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Bus Pass

Posted in Alternative Energy, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on March 22, 2012 by javedbabar

Oh great, thought Kelly, I can pop into the shop, I’ve got 6 minutes. That LED sign is really handy. Before you had to stand around and wait for the bus, with no idea when it was coming, and according to the season: freeze your balls off, get soaking wet, burn to a cinder, or get your clothes blown off, with people driving by feeling sorry for you, laughing.

Then they erected this new bus shelter and the LED sign. The shelter’s a bit strange though – a grey metal box with diamond cut-outs. It looks more like a bear trap than a bus stop; less a convenience, more a cage. I could have designed something better in art class, and made it in shop class.

“Wass up?” said Tavish.

“Just going to the shop. Want something?”

“Nah, I’ll be here.” He was standing away from the bus stop, despite the rain.

A guy driving by in a Frontier scowled at them. Kelly had noticed this reaction since the new shelter was installed. Sure it was nice to have your own car, but it was stressful and expensive to drive it daily to Strattus, or the City. And you couldn’t read or text or talk. Much better to take the bus.

Kelly hadn’t moved yet. Tavish said, “Look at all those power lines, man.” Kelly looked up and around. He hadn’t paid them much attention before. They were just power lines. “Look how many there are, all up there. That can’t be good for our brains.”

“What do you mean? It’s the other end you’ve got to be careful at – the sockets.”

“You don’t know, man. Those power lines are bad for you. They send out radiation. They should be buried, not going through the centre of town. But the Authority is too cheap, or they want us to die. Keep away from them.”

“You can’t keep away from them,” said Kelly. They criss-crossed above the street, over-connected, heading everywhere. “Unless you live out in the bush.”

“You’re right brother. You can’t keep away here. But be aware. They can drive you crazy.”

Other people at the bus stop didn’t talk to each other, busy using their mobile devices. A boy listening to phat pumping tunes on his iPod, pushed out his lips and nodded quickly. A girl chatted on her Googlephone without breathing. Another chick furiously used Blackberry Messenger. A woman read Dan Brown’s latest marvel on her Kindle. A man Facebooked on his netbook.

The LED sign said “5 minutes”. There are two kinds of time in the world, thought Kelly – real time, and public transit time. One minute of real time takes one minute to pass. One minute of public transit time takes anywhere from minus one minute – when the bus or train has already gone, ahead of schedule – to infinite minutes – when it never comes at all. Who knew how long these 5 minutes would take.

Kelly changed his mind about the shop. It was raining and he may as well make the most of the new shelter. He nodded at Tavish – who stayed out in the rain – and took cover. The other five people – iPod boy, Googlephone girl, Blackberry chick, Kindle woman, and Facebook man – crowded in to make room for the new arrival, but did not acknowledge each other.

There was a flash of lightning, wasn’t there? Was that a small earthshake? Had something shifted? He saw the five people in the shelter in a different light. He saw their needs. iPod boy was in survival mode; he didn’t have enough to eat, and didn’t get enough sex; yet despite this latter lack, he didn’t get enough sleep either. Googlephone girl’s concern was safety; she worried about her health, her family’s stability, paying her rent, and her body image. Blackberry chick’s focus was society; she wanted to deepen friendships, find intimacy with a man, and be useful for her community. Kindle woman sought status; she lacked self-esteem and wanted the respect that comes from achievement. Facebook man wished for Self-Actualization; he had been accepted by his peers as an equal, and now sought to express his spontaneous creativity.

The LED sign changed to “4 minutes”. Something else shifted.

Kelly saw iPod boy’s life before him. He was a Child now, playing and carefree, running and laughing, celebrating all the joys of the world. He would soon be a man though, a Householder, with mortgage, and bills, and taxes, and wife, and children, and work; needing to pay for things, fix things, deal with things, accept his pathetic limitations, and live with them. He would fade into an Elder, an observer rather than actor, watching the confusing, and misguided, ways of the world, and withdrawing in stages. Then one day he would have no place in the world. He would become a Beggar – reliant on a modest pension, topped up by welfare, his family’s sense of obligation, stranger’s goodwill, charity do-gooders, and Lucerne’s health services to keep him alive.

The LED sign changed to “3 minutes”. The shelter was rattling.

He saw into Kindle woman’s subconscious mind. There was darkness within – deep forests and tight caves with unseen monsters. Then her conscious mind – a busy day in Strattus ahead of her, filled with meetings and an ongoing schedule of networking. He saw her superconscious mind, which held the brightness of love for herself and others.

The LED sign said “2 minutes”. The shelter shook slightly.

Kelly saw Googlephone girl’s dual persona – her animus and anima; male and female; girl and woman; goddess and whore; and yearning both to love and to die.

The LED sign said “1 minute”. The shelter seemed to glow.

He felt overwhelmed, and united, with everything in the world.

The LED sign said “Now”. The shelter was the shelter. That was all. An ugly grey metal box; a cage. The bus arrived, filled with more people. Kelly couldn’t handle any more connection. How much was too much before you were no longer yourself? He let the bus pass, and went to the shop, as he had originally intended to.

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Space Spuds

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Organic Farming, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 19, 2012 by javedbabar

“What’s in the safe?” said Dimpy (Dimples) to Mrs. Roseman. “I’ve meant to ask you for ages but never got around to it.”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Mrs. Roseman, her white curls bobbing as she shook her head. “You’ve got enough on your plate with the little baby. Don’t you worry about it.”

It annoyed Dimpy when people told her not to worry about stuff that she wasn’t worried about. It was the same when people said “You’ll be ok” or “You’ll think of something.” Yes she would! She was a single mother fending for herself. Dimpy would always think of something and be ok, and had no time to worry, and even less time to listen to people who told her not to!

This Director’s job was the worst-paid job she’d ever had, but beggars can’t be choosers. She’d needed a job, and this was the only provincial museum recruiting. The local potato industry was booming, driven by their patented Space Spuds: blue Saturn Spuds and golden Solar Spuds. Great product differentiation had saved this otherwise struggling industry, this town, and importantly, this museum. She said, “I’m not worried Mrs. Roseman, just curious.”

