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Mentalist

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , on March 6, 2012 by javedbabar

Alba said, “I saw you perform at the Transparent Temple last week. It’s nice to see that you’re still here. You must like our little Village.”

“Thank you,” said the Great Shakra. “Yes I do like your Village; I’m staying for a week.” It was strange to see him at the grocery store after all that smoke and mirrors. A man in a top hat and tails was not common in the produce section.

“Oh goody. Will you be doing another show? I’d love to come again.”

“No, just one show per week,” said the Great Shakra. “That’s all I can manage. It takes a lot of effort you know. My job is to make it seem effortless, but there’s lots of hard work involved.”

“Oh, I wasn’t implying that it was easy,” said Alba. “I just meant that…”

“No, no. It’s fine. I appreciate your enthusiasm.” He smiled like he had on stage, his beam like that from a lighthouse, flashing all around. She was caught in its glow – flash-frozen – and then released. “Tell me,” he said. “What did you think of the show?”

Alba recalled the poster in the ATM lobby. It said, “June 21st – First time in Lucerne Village – The Great Shakra – Mentalist Extraordinary.” Tickets were pricey considering it was a local event, but she’d loved magic since childhood and couldn’t resist. Her friends said, “Fifty bucks for card tricks – get out of here! We’ll play snap with you for ten bucks, including lunch.” So Alba went alone to the show. “You blew my mind,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. I mean, I have on TV, but never in real life. How do you do it?”

“Well, I don’t usually reveal my secrets,” he said. “But it’s always a pleasure to meet magic fans. I’ll give you a little snippet. What would you like to know?” He moved out of the way of a trolley, tickling the baby’s head within it. The baby began crying.

“Right at the beginning you sent us all joy; sudden joy. How did you do that?” Alba believed that real magic existed.

“It was really very easy. When people closed their eyes, I turned up the lights. They felt the extra brightness through their eyelids, which they interpreted as joyous.” Alba looked annoyed, but also amazed. “I possess no supernatural powers. What I am is a communications expert. I send and receive messages. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you’re being modest. How did you know that East Indian man had a silver Frontier?”

“I’m afraid that was my least impressive feat of the night. When I asked him for a handkerchief for the dove trick, I saw his key ring. That was all.”

“But then you read people’s tea-leaves and told them where they’d been on holiday.”

“Again, no magic there. I am a communications expert. The tea-leaves were just a distraction, giving me time to discover their income bracket. Manual workers go to Mexico; office workers to Hawaii; and business owners to Europe. Everyone aspires to something, it’s just a matter of demographics.” Alba looked unhappy again. “Knowing where they may be going this winter was also easy. I saw a poster in the ATM lobby for Christmas deals to Florida. Many people would be considering those.”

“Why did you ask people for 4-digit numbers?”

“Oh, no reason really,” he said. “Picking up more non-verbal cues.”

Alba was disappointed to hear the Mentalist Extraordinary’s mundane explanations for his feats. Is that all there was to it? she thought. She said, “Thank you for telling me. It was nice to meet you. I’d better get on with my shopping now.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” said the Great Shakra. “You may want to avoid the spring onions and cilantro; they’re looking quite wilted. But they’re not beyond salvation. Let’s see if we can freshen them up.” He twirled his hands at the herbs in the fridge. Immediately the misters began spraying, and double-rainbows appeared beneath the bright lights. The greens looked like they were growing in a little heaven.

“Wow!” said Alba. “Did you just make that happen?” She stared at the rainbows like a little girl dreaming.

“Maybe,” said the Great Shakra. “Your father would have loved to see the amazing variety of food here. He used to plant his own garden, didn’t he? But with a much smaller range of crops in The Yukon, of course. I’m sure his oregano and basil did well though, and tasted great in his pastas. He misses making them for you, bambina.”

Alba’s mouth fell open. “You know that? Are you psychic too? A medium?”

“Well, sort of. Come on, you need to get your shopping done. Why don’t you start with this aisle? Oh yes – artichokes, salsify, and organic mangoes, yum yum; and let’s go there – tiger prawns, tuna steaks, how about some surf and turf – let’s get filet steaks; get two packs; and yes, these special breads, made with sprouted ancient grains; this hand-toasted muesli, get the cashew and macadamia one; you can’t beat artisan goat cheese with caviar crust; its divine.” They strolled around the store, filling her cart with Lucerne’s finest foods. When they reached the till he said, “Throw in some mints and a National Enquirer and this will come to….. $360 exactly.”

Alba was amazed. She shouldn’t have doubted. He truly possessed magical powers

He didn’t really though. The Great Shakra had figured out the greens’ spraying schedule. That Alba was from a poor Italian family in The Yukon. His groceries cost more or less the same in these centrally-managed stores; he just needed to balance the cart with some impulse purchases. He was however skilled at sleight-of-hand, sensory overwhelming, and hypnosis. So he used Alba’s credit card – using the 4-digit PIN number he’d gleaned from her at the show – to pay for what were now his groceries, and then made her forget that she had ever met him.

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The Debaters

Posted in Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 5, 2012 by javedbabar

It was Lucerne Museum’s Annual Debate. Dimpy (Dimples) was pleased with herself. Who would have imagined, five years ago when she became Director, that an event at the Museum could be sold out – jammed! There was a waiting list for tickets, even a small black market she’d heard. She was a natural bringer together of people. It was her gift from God – or gods if there was more than one.

Dimpy was inspired by many sources. She recalled watching parliamentary debates in her childhood. Though the subject matter was generally uninteresting, members’ logical strategies and emotional appeals were fascinating. She had always enjoyed the Massey lectures – presenting original points of view. Recently she’d been impressed by a radio show called The Debaters, where pairs of comedians tried to provide the best combination of “facts and funny”.

