision-making. There were four people he thought of when faced with difficult choices – his Brother, his Friend, his Mother, and his Niece – each guiding him somehow. What would they do?

He realized there was an extreme choice. He could use the stalled chainsaw manually to saw off one of his own limbs, and slip out from beneath this tangle of dead trees. It was a grisly business, but he had heard such stories; sometimes the limbs were reattached successfully. Which limb should it be?

Peter thought, what would my Brother do? He was incredibly creative, and had one morning taken two scrap metal sheets and some plywood off-cuts, and built a working windmill. He had used this to power a small dynamo, which ran a vinyl turntable, playing dance music. That was how he had woken Peter on his sixteenth birthday. But his brother was at heart a practical person, and would lose the limb that he used least often – his left leg.

Peter thought, what would my Friend do? He hated to see others in pain, and had dropped out of university to care for a schizophrenic fellow student. He had spent that year never leaving her side; there to help her through every suicidal and psychotic delusion, till she reached the other side. To get back on his feet, the Friend would cut off his left arm, and walk out of here alive.

Peter thought, what would my Mother do? She was deeply religious, and believed that God would never burden any of his creatures with more than they could bear. Her solution to everything was ceaseless prayer. She had prayed for many people who had suffered from cancer, heart attacks, and strokes, and all had recovered. Her intercession for orphans, the poor, and the hungry, had resulted in miraculous occurrences. His Mother would cut off her right leg, so that her hands were still able to clasp together in prayer.

Peter thought, what would my Niece do? She was the most joyful being he had ever encountered – so full of fun. When Peter’s wife had left him, it was his niece that called him daily to play “I Spy” and “Carbuncle” – a game he never properly understood, which involved him – her uncle – visiting zoos in Rolls Royce cars and freeing the animals. She was an adorable creature, who always wanted to play. God forbid – but if she had to – she would use her right hand to cut itself off – with her wild imagination, maybe even convincing herself it was “fun”.

Peter realized that none of these were ideal choices, and they may not even work. He felt that one limb less may ease his passage, but there was no way to be sure. But it was better than doing nothing, awaiting grizzly bear, gray wolf, coyote, or cougar. Before he chose which limb to cut, he focussed again. He put himself at the centre of the cross and thought himself outwards – up to his Brother, down to his Friend, left to his Mother, and across to his Niece. Thank you for everything, he said. Then he reached, with his fingertips, for the chainsaw.

He heard people calling his name, and dogs barking close by. As Peter had thought himself outwards – along the arms of the cross – his loved ones had sensed his distress, and thought themselves inwards, towards its centre where he lay. They were with him here now. A dog ran up and licked his face: Up and Down, then Left and Across.

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Lost Time

Posted in Global Travel, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags chronology, drugs, dst on January 30, 2012 by javedbabar

Jenny followed her father around the house. It was the first day of spring and all of their clocks must be changed. They had some old-fashioned clocks with hands that needed turning, but the rest were digital; some changed themselves, and you had to manually change others – and she wasn’t sure about things like the Nintendo.

“How do you know whether to put them forward or back?” she asked.

“Remember I told you, Jenny,” said her father, adjusting the big wall clock. It chimed many times while he did so. “Spring forward, fall back.”

“Yes I remember that, but why do we put them forward or back?”

“It started during the First World War as a way to save coal,” he said, fiddling with the red desk clock; its ticks got louder rather than quieter. “Germany did it first, then Britain and her allies.”

“But why do we still do it today?”

“If you put clocks forward, it means that you start and end the day later.” He repeatedly clicked buttons on her alarm clock, as the radio went on and off. “So you have more daylight hours. It helps farmers.”

“But isn’t the amount of daylight the same? What difference does it make?”

He struggled with the microwave’s buttons; it was beeping and flashing. “People waste daylight in the mornings because they’re sleeping. If you move it to the evening, they can use it for sport.”

“But aren’t days longer in the summer anyway? What’s the point?”

Her father cursed the microwave, which had somehow zapped his nose. He said, “I don’t know Jenny. We just do it every year. Spring forward and fall back. It’s a tradition.”