“Oh, it’s just some old potatoes,” said Mrs. Roseman. She became rigid, but her white curls continued to bounce. “I mean some old machinery from Peru, where potatoes come from.”

“Really, that’s fascinating. From Peru? May I see it?”

Mrs. Roseman was still rigid, but her eyes were moving rapidly, and her white curls ending their motions. “Or maybe it’s from Pakistan, where you come from. So you already know what it looks like.”

“Really, from Pakistan?” said Dimpy. “I had no idea.” Mrs. Roseman seemed very nervous. Dimpy wondered why. “Look I’m Museum Director, and should know the resources we have available. This could make a great exhibit, even anchor a show. We could get a feature in the City Sun.” Mrs. Roseman had moved between Dimpy and the safe. “Do you have the keys?”

“I’m not sure where they are right now,” said Mrs. Roseman.

“Well who would know where they are – another trustee?”

“Yes, yes, another trustee. I will ask them at the monthly meeting.”

The monthly meeting was scheduled for Tuesday, but nobody was there when Dimpy arrived. She called Mrs. Roseman. “Where is everybody? The meeting was planned for 7pm.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. We moved the meeting to Monday. Didn’t Mr. Roseman call you?”

“No, your husband did not call me. Why did you move the meeting?”

“Oh, it was unavoidable. The trustees had clashes.” Dimpy wondered what clashes these dinosaurs had. Their average age must be a hundred. Maybe their hip-replacements were double-booked with prize bingo, or polishing their walking frames impacted a retelling of the Great Flood of ‘45. “But I asked about the safe for you. I was mistaken. It’s not machinery from Peru or Pakistan. Its private items held for the Old Families. It’s not things to show or feature.”

“Private items like what?” said Dimpy. “Do you mean valuable items?”

“Yes, very valuable things. That’s why we keep them locked up.”

“Well, I need to see those things, Mrs. Roseman.” The line went quiet. “Mrs. Roseman, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Sorry, my hearing’s not what it was. They are private things. Why do you need to see them?”

“I’m legally responsible for their safety,” said Dimpy. “I must ensure that insurance documents are in order. If anything were to happen to those items, we would not be covered for their loss.” So irresponsible, thought Dimpy. This wasn’t the Guggenheim, she knew, but come on! Keeping personal stuff in the museum safe!

“Nothing will happen to them here,” said Mrs. Roseman. “Don’t you worry about it.”

“Mrs. Roseman, I am worried about it! We need to discuss this matter further. Will you be in tomorrow as usual? Ok, good. Please come and see me at 10 am.”

Mrs. Roseman did not appear the next morning. She also didn’t answer her phone. She appeared the day after, looking unsettled. She couldn’t look Dimpy in the eye when speaking with her. “I spoke with the Old Families about the situation,” she said. “It seems the private items were returned by the previous trustees, for the reasons you mentioned.”

“But haven’t you been a trustee for twenty years?”

Mrs. Roseman looked down. “Oh, I was in hospital last summer. It must have been then.”

“But I was here,” said Dimpy. “Nobody told me.”

“I think you were on holiday. Anyway, there’s only museum cash in there now. The Treasurer accounts for it. So don’t worry about it!”

“Mrs. Roseman!” shouted Dimpy. “Please stop telling me what not to worry about! You have made me very worried indeed! I am the Museum Director – top of the food chain – and the buck stops with me. Please ensure that keys to this safe are on my desk tomorrow morning at ten.”

Dimpy had a rare date that night. Single mothers with young children had their work cut out. He was pretty hot, and said he’d like to see her again. She smiled as she drove home… Hang on! There were lights on at the museum. Who was in there at this time?

She quietly entered the back office. Mr and Mrs Roseman had the safe door open. Mr Roseman walked towards her with a hammer but Mrs Roseman called him back. She said, “No love, it’s time she knew.” Then she said to Dimpy, “A hundred years ago we had some very special visitors. Only the Old Families know. They sought permission to extract pumice – vital for their wellbeing – from Mt. Negra. In return they gave us their seed potatoes. The old timers were not trained marketers like you. They simply named the Space Spuds by their provenance – Saturn Spuds and Solar Spuds. The original seeds are kept in this safe. The Old Families take cuttings from them yearly, using each scraping to create a new culture. This is Lucerne Museum’s secret, and now it is also yours. Assuming of course that you love your daughter. Who’s her babysitter tonight? Joanne Millman? That sounds like an Old Family name to me.”

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Upstairs / Downstairs

Posted in Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 18, 2012 by javedbabar

They should be called bi-laws rather than bylaws, thought Forbes. It seemed ridiculous to have an Upstairs and a Downstairs, but he had no choice. The Village had divided his shop into two parts.

“Good morning!” he said to a new customer. The man was stocky, about fifty, with curly grey hair. He nodded to Forbes and turned away. Forbes wondered if this customer was an Upstairs or a Downstairs person – it was impossible to say when they first came in. There were people who rushed in and headed Downstairs before anyone could see them. Others rushed in and bought a book or gift from Upstairs, then headed right out again. People who sauntered in were also of two types. Those who browsed Upstairs books, feeling inspired and delighted, found a work they resonated with, purchased it and left. Yet there were also those who walked around Upstairs like bored children, picking at different sections, summoning courage to head to the darkened windowless room downstairs.

Forbes didn’t bother his customers, only when it seemed like they needed help, or when there was a hot girl, or when he was bored. The stocky man worked quickly through the Sacred Texts section, New Age sages, spoken word audio, international and domestic music CD’s, meditation DVD’s, tarot and oracle sets, musical instruments – touching a crystal bowl and gong, making them sing and shimmer, and spiritual fiction. He seemed particularly drawn to colourful, repackaged series – Conversations with God and its sequels, Paulo Coelho’s works, and the many editions of Deepak Chopra. He spent time flicking through an Eckhart Tolle, but was facing away, and Forbes couldn’t see which one it was. Now the stocky man was hovering as if caught between two worlds. He could be making a purchase decision, but Forbes knew much better than that. He said, “Are you doing ok there, Sir? May I help you in any way?”

“Em, yes,” said the man. He was still handsome and quite well groomed, but maybe not getting the attention he needed. “Can I go Downstairs? I mean, can I just go down there, or do I need to ask first, like I’m doing?”