Topics of debate were chosen by the Museum Board. In the past four years they had included, “Is Lucerne Village an independent entity or a slave to Strattus?” It was felt that Lucerne was basically a big bedroom for the local resort town of Strattus. “Should Lucerne Village retain its capacity or double in size?” It was felt that Lucerne should double in size. “Should Lucerne Village support old farms or modern industry?” This was declared a tie. Last year’s debate was controversial: “Should Lucerne Village create population quotas, or remain laissez faire?” The audience supported gender, racial, cultural, sexual orientation, religious, disability, and age-related quotas. People asked Dimpy why she had promoted debate on such a divisive issue. She said “That’s exactly why. People should speak freely, and think fiercely.”

Today’s topic was safer. More abstract. “Who is the true guardian of Lucerne Village: St. Lucy or Cernunnos?”

It was traditional for debaters to dress up. They did not disappoint. St. Lucy entered. She had long, blonde hair bound in plaits, topped by a wreath of greens which held seven lit candles; she wore a plain white dress, belted by a red sash; she bore a golden platter on which were small biscuits shaped like eyeballs. These symbolized the eyes that she had herself removed to be rid of a pagan suitor. She offered the biscuits to audience-members. Dimpy felt that this may be unfair, but let it go. Being eight months pregnant – the less effort expended today, the better.

Cernunnos danced in to cheers. He was dressed head to toe in a woolly brown goat skin, and bore twisting black horns. His long black boots gave the impression of hooves, and both arms and legs bore heavy golden bracelets called torcs. He carried a goatskin bag of liquor, and criss-cross belts filled with shooter glasses, which he rapidly filled and passed to audience-members. This was definitely not allowed, but Dimply also let it slide.

It was time to begin. She addressed the audience. “Welcome to the Museum’s Annual Debate. As you can see, we have a pair of very engaging characters present this evening. So without further ado, let us debate the motion of who is the true guardian of Lucerne Village. There will be four rounds in total. The first is their Arguments.”

St. Lucy wondered why they were even discussing this topic; the answer was apparent in her name. “Lucy comes from lux,” she said, “meaning light. What is more welcome in this land of long, cold, dark winters? Lucy brings light and warmth to your frozen souls. In Central Europe on St. Lucy’s day, bands of fortune-telling boys sing her songs of life; in Scandinavia, eldest daughters make warm breakfast for their families, and join processions of moon-girls and star-boys, lighting up the streets. Her Italian form, Juno, is goddess of childbirth, bringing babes into the light; and throughout Christian countries, she is the kind-hearted patron of the blind. Wherever she goes, Lucy brings joy and light.”

There was great applause from the ladies in the audience. Cernunnos made obscene gestures and leered, before beginning his Argument.

He said, “Cernunnos is a mysterious god. He moves in dark ways. His name comes from kornan, the Gaulish word for horn. His having horns or antlers shows his kinship with beasts, of whom he is Lord, and he sits cross-legged, surrounded by stags, bulls, serpents, dogs, and rats. His horn is both a ceremonial trumpet and military horn. He loves all kind of adventures, and the wealth they lead to – both as tribute and as experience. But most of all, he is horny, period. His horn shows his love of life – symbolizing its cycles of birth, death, and rebirth. So good people, be horny and vote for me!”

Every man present cheered. St. Lucy averted her eyes.

Dimpy said “Now the Bare Knuckles round,” This became pretty heated, with Cernunnos calling St. Lucy a prude, and her calling him a pervert. He didn’t seem to mind this moniker and made further obscene gestures. The Firing Line round involved questions about Lucerne Village. St. Lucy fared better on social issues and family affairs; Cernunnos performed well on leisure and economic matters. Then their final Summations: St. Lucy spoke of brightness, faith, and culture. Cernunnos extolled self-expression, darkness, and nature.

When Dimpy asked the audience to vote, there were big cheers for both sides. She requested a re-cheer. Again it was impossible to decide. A third and final round of cheering caused her water to break and her labour to start early. Fortunately Dr. Bungawalla was in the audience and took charge. It all happened in a flash, and a babe emerged before them.

St. Lucy said that as goddess of childbirth, this miracle was hers. Cernunnos said that as a fertility god, the credit was all his. Dimpy ruled that the baby was crying out for them both. Lucerne Village was a place of light and dark. They were both her newborn’s guardians.

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A to B

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 3, 2012 by javedbabar

Camp A and Camp B were now established. It was strange how they had both sprung up at the same time, but without being connected. Rumours said that neither had gone through the proper process, scared by rumours of burial grounds, which if identified would end all construction. But they’d kept the in-joke. A stood for Apparition, said Camp A’s residents; Camp B’s dwellers said that B stood for Banshee. How the hell had he ended up here, Antoine wondered? What had he done to deserve this? And then he remembered.

He was legally obliged to mention his conviction, which tended to make him less attractive to employers. There was no escaping the fact that twelve years ago he had killed his boss. The boss was a mean son-of-a-bitch who had started the fight, and their fight had been fair, but Antoine should have stopped when it was clear that the issue was settled – by his bosses’ teeth being broken, and his lying unconscious in a pool of blood on the floor. There really was no need to smash his skull in with a fire extinguisher. But Antoine had been driven to a point beyond reason, and that’s why he could now only find jobs on the edge of the wilderness – a place he would always inhabit.

Out here things could be different though. Here was a convicted killer wearing a shirt and tie, in his air-conditioned office-trailer, having meetings with respectable people. He was only employed two days a week by the Village, and had to make best use of that time. One day was for fieldwork, the other for meetings. Today he was exploring options for connecting Camp Apparition to Camp Banshee with the three main interest groups.

His assistant Laurence was great at prepping. He could rely on her entirely. He wondered if she knew about his conviction. He reckoned that she did, but never mentioned it. What a pro. He was very lucky to have her. Why a sassy girl like that worked out in the bush though, he had no idea. At 11am she said, “The Lucerne Valley Merchant’s Association is here. They look like a fun bunch. Watch the one with two moustaches.”