Her father knew more than her friend’s parents did, for sure. They had only told their children about farmers; not about World Wars and sport. But Jenny wasn’t satisfied with her father’s explanations. Her central concern remained – what happened to that time?

Since her birth on February 29^th, twelve years ago, Jenny had been obsessed with time. She had, with her father’s help, built a sundial in the garden, as well as a water clock. She had made a model of Stonehenge, and had plans for a tiny Newgrange. But all the time that was lost when putting clocks forward, or shaving off a quarter-day each year and then making a leap year later, or with the creation of a new calendar, as had happened many times in history – that time must go somewhere. Where did it go?

Jenny decided that there was only one way to find the answer. She must chase that time. She observed the effects of annual time changes, and realized that they had nothing to do with helping farmers. Where this notion came from, she had no idea.

Time had to be looked at in context. Ancient societies used solar time, where daylight had twelve hours, regardless of day-length. So depending on the season, an hour could last anywhere from 40-80 minutes, and you adjusted activities accordingly. But modern societies ran on standard time. Their work, school, and transport schedules were rigidly set; they continued regardless of darkness or light; they ran unnaturally.

Farmers were in tune with the seasons. They began at sunrise without the need to fiddle with their clocks. If anything, putting clocks forward hurt their activities. Their labour and supplies were usually on standard time, and arrived an hour earlier than “real” time. This was before the dew evaporated on crops, making harvesting them less efficient; dairy cows milking schedules were disrupted; rural children took long bus rides home in searing early afternoon heat; and it remained lighter longer, so it was harder to get them to bed. Farmers hated DST.

Jenny learnt that a leap year did not have 365 ¼ days. It had 365.242374 days. So even a leap year was an approximation; a clumsy attempt to mark solar time with standard time. We never got it right really; we were only ever guessing. Traffic accidents increased when we switched to DST, there was more cancerous sun exposure; there were timekeeping complications; disruption to travel and meetings; billing and recordkeeping errors; difficulties with complex medical devices and safe equipment operations; and broken sleep patterns.

Losing time was dangerous. Everything we were told about it was lies.

Jenny devoted herself to the study of time. She did a science degree, a postgraduate degree, and then a PhD in “The Chronology of Lost Time Incorporating Ancient Babylonian, Greek, Indian, and Chinese Sources”. Her research took her to these and many other places. She became an international authority on lost time. She had no time to get married or have children herself. Her only concern was to find the lost time. But it always eluded her.

A clue was yielded by a conversation she arranged between a Zimbabwean Witchdoctor and a Mayan Shaman. They spoke of times such as sickness, drunkenness, and madness as being “outside time”. Jenny felt that these were avenues worth pursuing.

When she couldn’t get funding for her research – deemed too risky by academic legal departments – Jenny decided to continue alone. She allowed herself to become sick regularly, and didn’t take her medicine. She drank herself into a stupor. She stressed herself till she had a nervous breakdown. These were all productive experiences which enhanced her knowledge of lost time. But they didn’t go far enough.

She consulted a Finnish sage. He said that the way to hunt lost time was “through the blind eye of the Dreaming Eagle”. He gave her a resin to chew which would help her to “fly high with her sightless feathered brother”. It certainly did, and led her on to other “flights” with other brothers. She used Marijuana, Mescaline, Ayahuasca, Mushrooms, Cocaine, Ecstasy, Amphetamines, Barbiturates, LSD, Opium, Solvents, and Heroin. They each held clues to lost time – especially the Heroin, which “lost” her a night in jail, and then three months as a dealer. A bad batch finally stopped her heart. And at that moment, she realized where time went if not used wisely. It simply disappeared.

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Pity Party

Posted in Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags karma, self pity, web 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 baptism, patterns in water, spring water 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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Cracked Light

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags antique lamp, dreams, sexy, star, sunlight on January 15, 2012 by javedbabar

Andrea bought an antique lamp with rich green glass and brass fittings. It was covered in hairline cracks, but not bad for five bucks, and she had the perfect place to put it.