“Please go straight down,” said Forbes. “But thank you for asking. I’ll be down in a moment.”

The man’s eyes widened. He said, “Why are you coming down?” Forbes opened his mouth but was interrupted. “I thought this was just a store. I don’t want any funny business.” He had the look of a haunted child.

“It’s bylaws, Sir. Because of the nature of materials Downstairs, and also because it is subterranean retail space, there must be a staff member present. And I am the sole staff member.”

“But then who will look after the Upstairs section?”

“The Upstairs will take care of itself, Sir. Thank you for your concern.” He couldn’t resist winking and adding, “Maybe you could stay up here while I’m down there, Sir? I like it down there too.”

The customer nodded initially, and then said in a quiet voice, “I think you’re making fun of me.”

“Just bantering with my customer, Sir. Trying to make you feel comfortable. People are nervous when entering this shop. Isn’t it strange that with all the things you see daily on TV – drought, famine, poverty and disease – rather than being ashamed by their huge houses, big cars, fat salaries, and expensive clothes, people are embarrassed by the materials Downstairs, dealing with the most natural activity in the world; the ultimate recreation. It’s as invigorating as an aerobics class, and on par with yoga for flexibility. I know our materials depict mostly couples, but there are also plenty of items for people to use themselves, in different sizes, shapes, scents, and colours.”

The customer looked haunted again. “Hey, what do you mean by that? I don’t want to use anything on myself. This was my wife’s idea. She’s scared to come in here herself.” The customer was shocked by what he’d said. He hadn’t planned to bring his wife into this.

Forbes said, “I’m sorry Sir. Sometimes I talk too much. I get excited whenever a customer comes in. Please feel free to stay Upstairs or go Downstairs as you please. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me, pal. I’m just nervous, as you said. Thanks for chatting. I think I’ll head down there now. I promise to behave myself. See you when you come down.”

Forbes smiled and nodded. He always preferred Downstairs people. They came via Upstairs – so had seen all the spiritual stuff, and were humble and somewhat ashamed. They were often gentle. The Upstairs people – who never went down – focussed on elevated realms, and could be judgemental. Some were cruel and repulsive. Downstairs people could be cruel too, but at least they weren’t repressed. Upstairs people spent their lives pondering, whereas Downstairs people preferred action. They explored and celebrated the living body, in all its glorious man- and woman-ifestations. Maybe a few too many ways – especially those dirty Europeans; was there a shortage of public toilets there – but who’s to judge? Forbes prided himself on the choice he offered Downstairs.

“Bloody Hell!” he heard the customer exclaim as he reached the floor below. This was a common reaction. Forbes had better head down there now. Don’t want to transgress the bi-law. Maybe he would even stay there this afternoon. Let the Upstairs people come Downstairs.

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OM

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on March 17, 2012 by javedbabar

“The highest calling is service,” said Ozwald Malchizedek, also known as OM. “Whether it’s at the grocery store or gas station, by your mailman or cleaner, the guy who comes to check your meters, or the cable girl. They all provide you with service. Even the guy in Bangalore selling you top value telephone packages.” His disciples giggled at his silly accent saying these last few words. Seven of them were crowded around him, at a table meant for six, at Chutney restaurant. It was Saturday night and every table was filled, but theirs was the only one with a bona fide holy man. People glanced over continually at the clean-shaven, bald-headed, dark-skinned man in pale blue robes.

“Are we not all servants, Master?” said a blonde female disciple, wearing a blue-glitter tikka, and matching sparkling sari.

“That’s a very good question, Shanti.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “You could have also said, “Are we not all Masters, servant?” Shanti looked uncomfortable with this inversion, and looked away. “No, no. It is just the same. I am your Master but also your servant. Go ahead, say it.”

Shanti looked at him and said, “Are we not all Masters, servant?” She looked away again and said, “I don’t like saying that. It feels uncomfortable.” People laughed loudly at another table. A hunting story was in progress. Somewhat incongruous in a vegetarian restaurant.

“Well you must keep saying it till… Aah! Dinner has arrived.”

“Seven Regular Chutney Thalis,” said the waiter cheerfully, “And one Speical Chutney Thali with Fishy Goa?” OM nodded. “Who is the Special Thali for?” OM indicated himself. “Of course, I should have known. A Special Thali for a Special Guest.” OM nodded again. “I hope you enjoy your meal. Please call me if I can be of further service.”

OM raised his eyebrows and said, “See, this man knows about service.” The disciples looked at the waiter lovingly. He became self-conscious as he poured their water. A drop splashed up onto OM’s cheek, and rolled right down, leaving a white streak. He said, “Do not rely on anything in this material world. Not even spray tan.”

OM’s charm lay in his mysterious mix of great wisdom and utter foolishness. This has been the way of all Masters. The disciple’s task was to resonate with the truth apparent, whatever its form.

OM pointed to Shanti’s thali – a rectangular steel plate divided into sections – and said, “Each of us is like one food in this thali. Look, Shanti is the dal, Kim is the mixed vegetables, Simone is the rice, Tom is the roti, Christy is the salad, Gemma is the raita – I mean raita, not writer, though she is that too.” People laughed. “And Mata is the pickle. We are all in this life together, connected by a network of delicious relationships.” Another table laughed loudly. A drinking story.

“Shanti said, “What about you Master?”

OM looked confused, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I am the thali,” he said.

Shanti said, “So you are the servant, carrying us all?” This didn’t come out like she’d expected. OM’s faced flickered. “Oh, sorry, that’s not what I meant really. I meant that you are supporting us all.” She was struggling, thinking of something more to say, and was visibly nervous. “Without the thali, we’d all fall down. Only the thali can…”

“Shanti, Shanti…” he said. “I know what you mean.” She relaxed and closed her eyes. OM took her hands in his and said, “Now let’s eat.” Nobody moved. OM said, “What’s wrong?”

Shanti said, “Aren’t you going to bless the food, Master? You usually do.”

“We are in an Indian restaurant.” OM beamed at them each in turn. “The food has been blessed already. But there’s no harm in blessing it again. Please all close your eyes. A –U – M – …”

Ozwalk Malchizedek was the first to finish. He ordered an extra portion of Fishy Goa. “Oh, so good,” he said. “Just like the dhabas in India.”