“The one with two moustaches” turned out to be the grocery store owner. Antoine couldn’t help smirking when he walked in; he had a regular moustache, and a monobrow. Two moustaches. He said, “Merchants want the most direct route possible. Twenty kilometres of new road is not going to come cheap. We see the need to connect the two camps and are supportive. But as the biggest taxpayers in town, we want value for money. So we say built it straight, and build it cheap. Don’t drown us in more taxes.”

After lunch Laurence said, “Lucerne Valley Families First are here. I’m not sure why, but they seem to have brought their pet caterpillars.”

A group of people with fat sideburns walked in, and Antoine smirked again. That girl needs to behave herself, he thought, or she’ll get me into trouble. But he wondered when this hirsute fashion had started; was this Valley’s heritage Middle-Eastern?

A hefty lady was their spokesperson. She said, “We would like the road to take the scenic route between the two camps. If you run straight between them, you cross swampland and flood zone. You also skirt bluffs where bears and cougars have been spotted. So for the safety of our children especially – they’ll be on their bikes, or walking – we want the road to stick to higher areas away from the swamps and bluffs.”

At teatime Laurence said, “The Lucerne Valley Developers are here. They are very keen birders. Habitat will be their main concern.”

A group of men with beards and wigs walked in. This time Antoine could not help laughing. They were surprised at first, then angry. “What is the meaning of this?” said their chairman. “Is this a business meeting or a clown show?”

“I’m sorry,” said Antoine. “My assistant told me a joke earlier. It was a killer.”

“Well, do share it with us,” said the leader. “We like a good joke too.”

“I’m sorry, it’s a personal joke.” I will kill that girl, he thought; but only in a nice way.

“We Developers would like to see a network of roads. Not just a straight stretch between two armpits. We need roads to spread through the area, to create access to new neighbourhoods. A road from Camp A to Camp B will not attract anyone. People prefer eyesores out of sight. But a complex network will induce demand. That’s capitalism at its best, creating something from nothing.”

When everyone had gone, Antoine and Laurence put their heads together. Both were history buffs. They brainstormed the many types of roads in antiquity – dirt-tracks, flint-covered, stone-paved, corduroy-timbered, timber trackways, clay-brick-paved, Persian Royal Roads, Roman straight roads, Arab paved roads, and roads besides rivers, along which materials were hauled by horse-drawn boats. They discussed some related structures including bridges, tunnels, supports, junctions, crossings, interchanges, and toll roads, and of course the continuous right-of-way required.

Antoine suggested that he and Laurence use a fieldwork day to walk the proposed routes. They found the straight route involved much bushwhacking. The scenic route was easier, largely following animal tracks. A network could follow natural breaks and contours. But none of them felt right to Antoine. Was there anything else?

As dusk approached, they fell onto a pine forest track. There was a full moon tonight so they continued walking. Mushrooms grew profusely, and owls were hooting; wisps of blue light appeared and disappeared; someone had hung coloured glass balls at intervals; they heard rustling and whispering, and felt shadows. They had found an ancient corpse road, where bodies were transported from the Village to forest burial grounds. The Apparitions and Banshees were lonely here; they were long forgotten. They liked to see the living, especially those who were close to death themselves. This man they knew had killed someone, and the woman was here to avenge her father. They were pleased that company would be arriving soon.

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Anything Else?

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 1, 2012 by javedbabar

There was a beautiful new guy at the coffee shop. He was six-feet tall, with long dark hair tied in a high knot, and a diamond nose stud. His ethnicity was unclear – perhaps Hawaiian and Asian, or Caribbean and North African – it was difficult to say. But he affected Karen deeply; she was wet the moment she saw him.

He was really nice whenever she went there, and seemed to have all the time in the world. Such attentive service was rare. Even when there was a queue of girls behind, he wouldn’t rush her. He often asked “How is your day going so far?”, and, “What are you doing this afternoon?” He also asked about her evenings, and ended with the retail mantra, “Anything else?”

She hated when people said that. If she had wanted something else she would have put it on the counter, or asked for it by name, or said “Hang on a minute,” and run to get it. She didn’t want anything else! That’s why she wasn’t presenting “anything else” for scanning, or offering additional payment. But it was different when he said it.

His accent was hard to define – British, but not quite; maybe Scottish with some Italian or French. “Anything” was not one word when he said it, but two words. Anything usually meant “a random item, aka. whatever.” But any thing sounded to her like “whatever you desire, O beautiful one; any single thing from this universe bursting with ravishing possibilities”. It was impossible to say if he was flirting with her. The coffee shop’s clientele were mostly female, and many were much prettier than she was. What would he see in her? Karen didn’t want to think about it too much though. She stopped going to other coffee shops. She only went there.

Luka – it took a while for Karen to gather enough courage to ask his name – was a skilled barista. His espresso, cappuccino, mochaccino, Americano, Canadiano, ristretto, and Bungacino – named after the Village’s long-serving doctor – were always the best. Whenever she went in, she asked if he could make her coffee. This annoyed other workers. They often had to summon him from the depths of sandwich-making, but he always seemed happy to see her. They hated her even more when she began asking which sandwiches, which soups, which muffins, which wraps, which cakes, and which salads he’d made. Her choices were not guided by flavours;, only by which items had passed through Luka’s hands. He never seemed annoyed or embarrassed. There was something about him. He made her feel beautiful.

Karen was drawn towards a thrilling conclusion, and wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. Why else would he treat her so special? He must like her too! This time when he asked her, “Anything else?” she said, “Yes, a hot date with you tonight.” She couldn’t believe that she’d said it, but by the time she realized, she already had.

If it didn’t go well, she could pretend it was a joke; an ironic comment on corporate psychology, how it dehumanizes and objectifies both the vendor and customer – turning what could be a natural, enjoyable encounter into an empty monetary exchange, with a subtext of inadequacy, both of the item – suggesting that it isn’t enough – and of the purchaser – implying they are lacking something, of which they need more to feel “happy”.