It was the fourth garage sale she’d visited that morning. It seemed that everyone was giving up, splitting up, selling up, or moving up. Maybe the people buying the stuff would soon be following them. She knew how hard it was to make your life work in this crazy modern world. With so many pressures, cracks were sure to show. The question was how to fix them – if that was possible – otherwise – as was generally the case – how to ignore them, until everything fell apart.

Andrea was very happy with her lamp, but the bargain price began to bother her. Surely it was worth more than that? I guess it didn’t fit someone’s new home, she thought. Or maybe it didn’t fit into someone’s new home – if their place was a microloft. A once proud ornament was now excess baggage.

The lamp looked perfect on the dark polished dresser, adjacent to the end of her bed. The green glass wasn’t too flashy, and the brass cast a tingle across the wood. It would be lovely to look at in the mornings, she thought.

“I don’t like it,” said her boyfriend Brian. He came by twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Today was Saturday.

“Why not?” said Andrea, surprised. She hadn’t wanted his opinion.

“It’s not the lamp itself,” he said, looking at it squarely. “It just shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Don’t start your feng shui, honey. Don’t you know that I’ve got inner feng shui? It’s called a sense of style, and I say that lamp is a doll.”

“I’m not disagreeing. It’s a handsome lamp. My grandmother had a similar one with red glass. But I don’t like it there.”

“Well where should I put it?” said Andrea.

“Downstairs somewhere. It’s not an upstairs lamp.”

“You didn’t like the mirror there either, honey.” She had removed it last week from above the dresser. “You said it was distracting. So I got a lamp. Now you don’t like that…”

“I’m sorry. Just leave it there.”

After making love, she couldn’t sleep. Why didn’t he like the mirror there? He had liked it there before. He said it was fun to catch glimpses of themselves loving; like soft porn; steamy, not kinky. But then suddenly he didn’t like it. And the lamp; she had imagined sleeping together in its ancient glow; it could have been exotic. But he hated it.

She went to the bathroom and on the way back, stopped by the lamp. She switched it on, and stood nearby. The glass was glowing, but also reflecting. The light was brighter at the cracks – almost golden – and beneath the glass, subdued. Andrea left the lamp on and went back to bed. Brian could switch it off.

She had fragments of dreams; numerous snatches; maybe connected.

Andrea saw herself with Brian, the first time they’d stepped out together. She had noticed him shelving books at the library, and had suddenly become the world’s greatest borrower of sci-fi books. After a week of stamping dates, he’d asked her out on one. She had worn a green, raw silk dress with golden shoes, which had taken his breath away. But then she imagined herself many years later, definitely fatter, maybe bitter, and possibly warty; lumpy, Size 20, and childless. It could happen to anyone.

Andrea saw Brian like he was at the library, with that nerdy smile that brightened his eyes, and then his whole face; almost a living emoticon. He liked time to himself, and said they shouldn’t rush things; she guessed that was ok for now. But then she imagined him in the future as a grumpy loner, always on his computer, looking at God knows what, rather than praising and cherishing her. Mostly ignoring her. It could become a horrible relationship.

She saw everyone she knew together – all laughing, jumping, shaking their shoulders, dancing at her parent’s Christmas party. They were celebrating their shared humanity, and eternal brother-and-sisterhood. But she saw herself lost among this hapless crowd, jostled and crushed. Falling faint, and being trampled underfoot.

She had to stop thinking like this – cracking her own cherished memories. She wondered if she would ever find wholeness.

She finally reached for a brighter light. She saw herself serene like she was after yoga. Sitting on a mountaintop, cross-legged, watching the sun rising. A hundred seagulls circling, sun glinting off their feathers, making thick golden. The sun flashed before her, for her. It was the star at the centre of the solar system, the brightest object visible in the sky, earths’ primary source of energy, sending endless streams of charged life outward. Complete and eternal. In comparison, this lamp was old and cracked; faded; looking backward.

Brian was right. It had to go. When he awoke, Andrea had moved the antique lamp downstairs. “Good morning, honey,” she said. “Will you help me move the bed?”

“Huh? Where to?”

“It’s facing the wall. I know it’s a squeeze, but let’s make it face the window. I want to see the sun.”

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