“Do they serve Goan food in Punjab?” said Shanti.

“What do you mean by that?” OM snapped.

“I just mean that Fishy Goa is a South Indian dish, and dhabas are popular in North India.”

“Punjabis eat anything,” OM said. “They have all kind of restaurants.” The table became quiet.

“Master,” said a disciple. “I’ve noticed that when you chant OM, it sounds like three syllables rather than one. Is my observation correct?”

“It is incorrect! It is actually four syllables. First you open your mouth wide and say A to signify creation. Then purse your lips and say U for sustenance. Then close your mouth and say M for destruction. Then remain in Silence that is the ultimate servant, underlying them all. Let us all chant these holy syllables together.” The table reverberated to several long “A –U – M – …’s” Other tables stopped laughing and stared.

The waiter felt that it was time for their bill. The disciples fussed over it, but OM insisted on paying with his credit card. He said that they should all give him cash. The waiter gave Ozwald Malchizedek the card machine. He entered his 4-digit PIN: 2-8-6-0, equating to A – U – M – …. on the alpha-numeric keypad. The PIN was incorrect. He tried again with 2-8-6-1, then 2-8-6-*. Then again with 2-8-6-#. Each code didn’t work. He turned towards the waiter and said, “Thank you for reminding us of this most important truth. The fourth syllable – the space between all things – is a great mystery; the ground of all being and truly unknown. You have provided a valuable service to us tonight. Shanti, please use your card instead, and give him a good tip.”

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Two Laws

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , on March 16, 2012 by javedbabar

Noop hobbled into the lounge and looked around her. It was airy, bright and open. The small manager welcomed her personally, saying, “Mrs. Irene Todd, it’s always nice to see new faces. I hope that we will see you here often.”

She said, “I’ve been quite busy since Aidan died. It’s been a difficult period.”

“We’ll do whatever we can to help you.” He indicated the staff now busy making dinner. “Our main goal is sociability. We like to draw people out.” He smiled at her like an imp. He was an imp. “So please don’t be shy.” It must be hard work “drawing people out” she thought. Some of them were drooling and dazed. Thankfully she still had her wits about her. That was a nice little temple they’d made, with different gods and goddesses. There were Ram & Sita. Why did it feel so natural to say Hai Ram?

“Please make yourself comfortable,” said the manager. “Will you be dining with us, or have you brought your own lunch?”

“I will be eating here,” she said. She hadn’t heard great things about the food, but wanted to try it. She hoped it was something spicy, even if they made it poorly. It would be better than bland food.

“Okay, great. I’ll introduce you to some of the others at lunch. Will you be okay here for a while? I’ve just got to call the Village about transport, and the Medical Centre about their new healthy eating guidelines. As you can see, bureaucracy never ends – even when our lives do.”

Noop sat on the sofa outside the manager’s office. She could have walked over to the other women, but preferred to be introduced. There aren’t many men here, she thought. They must have disappeared early like her Aidan. How did the tradition develop – all over the world – of men marrying younger women? On average men die five years before women – it doesn’t make sense. Hai Ram.

Her Aidan had been a good man mostly. He’d provided well for her and the kids. He’d built her a home. He’d taken her on holidays. He’d bought her flowers and gifts. In fifty years he’d never missed one Valentines’ Day. “There was more than one St. Valentine,” he said. “Maybe three or four. But all were martyrs. Let’s go one day to Santa Maria in Cosmedin in Rome, and see St. Valentine’s flower-crowned skull.” They’d never made it. Like the manager here, Aidan complained about bureaucracy. He blamed it for most things – even their lack of seeing the flower-crowned skull. “Bloody governments,” he said. “Making rules and regulations. How’s a man ever to fight his way out? My skull is crowned with photocopies and receipts.” He’d done his best. He was a good husband. But in her heart she had always known that he wasn’t her true love.

Noop looked across the room and saw…

The next thing she knew, bright lights filled her eyes. She was looking up at the ceiling. What had happened? Was she lying on the floor? The manager’s imp face was close to her, saying, “Mrs. Todd? Can you hear me? Irene?” Other staff crowded around her. She panicked at first, but relaxed quickly. This wasn’t the first time. She knew it had happened before. But where? And why? The man she’d seen was known to her. But who was he?

An ambulance came and took her to the hospital. They said that it was just a momentary lapse. Nothing to worry about. She checked out later the same day.

Noop should have stayed at home the next day, but just had to go to the Centre. She knew the man there. He didn’t seem to recognize her though. He had lost his mind. He was drooling slightly. She wiped his mouth with a tissue. Other women began gossiping about her. She didn’t care. The way he looked at her. He knew too. So late in this life! Why so late in this life! But they were still connected. Hai Ram.

Through Noop’s many lifetimes, with many different names, one thing had become clear. That there were only two laws at work in the world. The Law of Attraction and the Law of Karma.

The Law of Attraction was qualitative. There were no absolutes. Its vehicle was your imagination. Whatever you thought about, desired wholeheartedly, and worked towards was ultimately yours. It may take a while to get there, but it would come. Noop and Raja had been circling each other for countless lifetimes, like the gods Ram and Sita. They came together like sugar and water, dissolving into each other completely. But that water was spilled again after forty, fifty, or seventy years. They were entwined and could never be separated entirely, but must find new containers to mingle. That was their endless journey, to find a grail in which to merge. Maybe one day forever.

The Law of Karma, however, didn’t make things easy. You did the best you could, given your circumstances. You tried to be diligent, hardworking, truthful, just, and kind. You retained faith in God and fulfilled your earthly duty. But no one knew the repercussions of their every action, multiplied infinitely. You did your best, that’s all you could do – and that changed continually: with each moment, day, year, and lifetime. Karma was quantitative: a huge balance sheet of plus and minus – leading to a grand net total. If positive – you advanced, and if negative – you retreated. So it was.

Plato spoke of divided souls, searching for their completion. Sufis yearned for a return to their original unity. All lovers seek soulmates. Twin flames, lit from the same source, can merge again. But till then they must wander as lone sparks.