But to her surprise, no joke was required. He replied, “Sure, what time shall I pick you up?”

After stunned silence, she said, “7pm?”

“Great,” said Luka. “See you then.”

“Do you know where I live?”

“Yes I do, it’s on the computer.” She looked at him unnerved. “From your loyalty card details.”

She smiled and said, “Ok,” then walked out smiling.

Luka came at exactly 7pm. They went for drinks first, then for dinner, then to her apartment for sex. It was a thrilling, unbelievable evening.

In the morning he was gone, and Karen panicked. She thought, “What the hell was I doing last night? I hardly know the guy. It was our first date and I let him sleep with me. What comes next?” She decided not to go to the coffee shop that morning. Instead she went to the one across the road.

Karen had a shock. There was Luka making coffee! He’d cut his hair short, and lost the nose stud; WTF? Was he trying to hide from her too? She had already joined the queue, and it was best to just stay there now, giving her time to think. Luka took a long time with the girl in front, but eventually Karen’s turn came. He was as friendly as ever and asked his usual questions, but nothing more. He didn’t return her sly smile of something delicious shared. She ran out and began crying.

She couldn’t go to work in this state, so instead went to the Village’s third coffee shop. There was Luka again, now with a crew cut and diamond earrings, and a line of girls before him. What was going on?

Karen was not aware of Commodity Oligopolies and the new field of Retail Psychographics. World Coffee Corp had bought the rights to all coffee shops in BC, but not wanting to scare customers away, they had retained branches’ separate identities. The coffee blends, sizes, flavours, and finishes – and the numbers of i’s, c’s, and o’s – were exactly the same; they always had been, only differing in the minds of gullible consumers. But what to do with the staff spectrum? WCC cloned their most attractive, multiracial, multilingual male staff, and sent one to each outlet to train other staff. Their goal was to give their mostly female clientele complete customer satisfaction.

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HEARTH

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , on February 29, 2012 by javedbabar

Amy and David were excited by their new HEARTH home. An enhanced home had always seemed out of reach, so when they heard about “50% OFF” this January – making it as cheap as a regular home – they jumped at the chance.

They knew that they were the man and woman of each other’s dreams, and their next step was making a home together. But everything was so expensive – how could young people afford anything these days? Well they could if they were happy to live in debt for 30 years. David said that they shouldn’t have a mortgage. He invoked the symbolism of Jesus upturning the money changers’ tables at the Temple. People didn’t realize that everyone borrowing money simply meant that everyone had more money available, and supply and demand – basic economics – ensured that prices went up. So ultimately, borrowing money was worthless. In fact, with inflation, it was less than worthless.

They used their savings to buy a plot of land, and lived in an RV there for three years. Their house fund built up quickly, and they were set to self-build, so visited the Ideal Home Show for ideas. That’s where they saw the HEARTH home.

“Darling, let’s go in there,” Amy had said. “I like the look of it.”

“Doesn’t that one look better?” said David, pointing to a glassy structure with pronounced, angled timbers, which gave the effect of ascending and expanding.

“It looks like the Transparent Temple’s unwanted child.” said Amy. “You know what happened to the budget of our beloved community centre. Let’s not go there.”

“I just don’t see the attraction?” said David. “It looks like a shiny black box to me; hardly West Coast architecture.”

“Darling, I’m drawn to it,” said Amy. “Can we go see?”

They were dazzled by their walk around the HEARTH home, and booked a full demo at the City factory, which was followed by a bubbly sales lunch. This was where the salesman had mentioned the “50% OFF” promotion for “selected customers” like them. The only condition was that they had to choose from an existing model. They were allowed minor modifications, but no structural changes, or they would be back to “50% ON”.

Amy and David were the first people in the Village to own a HEARTH home. They required a month to lay the foundations and get utilities primed. The HEARTH home was delivered on the Monday after. Its components came on four tractor trailers, and the eight-man construction crew completed it by Friday.

They were told to stay out for the weekend to allow adhesives, paints, and varnishes to cure. The HEARTH home would require a further month of commissioning, giving time for the structure to settle. “There will be thumps, cracks, snaps, creaks, ooh’s and aah’s,” said the salesman by video call. “The house needs to get to know you. It needs to understand your physical movements, and your personal behaviour. Our structural work is the easy part. It is the house that does all the hard work.” He beamed hugely. So many teeth, thought Amy. “It is filled with components that you’ll never see – there are heat, sound, respiration, odour, electromagnetic, and tension sensors, plus as a bonus to my favourite customers I’ve authorized ECG and EEG feedback loops, that pick up your heartbeats and thoughts, which become the house’s heartbeat and thoughts. Can you hear them?”

“The sensors pick up our thoughts?” said David. “How do they do that?”

“I don’t understand the details myself,” said the salesman. “Only the principles. Once your personal pattern is established, the house identifies key emotional stages of your desired outcome, and then works through them progressively. It’s all very subtle though, very natural. You won’t even know. In Ancient Persia, every house had a hearth at its centre, a holy place for offering sacrifices and prayers. This is what we have recreated in this modern house. You are its hearth.”

Even within its first few days, the house functioned beautifully. Rooms lit up as they approached them; just the right music played; beautiful fragrances created delight; micro-cleaners didn’t allow a speck of dust or a stain to remain; the water’s temperature was perfect always, both in the kitchen sink and in the bath. The HEARTH home ensured that their dinners were awesome, their conversations sublime, their yoga divine, their work productive, and their sex out of this world.

The HEARTH home never got in their way. It took them to where they wanted to be, and left them to continue alone. “Darling, this is perfect,” said Amy. “This is how I wanted our life to be.”

“I guess you were right about the house,” said David. “It’s helped us to become more ourselves.” He kissed her passionately, causing classical guitars to play, and roses to scent the room. “Our neighbour’s houses have taken over their lives. They live for their houses. They spend their weeks working to pay their mortgage, and their weekends scrubbing and fixing them. Here we can just be ourselves.”