Noop looked into Raja’s eyes, though he didn’t seem to be looking into hers. She held his hand, squeezed his fingers, and said, “I have found you again, my love. I am your Sita. Hai Ram.”

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Little People

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 15, 2012 by javedbabar

Quinn walked in and laid down his work bag. He said, “Darling I’m home! Where have the fish gone love? Are you cleaning the tank?” There was no reply. Erin’s car was there – maybe she was in the garden. He went outside beyond the roses, but didn’t see her. Then he saw her inside the house, peering at him from the sunroom. Had she been there all along? He went inside and said, “Didn’t you hear me, love?” She didn’t say anything. “What’s happened, darling? Is everything alright?” She rushed towards him and hugged him, and burst out crying. “Love, love, what’s the matter?”

“I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. I thought that you’d get angry again. They arrived this morning and I had to put them somewhere.” She stopped talking and continued sobbing. “The only thing I could think of was the fish tank.”

“So what have you done with the fish?” She better not have flushed them down the toilet, thought Quinn. I know they didn’t cost me anything, but those fighting fish are worth $100 each.

Erin pulled away from his shoulder and said, “They’re in the bath. Do you think they will be ok there? It’s only for a day or two. I promise I’ll get my own terrarium. Can you make me one? I’ll get the glass tomorrow.”

“Hang on, hang on. So you don’t need the tank for other fish? What’s it for then?”

Erin took a deep breath and said, “Little people.”

“Did you say little people?” Erin nodded. “Little people?” She looked scared now. He better calm down. The hottest girls are always the craziest. They live on the edge of imperfection. There’s no point in complaining about it now. It’s part of the package you sign up for. “Darling, where are they now? I mean, why didn’t you put them into the tank, their nice new home?” She welled up again. “What have I said now? Really, I’m not trying to be mean to you. I’m just trying to make sense of this situation.”

“You can’t see them,” she said.

“You can’t see them?” He looked into the fish tank closely. Gravel and greens remained, but no signs of life. “You mean that they’re in there now, but they’re invisible?” Erin nodded. “And how do you know that they are in there rather than sitting on the toilet, or chilling in the fridge?” Erin looked scared again. “Darling, I’m going to take a shower. Let’s chat about this later. I’m not sure how to deal with it right now.”

Quinn took a long shower, shaved, and trimmed his nose and ear hair. People seemed to think it was ok to have strings poking out sideways. It wasn’t. It made you look creepy. When he returned to the lounge Erin was composed. She’d touched up her makeup. Hot and crazy. She said, “You know my friend Shaka?” Quinn nodded. He’d heard the name, but had no idea who this was. “She invited little people into her home in spring, and she says that they’ve changed everything. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. They have special energy – it’s like reiki, but they use their whole bodies not just their hands.”

Quinn couldn’t resist saying, “Their invisible bodies?”

Erin didn’t flinch. “Yes their invisible bodies. I know you think I’m wacky. But think about it. What is the most wonderful thing in the world?”

“Em… love?”

“Yes, love. Can you see that? Right! You can’t. And something else?”

“Er… beauty?”

“Yes, beauty. Of course we can see beautiful things, or we have beautiful feelings, or beautiful thoughts. But can we actually see beauty? I mean, as a thing itself? You’re shaking your head. You know that we can’t. And the same for truth, and wonder, and faith, and joy. We can’t see any of them directly – only their manifestations.”

Quinn was feeling bamboozled. He’d just come home from a hard day’s work. It wasn’t fair to hit him with this. He liked her style though. Her passion. He always had. Her belief in what she was saying. Was it different from people believing in God, and angels, and the devil, and ghosts? The resurrection of Christ, the world emerging from Brahma’s navel, a winged horse flying Muhammad to heaven, or Moses talking to a burning bush? These worldwide myths required belief in the invisible and the impossible. Billions of people swore that they were true. People that he didn’t know or much care for. And this one crazy lady believed in little people. The woman he loved, who loved him too, and meant more to him than any other little or big person in the world. Her belief in him and her love for him were invisible too. But he knew that they were real. These things acquired Presence.

He would take good care of these little people, he decided. After dinner he said, “Darling, do they like it there in the tank?”

“I think they’re happy,” she said.

“How about the lighting? The temperature? Humidity? Ventilation? All good?”

She looked at him bright eyed and said, “All good my love.”

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HOT Chicken

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Organic Farming, Unknown with tags , , , , on March 14, 2012 by javedbabar

It was embarrassing. Everyone had brought the same dish to the party – and because they had all brought the same dish, they knew two things. First, that they hadn’t made it themselves – they had brought it at the grocery store. Second, that it was on special offer – that’s why it had caught their eye.

There was a table full of steaming HOTTM chicken, which everyone knew was past its shelf life, and had been reduced from $9.99 to 99 cents. Was it legal to sell out-of-date food? People weren’t sure, but presumed that the grocery store wouldn’t have offered it otherwise. On the bright side, everybody loved HOTTM chicken. Its unique combination of Habaneros, Olives, and Truffles was unbelievably good. As its millionaire fitness instructor/chef inventor said in the ads, it was “Hot, healthy richness to die for.”

Nobody would dispute that the Habaneros – fire for your tongue; Olives – lubrication for your heart; and Truffles – joy for your mind, created pleasure divine indeed. But a table full of HOTTM chicken was too much to handle. For a start, HOTTM chicken was way too hot for children to eat. They were told not to touch it, but couldn’t resist. Little hands reached up and sneaked around. Others openly raided the table’s edges. Every few minutes a new wailing began, as tender pink tastebuds were slaughtered.

The HOTTM chicken had all been unwrapped (to remove evidence of its out of dateness) and heated (to provide evidence of its just having come out of someone’s oven) – so it couldn’t be returned to the store. Yet a tableful of it couldn’t be wasted either.

Shaun called his son. “Tain, what are you doing right now?”

“Uh, nothing.” He was looking down, bored. A little moody. “Just talking to Egan and Baird.”

“Ok, tell them you’ll be back in a minute. Go upstairs and use my computer. You know Level One of TimeworkTM.” Tain nodded. “Find an offer for the kids – something they’ll like.”

“I’m not sure, dad. Can you do it?”

Shaun snapped at him. “No – you do it! I’ve got to stay with our guests.” He hadn’t realized he was so stressed; guests are meant to be a pleasure but are usually a pain. Still, he shouldn’t have snapped. “Go on Son, please find something for them.”

Tain headed upstairs. “Where are you going?” said Nola. He told her. “Can I come too?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just tagged along.

TimeworkTM was a popular low-level programme. Serious time programs were reserved for government use. Hackers sometimes jumped across from TimeworkTM to restricted programs, but were caught and punished. In most cases their TimeworkTM access was curtailed – easily done with DNA and sensory digitization. They remained forever in the extant present – how dull!

Tain found a good offer on MMMTM Muffins. He dragged the Mango Maple Marshmallow muffins to their household account, and was about to close down, when Nola said, “Wait! Wait! Wait! Why don’t we make another change?”

“My dad only said about the offer,” said Tain. “Don’t you like MMMTM Muffins? They’re the best, even…”

“They’re great. I’ll eat six of…”

Tain said, “Looks like you already have!”

Nola smacked him. Being a tomboy she wasn’t scared of boys physically, and they couldn’t hurt her inside. Sticks and stones and all that stuff.

“Look, I like the muffins but I also like HOTTM chicken. Have you ever tried it? I bet you haven’t, you wimp! My dad let’s me try some. It’s so good. And they let you change the formula. That’s why it’s so popular.”

“How can you change the formula?” said Tain. “It’s Habanero, Olive, and Truffle. It’s famous.”

“That’s what made it famous.” She manoeuvred herself before the computer. “But people change it all the time. It’s a Level Two program. Let me show you. What’s your password?” Tain told her without thinking. “Ok – look at this. You can change the ingredients according to letter. H can be Haddock, Halloumi, Ham, Hare, Haricots, Hazelnuts, Herbs, Hickory, Honey, or Hummus. O can be Onions, Okra, Oranges, Oxtail, Omelette, Oatmeal, or Oregano. T can be Tomato, Turkey, Tofu, Tuna, Turnip, Tortilla, Toast, Tarragon, Tamales, or Toblerone. Why don’t’ we try Hazelnut, Orange, Turnip? Or Ham, Omelette, Toast – just like my best breakfast?”

“We can’t change the HOTTM chicken,” said Tain. “They’re eating it already. We don’t know what will happen.”

“Well, we’ve got to change something,” said Nola. “It’s just too boring. Ok, I’ll just change the T. Eating Truffles is disgusting anyway. They make poor pigs find them in the forest and then kill them and mix them to make truffle sausages. People in Europe are very cruel. So let’s change the T to Toblerone.”

“Isn’t that European too, from Switzerland?”

“Yes, but it isn’t cruel. They just use honeycombs.” Nola confirmed the change to Habanero, Olive, Toblerone Chicken. Almost immediately there was a commotion downstairs. They rushed to see. There was Shaun with his face puffed, writhing on the ground. Dr. Bungawalla was attending to him.

Tain knew that his father was allergic to peanuts, but Toblerone contained almonds, so it couldn’t be that. And TimeworkTM had filters to prevent such accidents. However special offers to consumers require cost cutting by producers. How else could they make a buck? In this batch almonds had been replaced by peanuts. Tain had two minutes to reverse the ingredients. This was a more advanced operation. “Nola! Do you know Level Three?”

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Starsailor

Posted in Alternative Energy, Global Travel, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 12, 2012 by javedbabar

It was unusual to see one on an inland lake. Sapphire thought that large sailing ships only ploughed the high seas. There it was though – what looked like a floating mansion with a fabulous clothes line of gleaming whites, gliding along the emerald waters, with mountains and forests behind. How did it get here, she wondered? Was it possible to sail all the way from the ocean, along the Glaser River, through Morrison Lake, then via smaller rivers, all the way to Lucerne?

Her grandma had first shown her the lakes. When life at home became unbearable – her parents fighting non-stop, and Sapphire crying non-stop – her grandma said, “Let me take you to a beautiful place where everything will be better.”

Sapphire said, “Where are we going, grandma? Are we going to India?” She’d heard her mother talking about living there. That was the main thing her parents argued about.

“No child. We’re going to the Magic Lakes. I discovered them when I was your age. I’d swim and fish there. You’ll like them.”

After her parents parted company, Sapphire travelled with her mother and saw many beautiful places – the temples of Varanasi, the churches of Jerusalem, the Oracle of Delphi, Angkor Wat, Borobudur, and Giza – but none of them were home. They were others people’s homes. Her grandma died the year after they visited the Magic Lakes, and Sapphire hadn’t returned there for ten years now. But this year she felt lost in life – stuck in a dead end job, with a fractured relationship, a poor body image, and negative mindset. She felt drawn to the Lakes.

There were so many lakes there – some round, some long; some green, some black; some transparent, and some thick with muddy clouds, seeming thunderous skies upturned. She traversed them endlessly in her kayak.

There was a bustle of activity around the large sailing ship. Teams of swarthy sailors – were they Goan? Maybe Filipino? – unloaded cloth-covered boxes manually. The operation seemed antique. Sapphire paddled across the lake towards the sailing ship.

Her paddle was quickly pulled from her grasp. She screamed in shock. A sailor was swimming beside her. He steadied her boat, clutching her paddle. She’d been ambushed.

“Please come with me,” he said, clearly Goan.

“Why should I?” Sapphire said fiercely. “Leave me alone, or I’ll scream.”

“You already did,” he said, smiling. “But don’t worry; I won’t force you to come. I am only delivering a message from the Captain. She invites you to join her for tea.”

“She?” said Sapphire. “Your Captain is a woman?” She wondered why she was so surprised by this.

“Yes, she is,” said the sailor. “And a truly great Captain too. She has taken our ship to places we never imagined.” He beamed at Sapphire, his white, white teeth dazzling. “Will you accept her invitation?”

“If I say no, will you give my paddle back?”

“Immediately,” said the Goan.

“In that case please give me my paddle.” The Goan’s smile declined, and he passed back her paddle. “Now swim ahead,” said Sapphire, “and I will follow you.” His smile returned.