But one day they had a silly argument about cheese. Amy said that it was still alive, and David said it wasn’t. And because it was a silly argument, the house didn’t know how to behave. Rather than reason, its response was passion. Red colours flashed, whisky smells filled room corners, rap music thumped harder, the air became hotter and steamier, and chilli tastes heightened their emotional disharmony into physical distress. Amy grabbed the cutlery nearby. The HEARTH house played The Ride of the Valkyries, and she became a winged maiden choosing slain warriors. “God help us!” cried David. Both his and their home’s heartbeats stopped together.

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Cross-Ditch

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Conceptual Art, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 21, 2012 by javedbabar

It’s great that they’re fixing up the road, thought Stewart. It’s been getting worse since they stopped logging across the western face of Mt. Alba, and over the other side. It’s funny how forty-ton logging trucks don’t cause much damage to forestry roads, but a few rain drops running down them together make them to fall apart. It’s right when people say that water is the strongest force in the world; nothing can resist it. I hope the dark clouds up there won’t cause too much bother; they will add drama to my photos.

That’s a hefty cross-ditch, Stewart thought; a foot deep, and four feet wide – there’s no danger of any cross-flow getting out of that. It’s more that you need at the bottom of the road, but someone’s done a good job. He wondered when they made the cross-ditch, and whose excavator they used.

A hundred metres along, he came to another cross-ditch, also freshly dug, almost two feet deep. Better not to stress the front suspension – cause the truck’s nose to hit the ground – so he crossed it at an angle.

A hundred metres further there was another cross-ditch, which he also crossed sideways. He remembered when he’d first driven up the Syon River Forestry Road in his new Nissan truck, excited about off-roading – except no-one had told him about cross-ditches. He lost traction at the bottom of the first ditch, spinning foolishly, and then remembered that there was a reason why this was called a four-wheel drive truck. Because it had four-wheel drive. It was much easier going after that, till he hit the Mother of All Moats. He misjudged the bottom of the rocky river running through. He’d bashed both his front and rear ends, and damaged the cat-con. It had cost him $2,000 to fix.

There was a set of three cross-ditches all close together. Was there really that much water flowing across this road? It seemed pretty level here and sloping away on both sides. Someone had gotten really carried away. Maybe they were doing piece-work, being paid by the ditch. Was that a worker ahead wearing a purple safety vest? It was an unusual colour for a road worker. He had his thumb out like a hitchhiker. The next set of cross-ditches – deeper than the others – began here, and Stewart didn’t have another two grand to spare, so this was a stroke of luck. “Good job you’re here, buddy!” he called out. “I could do with a second pair of eyes.”

“Second pair of eyes?” said the man, looking confused. He had a strange accent. Stewart had heard the Dalai Lama speak at UBC in a halting, cheerful manner, which sounded pretty close. Could he be Tibetan?

“Yes, can you please help me get through the cross-ditches?”

The man grasped the idea, and guided Stewart mainly from the side, with occasional forays to the front and back. When they’d made it through, Stewart said, “Thanks buddy. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

The man looked confused again, and said, “Yes, up.”

“Ok then, jump in pal.” The man indicated for Stewart to wait, ran into the bush, and returned tapping a long white stick, and grasping a roll of black cable. He threw these items into the truck bed, and jumped into the cab. “Are you surveying the road?” asked Stewart. “It’s nice to see people using old school tools. I thought that everyone used GPS these days, rather than a rod and chain.”

“Rod and chain?” said the man.

“Yes – what you’ve got in the back there. You know, the long pole and cable – yes?” The man didn’t understand. They continued driving to the next set of cross-ditches, where the man indicated to stop. He said an approximation of thank you, took his rod and chain, and disappeared into the bush. That’s helpful, thought Stewart – just when I needed him. Hiring foreign workers was ridiculous; they didn’t have a clue. They must do a good job though; otherwise no one would hire them.

Another worker appeared ahead with his thumb up. “Second pair of eyes!” he called out, and guided Stewart through the cross-ditches. Then he went into the bush, and returned tapping a white stick and carrying a roll of cable. He threw them into the back and said, “Rod and chain.”

This pattern continued right up the road. There were dozens of new cross-ditches –

singles and sets of three or five – each with a Tibetan man standing nearby wanting a ride, who produced a white stick and roll of cable, then disappeared at the next set. Stewart considered abandoning his photography. But that meant not fulfilling his contract with the Village for a monthly photo from the top; and he was almost there anyway.

The sets of ditches got closer together, and eventually were only a few metres apart. What on earth were they doing up here? Were they digging out the road bed to reinforce it somehow? Stewart reached the meadow at the top of the mountain. It looked really different. The grass was all gone and replaced by a pattern of ditches. He stopped his truck and got out to see. He was right in the middle of a labyrinth.

A beam of light and a rush of energy lifted him somewhere. The next thing he knew he was among shifting clouds, bursting with energy. They seemed to be alive, engaging him, and he understood their language. There was a rich, dark cloud, surrounded by smaller white ones. The dark cloud was crackling; sparks flying about it. The white clouds were shrinking. “You fools!” the black cloud crackled. “Incompetents! You had all the research provided to you – Braille, tallies, signage, maps, survey marks, ley lines, and Morse code. But what did you do? You mixed it all up! Your road markings were incomprehensible to the being; your agents mixed up visual impairment aids and land measuring tools; they jumbled their roles too – workmen and hitchhikers are not the same. Now we have him here, totally confused. What do you suggest we do? I don’t want another one of those ‘kidnapped by aliens’ stories getting out.”

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Dicewoman

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 20, 2012 by javedbabar

“May I ask you a silly question?” said Martha to the shop assistant.

“Of course, Madam. I am at your service.”

Martha relaxed. “Ok then. Why do some people call a dice a die?”

“Die is singular, Madam, and dice is plural.”

“Ah!” she said involuntarily. “That solves the mystery. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He waited for a further question; when there wasn’t one, he busied himself with arranging figures in a minutely-detailed miniature castle.