It was a beautiful ship with an elegant puzzle of ropes and sails. The three main masts had five square-sails each, and there was an array of long triangular sails – seeming washed kites – attached to the tusk-like mast at the front – was that the prow? Further triangular sails stretched taut between the masts. Why so many? What were they all for? A flag flew atop the main mast – royal blue with a golden sun, and a shape within, which was hard to indentify whilst limp.

“Welcome aboard sailor!” someone called down from the rear top deck – the stern? It was a strong female voice, maybe Anglo-Indian. Sapphire saw a sturdy, dark-skinned, dark-haired woman in her fifties – surely the Captain. “Thank you for accepting my invitation. Shall we?” she indicated for Sapphire to enter some ornate double-doors. Well I’m here now, she thought, so may as well.

The inside of the ship was beautifully crafted. There was teak panelling and mirrors, and ornate lamps of exotic designs, featuring spiders and peacocks. The captain led her to a spacious room with three sides of stained glass glowing. She said, “We were wondering who was watching our operation. I sent Gonzales out to investigate. He took more direct action than anticipated, but here you are.” She nodded warmly. “We’ve got a bit of cleaning to do – those barnacles really build up on the bottom, and algae accumulate. That slows us down. We need to lose some cargo too. Reduce weight to lessen water displacement. We’re near maximum deadweight tonnage. We’ll only carry high value items from now on.”

“But where are you going?” said Sapphire. “You haven’t told me.”

“You must join the crew if you want to know that, sailor. All I can say is that throughout history, ships have been used by men for many things – fishing, commercial, and military purposes; to transport people, to entertain them, to spread technology; to colonize and enslave; to spread new crops leading to our world’s crazy population growth, and promoting energy-intensive economies. Here’s our chance to make a difference.”

“I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

“Have you read Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn?” Sapphire nodded. “We follow the advice of the great sailor-philosopher, Mark Twain.” The captain closed her eyes and recited, “‘So throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbour. Catch the trade wind in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.’ To this I add ‘change’.”

“Change what?” said Sapphire.

“Change everything! We sail great rivers, lakes, and seas, following our dreams. Taking ideas everywhere. We’re always looking for good crew members. Will you join us?”

Sapphire felt that she had nothing to lose, and said, “Aye-Aye Captain! When do we sail?”

“As soon as you salute our flag,” said the Captain, indicating for Sapphire to go above board. The royal blue flag was now fluttering. Within its golden sun was the shape of a little girl.

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Noch Aye

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , on March 11, 2012 by javedbabar

“I thought that drinks weren’t allowed,” said Moreen. The circus troupe had started drinking when they’d left the Village, and continued all the way up the Lucerne Valley Road. The Russian clowns downed vodka; Jamaican acrobats limbered up with rum; English jugglers drank both cheap and premium gins, according to their social class; Goan magicians made fenny appear and disappear; the Chinese doll family drank thimblefuls of baijiu; the Mexican couch-spinner had tequila and mezcal – he said “one for each end”; the German sword swallower liked schnapps to “heal his mistakes”; the Iraqi cannonball said that only arak “kept his tummy in”; Greek plate-spinners said brandy “balanced their ears”.

“We are circus people,” said the Scottish Ringmaster, sipping 23-year-old malt whisky, “We make our own rules.”

“You could get into a lot of trouble for drinking,” said Moreen. “They are pretty tough here. The whole Valley is dry.”

“This is the land of water. Water is wet!” said the Ringmaster loudly. “Noch aye!”

“Noch aye!” the circus troupe members replied.

“Isn’t it Och Aye?” said Moreen.

“Well usually it is, but we make our own rules. If those gold diggers want entertainment, they’ll have to cut us some slack. Noch aye!”

“Noch aye!” everyone called out.

It is inappropriate to be drinking on a schoolbus, thought Moreen. The driver seemed to agree with her and stopped the bus halfway up the Valley.

“Right, you lot,” he said through his beard. “I’m going to tell you this once only. Drinking is forbidden in this Valley, and also on this bus, which is used to transport children to school daily. I’ve turned a blind eye till now, but break time’s over. You better put those drinks away and sharpen up your act.”

The Mexican couch-spinner rose from his seat. The Iraqi human-cannonball did likewise. The Scottish Ringmaster rose up too, and indicated for the other two to sit down. They screwed up their faces, but followed his order.

“Ok, you’re the boss,” he said the driver. “Then he faced the troupe and said, “Ladies and gentlemen! You heard the man. Let’s drink up.” Everybody raised their glasses and downed them. “Thank you. Now put them away – at least till we get through the checkpoint.” The driver slowed the bus again. “Ok, I didn’t mean that. Ladies and Gentlemen! No more drinking on the journey at all please.”

The driver sped up and called out, “If I see anyone drinking I’m turning around and taking you back, and reporting to the Authority.

They soon reached the Golden turnoff, lined with black security fencing and guard dog patrols. Depleted supply in Africa and Asia meant that gold was more precious than ever; a vital component for cellphones, laptops, satellites, solar panels, catalytic convertors, airbag and braking systems, and a million other things. And of course, it was the only universally recognized currency, come hell or high water. Golden had been designated a “Fundamental Framework” zone.

The security guards were idle. They didn’t smell or spot the booze. They ordered everyone off the bus and then back on again. They asked troupe members to perform some tricks. Most were on work visas and didn’t want fuss, so obliged.

The Balkan chapeaugrapher rolled his eyes, and transformed his white, ring-shaped piece of felt into a pirate’s hat, a Russian fur hat, a nun’s wimple, Admiral’s hat, skyscraper, baseball cap, baby’s bonnet, mortar board, an iPod, a barrister’s wig, and Mickey Mouse ears. The security guards laughed and clapped. The Peruvian knife thrower was called upon. He threw five knives at a cedar, five at a fir, five at a pine, and his last five knives removed guards’ hats and pinned them to the security fencing. They reached for their guns but then burst out laughing, and gave him high-fives. The Israeli fire-dancer was required to produce a turn. She ran her standard repertoire of poi, fire hoops, batons, nanchaku, and fire whips, then fire-eating and fire-breathing, and lit all their cigarettes for a finale. The guards cheered, and then stamped the troupe’s passes.

They asked Moreen her reason for visiting Golden. She said that she was looking for work there. “What kind of work?” asked the biggest guard.