Martha realized she had another question. “Excuse me.” The assistant half-turned and looked up. “Is the word for this….er, gambling device,” she flashed a smile, “related to the word for a…. metal mould?” She looked unsure of herself. “The one you use to make models; you know, when they say something is die-cast.”

“I’m sure that it is, Madam. Do you have an interest in models?”

“Not really,” said Martha. “But my brothers used to play fantasy games. I remember their ugly little monsters; they used to scare me.”

“There’s no need to be scared, Madam.” The assistant smiled kindly. “It’s only a game, after all.”

She also wanted to ask if die and dice were related to the word for the end of life, but felt embarrassed. All she wanted was an ordinary die to replace her lost one, so she could play Snakes and Ladders with her husband. Their bedroom routine had been disrupted. Most nights they played quick games of Snakes and Ladders, Chess, Ludo, and Strip-Poker; took all of their clothes off and then put on their pyjamas. On Saturday nights they kept their clothes off. She hadn’t got pregnant in eight years yet. Her husband had given up, but she felt that there was no harm in still trying.

Martha looked at the display case and said, “Could you please tell me about the different dice?”

“Certainly Madam.” The assistant opened the case. “These ones are common Western dice. See how their spots are widely spaced out? These Asian dice are smaller and rounder; their spots are closer together; notice how the ‘one’ and ‘four’ are coloured red for good luck. These clear ones are casino dice. Their markings are drilled, rather than moulded, then filled with similar density paint – so differing number of spots will not affect their performance – then polished and given serial numbers.” He threw the casino dice and scored double-six.

He pointed to some others. “Now these ones you may know already,” Martha nodded. “Role Playing Game dice with ten, twenty, and one hundred sides.” She hadn’t seen the latter before; the assistant passed it to her and said, “It is called a Zocchihedron.”

He indicated what appeared to be mathematical and biological models. “These Platonic dice are collectors’ items; each has a different number of sides. These talus bones from Sudan are the original form of dice used in ancient societies. This set of three, twelve-sided dice – used for astrology – are printed with planets, lunar nodes, and astrological houses. And this single-sided die is a joke die; nothing but a sphere with the number one.”

Martha had never seen so many; she was dazzled by the dice. Knowing their purposes enhanced her fascination, but something was bugging her. This huge variety of dice had one thing in common: their outcome was random. If that was the case then what was the point? She said “Is there any kind of die which is not random?”

The assistant gave her a severe look and said, “There are many kinds of loaded dice – mercury tappers, those with melting resins, and electromagnetic kits – but this is a reputable establishment, Madam. We do not carry any of those.”

“Oh,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to break the bank of Monte Carlo. I was just curious.” She looked around the store and eventually returned to the dice counter. “Ok, I’d better get what I came in for. Just an ordinary dice please, for Snakes and Ladders.”

“An ordinary die?” He reminded her of her grammatical error. “I’m afraid there is no such thing Madam.”

“I mean that one there with six sides, and one to six spots.”

“That is a die, indeed,” he said. “But it is not an ordinary one.”

“What do you mean?” said Martha.

“Madam, every style of die has its own magic. I wasn’t entirely honest with you earlier when you asked about non-random dice. Just take a look at this Western die. See how the spots are arranged? That’s right, numbers on opposite sides always add to seven. That’s because of its internal vertex, where all possible outcomes merge, and are then manifested according to the moment’s needs. There is in truth no randomness in dice.” He stared at her intensely. “Don’t you imagine that Indian and Greek gods, Biblical prophets, and medieval knights used them for a reason? Your Snakes and Ladders, by way of example, is an ancient game revealing the journey of life; each ladder is a virtue and each snake is a vice; which your soul must experience, and learn from, on its royal road to perfection. The outcome of every game is known. The die merely starts the action.”

Martha fingered the dice nervously. He continued, “Take this die as a gift from us, Madam. Use it to play Snakes and Ladders tonight. You may be surprised at the outcome. I think you know already. We look forward to you returning soon to purchase some children’s games.”

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Blue Man

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 19, 2012 by javedbabar

“Has he been here before?” the customer whispered.

“I can’t say that he has,” said Hari. “And I’m not sure why he’s here today.” He looked at the blue man slyly; it was the first time that one of them had entered his barbershop. There wasn’t a notice forbidding them, but they knew they weren’t welcome; they weren’t welcome anywhere, but it never stopped them from coming.

This wasn’t your average blue man though, for he had said nothing. From what Hari knew, they never stopped talking. Their incessant chatter drove people mad; it sounded like turning train wheels, and to humans was incomprehensible. They tried to conceal it in public, but were rarely successful. This blue man, however, was very well behaved. He just sat there quietly, looking out of the window.

“What will you do for him?” whispered the customer. “Is his hair like our hair?”

“I’m none too sure,” said Hari. “I’ve heard it’s much thicker, like a horse’s tail.” He glanced in the mirror at the blue man. “A huge curly horse’s tail.”

After their unusual skin colour, blue men’s most distinctive feature was their mass of golden hair. It went down to their waist and often beyond. They wore it loose, never tied up with anything; for it was necessary for their hair to “see the sun”. It was rumoured that if their hair was covered for a day they became ill, and if covered for a week they died.

Hari allowed only classical music in his salon. He knew that his apprentices played dance tunes in his absence, but as long as it was back to sitars and tablas, or the news, upon his return, he was ok with that. He listened beeps, and then: “This is the twelve ‘o clock news on Global 12. Riots continue for the fourth day in the City. There is a heavy police presence. The Authority is not blaming anyone, but says that both humans and blue men are involved. It has threatened stern punishment for anyone caught and convicted of crimes…”

“Bloody hell!” blurted out the customer. There was a mutter of bloody hells around the walls, from others awaiting their short backs and sides. Everyone looked at the blue man, wondering if he’d begin his train wheel chatter, but he didn’t say anything, just kept sitting there, looking out. The customer pushed Hari’s hand away, spun his chair around, and said to the blue man, “What do you have to say about that?”