“It depends on what’s available. I’ll consider most things.”

“Will you now?” said the big guard. “Wait here for a minute.”

The circus troupe were back on the bus now. Only Moreen remained. The guard told the driver to start up the bus and get going. “But what about my passenger?” he said.

“She hasn’t been cleared yet,” said the guard. “We’re waiting for instructions. We’ll send her on the next bus.”

“We’ll wait for her,” said the driver.

Moreen was scared. What did these guards want with her? She should have chosen her words more carefully – not said that she’d “consider most things”. The Ringmaster climbed down from the bus to enquire about the hold up. When they told him he was incensed. “You let fifty drunken reprobates through, and you want to keep this perfectly respectable single woman here for no reason? Gentlemen! That’s ungentlemanly behaviour. What do you think you’re playing at?”

The big guard placed his hand on his gun. “Buddy, you may be King of the Ring in your world, but here I am God. What I say is Law. Now be on your way or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.” His fellow guards prepared to handle their guns, and didn’t know what happened to them next.

They later recalled being flipped about, being wound around people’s heads, swung around, ejected a hundred metres, having their tongues set on fire, being sawn in half, thrown about repeatedly, pinned to boards and spun about, having pies pushed in their faces, and the bus disappearing in a puff of smoke.

“What did you do to them,” Moreen asked the Ringmaster.

He said, “We just taught them a lesson. That was no way to behave with a lady. We circus people like to follow the rules.” He winked at her. “Our rules.” Then he called out, “Noch Aye!”

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Burningham

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 9, 2012 by javedbabar

Lucerne Arts Council had a good record with grants. Their writer-in-chief, Eric Voodoo, ensured that their annual roster of events was well funded; $3,000 from here, $2,000 from there, and you’ve soon got enough – at least enough to get started. You can top up funds with sales commissions, donations at the door, bar sales, and local sponsors.

This year had been a particularly good one. Their core event was always MADE – Music, Art, Dance, Expression – celebrating the community’s rich artistic offerings. This was followed by FADE, a fund-raiser for older artisans struggling to produce artworks as their minds and bodies fell apart. SADE was produced by the Upper Valley S&M sculpture community. JADE honoured the centenary of BC’s Chinese artists. PAID was the key sales event, encouraging visitors to slip their hands from their wine glasses down into their pockets, and for Gods’ sake buy something. RAID proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy; it was busted and all of its “herbal artworks” confiscated. And the highlight for artists – though not necessarily for visitors – was LAID; where many artists put in a good performance. Due to clever use of bylaws, it was classified as a “mixed media/exercise” event and wasn’t busted.

Eric Voodoo stared at the one-page grant application form. Six million dollars was on offer! He usually ran these off like clockwork, but he’d better give this one some serious thought. It was unusual to be approached by a charity, but he wasn’t going to kick this gift horse in the mouth. Village 2 Village (V2V) raised awareness of third-world refugees. Could Westerners imagine leaving everything they owned behind, setting off in a convoy, and hoping for the best? This happened regularly in developing nations. They had no choice.

V2V was looking for a Canadian village to make the long journey to an American desert, live there for a week, and then return. It would be a well-publicised event, highlighting the plight of refugee-escapees. They realized that this was no easy task, and had allocated 50% of their annual budget to the event. Its PR value alone would be incalculable.

One morning Eric Voodoo awoke aflame. “Darling, I’ve got it!” he said.

“What’s that my love?” asked his artist-wife, Toni Yahoo.

“You know that we’ve always wanted to go to Burning Man? Well, here’s our chance! They want to move a village to the desert for a week. Let’s take Lucerne to Burning Man!”

Toni Yoodoo knew better than to dampen her artist-husband’s enthusiasm. And what’s not to like about a $6 million Village art project? It was she that coined the name of the new village, “Burningham”.

Eric Voodoo called V2V. “So just to check, you will arrange all the transport at this end, plus set up the infrastructure at that end – everything? The whole move will cost us nothing? And food, water, and fuel are all covered there too? How much cash do we get at this end – I mean cash in hand, not budget allocation? $1.5 million? I’ve organized some events myself; they all go over budget. What’s your contingency? Yep 25% is good. Ok, thank you. Expect our application.”

Toni Yahoo approached the Mayor and Council. They’d had an issue with her husband since his art attack on the Transparent Temple, and didn’t agree that it looked better as the Opaque Oracle. Cleaning costs were being calculated. It was a quiet time of year. A direct injection of $1.5 million into the local economy and a paid community holiday were enticing. Mayor and Council supported the application wholeheartedly, and signed up the whole Village. It was a historic, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And it would be a nice break from their anti-P2P campaigning.

The P2P pipeline was the most flexible channel in history, running from the Infinite City, through the US, into Mexico, with the ability to transport oil, gas, water, food, passengers, and freight. Its construction costs were 400% over budget, and it would cost $1 billion annually to run. This multi-purpose pipeline was deemed “Fundamental Framework” by Homeland Security, and every obstacle to its completion was bulldozed. But now that it was ready, a softer approach was needed.

“Ok honey, we’re all done,” said Toni Yoodoo.

“Great,” said her husband. “Did you set the sprinkler timers?”

“Yes, I’ve done that my love, and the lights, and thermostats. The house is locked and workshop alarmed – not that anyone will hear it.”

The convoy assembled in the Village centre, and headed down the Sea to Sky Highway, which was closed to other traffic this morning. Crowds cheered them in Strattus, and in Squashy, but people were strangely absent as they approached the City. Instead of leaving the Highway as expected, the convoy continued for six extra junctions, and then turned off. Security was very heavy here. V2V had no choice but to play along when Homeland Security had entered their offices. Every employee was shadowed by an agent. Some were replaced by agents.

“What’s going on?” said Eric Voodoo to the V2V worker accompanying their bus.

“Remain silent,” he said. “We’re about to enter the P2P tunnel. Say goodbye to your beloved Canadia. You won’t be coming back.” Eric Voodoo struggled but was restrained. The agent spoke into his radio. “Ok, the convoy is ready to enter the pipeline. Demolition of Lucerne can begin. Here’s to our first Multi-Resource-Hub in BC.”

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