In Hari’s book this was not good manners. He spun the customer’s chair back round, and said, “There’s plenty of time for chatter later. Let me finish your haircut first.” His years in the merchant navy had taught him the value of running a tight ship. He was captain here and must retain good order.

The blue man turned towards him and smiled. His perfect golden teeth seemed to increase the light in the room. They dazzled Hari momentarily and he lost concentration.

“Ow! Ow!” said the customer, pulling away. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Sir,” said Hari. “No harm done. It’s just a tiny nick. No bleeding.”

“Leave me alone.” The customer swung his chair around again. “I want him to answer. What does he think of the rioting going on? Is he going to do anything about it?”

Hari swung the chair back around. “You can have a beer with him when I’ve finished your haircut. Till then sit tight. And if he…”

Police sirens rent the air outside; there was thumping and running; garbage cans clattered and car alarms wailed. The sound of a helicopter somewhere and…. turning train wheels.

The customer pushed Hari’s hand away and stood up. “See! I told you! Look what’s going on!” He stared at the blue man.

Hari said, “Sir, you are welcome here. However please stop bothering my other customers.”

“Bothering your other customers? Bothering your other customers? Who are you kidding! I think your ‘other customers’ are bothering us!”

The blue man looked over. He was no longer smiling but his golden teeth still showing. Was he grimacing?

Hari had a flashback. Upon leaving the merchant navy, he’d taken over his father’s salon. Those days were different. People came in once a month, sometimes weekly, and you built good relationships. You sold them razors, scents, creams, first aid materials, and of course, “something for the weekend”. You got to know their families. Now it was only quick ins and outs between phone calls.

Hari wondered about the blue man’s age. Though it was an unforgivable cliché, they really did all look the same – short, sturdy bodies, blue skin, and golden manes. Like those two staring in the window right now – they could be twins. Others running with garbage cans, and those throwing real estate boards and poles, could also be related.

“Bloody hell!” shouted the customer. “They’re coming in here!” But the only action “in here” was that the blue man arose, walked to the window, and went outside. They heard turning train wheels and the radio signal was lost. “That bastard’s joined them! We should have nailed him here while we had the chance. Lads, get ready to fight!”

Beeps and dashes repeated on the radio. Though his Morse Code was rusty, the third time around Hari got it. The message said: “These young ones are foolish. You have done what you can with your people in here. Now I will go and speak with my people outside. Please offer my turn to someone else. I’ll come for my haircut later. What time do you close?”

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Another Day

Posted in Alternative Energy, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , on February 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Was it morning already? wondered Marcus. God, it seemed like he had only just gone to bed. Was it something to do with yesterday? What a rotten day! The break up of yet another relationship. “What is wrong with me?” he said to himself. “Why don’t they last?”

Still, it was nice to sleep alone again. There was no grunting or snoring, no hogging the duvet, no rolling around in the middle of the night, no huffs and puffs, sudden arguments, or crying. Relationships were hard work. And besides the obvious – bill and rent sharing, occasional laughter, and regular sex – he wasn’t too sure what the benefits were. You put a lot in, and you got out – exactly what?

Yesterday’s conversation went something like this:

Marcus: “How was your day, honey?”

Squeeze X: “Why should you care, idiot?”

Marcus: “Because I love you, sweetheart.”

Squeeze X: “Well it was worse than yesterday, and better than tomorrow, asshole.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so cheerless, love.”

Squeeze X: “Well what do you suggest, you donkey?”

Marcus: “Don’t be so mean; it doesn’t suit you, beautiful.”

Squeeze X: “Fuck off and get out of my life forever, you total dickhead.”

Who could understand women? thought Marcus. Maybe he should put an ad in the paper to form a male support group. Maybe start Fight Club in Lucerne? Or maybe just continue to focus on his brain training. There was no girl now to send his waves astray.

Marcus got up and thumped across the wooden floor. He splashed his face, eyes, and nose with warm water, and did some gargles. The splashing water was comforting and refreshing, and put him in a new state of mind. Like tides washing over him periodically, he felt the long motions of Delta waves.

He pulled on a T-shirt and sauntered to the kitchen, where he filled his old-fashioned kettle from the repurposed 18.9L gas station bottles he used to bring home bubbling spring water. The kettle boiled slowly; its bubbles appearing gently, and then ascending; moving faster than the long tides earlier; now slow Theta waves.

He mixed half a cup of oatmeal with a cup of water and a cup of milk, added a spoon of sugar and a pinch of salt, and turned up the heat. His signature porridge took a while to heat up, but soon got busy. Within two minutes it was bubbling like crazy, making loud pops, and throwing out droplets of searing mush. A steamy fatness filled the air. His relaxed state of mind responded and was fully awake, in flowing Alpha waves.

Marcus followed his usual routine, but this morning felt different. Things were somehow easier and lighter. Waiting for his porridge to cool, Marcus performed his regular stretching routine: a mix of athletics and kung fu warm-ups. Their easy movements required concentration, producing Beta waves.

He wondered if this mental state could have caused his girlfriend-till-yesterday to respond differently today. Here was the rerun:

Marcus: “How was your day, honey?”

Squeeze X: “Oh, it was alright. Why do you ask?”

Marcus: “Because I love you, sweetheart.”

Squeeze X: “But it made me so sad to spend the whole day away from you.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so cheerless, love.”

Squeeze X: “Sorry, but compared to you, my warrior-prince, every man is a warty toad.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so mean; it doesn’t suit you, beautiful.”

Squeeze X: “Come and kiss me right now, my heart burns for you.”

He felt a strange power developing; not instant power, but latent power. Charges were coupling and building, like a storm arising. While twisting his body, reaching his right hand across to his left side, the hand didn’t stop and kept going. Then his left hand, reaching across to his right side, also didn’t stop and kept going. His hips kept circling clockwise, even when their direction reversed. When his arms rotated like propellers, they didn’t stop either, even when their directions reversed. His shoulders kept moving in opposite directions, and his head rotating both ways. He felt like a circus performer, spinning hoops and plates. There was a little too much going on for his liking; crazy chaos all around; a jumbled whirlpool spinning outwards, with centripetal force, in an endless flowing. These Gamma waves were too much for Marcus to handle.

Whether he slowed the motions, or they slowed of themselves, he couldn’t say. They acquired gentler rhythms; he became restful; though they continued spinning somewhere beyond. These were his natural Mu waves.

Marcus had run a full Wave Test this morning; the first one in weeks. He had moved from slow Delta, through drowsy Theta, relaxed Alpha, active Beta, into crazy Gamma, and appreciated the background testing of Mu waves.

His relaxed solo state this morning was a blessing. It allowed him awareness of his full cycle of rhythmic and transient activity. There were fewer biological artifacts – her bothering his eyes, heart, and muscles in bed – and environmental artifacts – interference from her laptop, cell phone, and iPod. Now his girlfriend was gone, his brain once more exerted centralized control over his body’s organs.

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Long Shower

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , on February 16, 2012 by javedbabar

Adam loved the shower. It was so gentle and warmly refreshing, so very comfortable, so wonderful! How he wished it would never end.

He couldn’t stay there forever though; he had to get to work. But when he tried to turn off the water, the knob got stuck and wouldn’t budge. Water kept gushing forth. Maybe his hands were soapy and he needed a better grip. He rinsed them under the running water, and tried again, but still no luck. Damn! The washer must have broken; he’d better replace it.

He tried to get out but the door was stuck; it didn’t even jolt or shudder. Was it his new soap, jamming everything up? He should have known better than to get it on special offer from the gas station, at a dollar for twelve bars.

So the door was stuck and the shower was pouring. What to do? As long as the drain didn’t block, he could just stay there. There’s that saying about lemons and lemonade. Give it five more minutes, he thought, and something would loosen up for sure. Till then he may as well enjoy it. After five minutes he tried again, but the knob and door were both still stuck. Let’s wait another five minutes. He would be late for work, but what could he do?

Adam had been in the shower for fifteen minutes now – a pretty long stretch. His girlfriend took longer, especially when he was in there with her. He started to feel tired. He noticed his hands were wrinkled. He never knew why this happened; was a person’s skin expanding, or were they dehydrating? He looked at his feet, which were also wrinkled. The water spread across his skull like ants; poured off his ears and nose like a shoddy drain-leak; ran along his shoulders and arms like a river; then dripped like jewels from his fingers.

If he was dehydrating, he’d better drink some. He tilted back his head and opened his mouth wide. Let the water of life pour in. The water tickled his tongue initially, then his tonsils. It made him laugh and he gagged and spurted. He shook his head. What on earth was he doing? He was having the equivalent of water torture, and was grinning like a fool. But what else could he do?

Adam sat cross-legged with no option but to endure the torture. He covered his head with his hands for a while, but his arms became numb, and eventually dropped into his lap. Now it was water torture proper, with drops falling on his head continuously.

It wasn’t one drop at a time like Chinese Water Torture – where the irregular dripping drove you mad, like a Pavlovian dog – or the Medieval European version – where the dripping was regular, and you began to fear a hollow forming in your skull. He had thought it may feel like waterboarding – where a cloth is placed over your mouth and water poured onto it continuously, giving the feeling of drowning – or maybe Houdini’s water torture cell – where your feet are bound as you are lowered into a glass tank filled with water, from which you must escape. He knew that forced ingestion, or competitive drinking of too much water, led to water poisoning – liquid flooding cells by osmosis, causing them to swell and burst. Other watery ways to die were  dunking – typically used for witches, where they were immersed in a vat of water repeatedly until they drowned or confessed (in which case they were immolated) – or an alternative was to be left bound underwater; if you floated you were guilty, and if you sank you were innocent (but drowned). Not to forget Chinese water dungeons – where prisoners are kept neck-deep in filthy, stinking water for days, so their bodies fill with festering sores – or Dutch ones – where a cellar quickly fills with water and the victim is given a hand pump to try to save themselves – or the Nazi house of terror – where you stand on a metal stool in a cell filled with ice water, until you tire and fall into it.

Adam however was at home, enjoying a steaming shower. So all in all, his situation wasn’t that bad. He was however getting hungry. What could he eat? He noticed that all this steaming water was creating the beginnings of a jungle in the shower corners. It looked like green slime rather than shoots, but may be a relative of watercress, or seaweed; and it was good to eat your greens – full of iron. “And what would Sir like to order?” he asked himself. “Oh, the house greens today, I think.” “Very good Sir.”

He should engage in mental activity to keep his mind fresh, and started counting as many drops as he could manage. He reached 1,001 and decided that was enough. It may be better to use his fingers to draw pictures on the steamed-up panels. He drew a man in a box with squiggly streams running all around him.

He squirted a bottle of gel into the shower base, and was richly enrobed by mango and vanilla, “Mmmm.” Then he awakened to eucalyptus and tea tree, “Ooh.” Next he was intoxicated by chocolate mocha rum raisin butter candy, “Aah, that feels so good.”

The substantial slime build up offered another opportunity. He shaped it into a human figure. A companion. This wasn’t the end for him at all! He would make a new race of water people! They mated successfully, and just as their tiny amphibious offspring escaped down the drain, there was a pounding somewhere. “Escape, my children,” he cried. “Go quickly now! Before the monster comes!”

His girlfriend burst into the bathroom in her dressing gown. “How much time exactly, Mister, are you going to spend in the shower today? It’s getting longer every day. And I’ve told you before; don’t do that in there, it’s disgusting. It’s hardly going to make me change my mind. You’re way too strange for me; I can’t handle your bizarre fantasies. I know you said that no longer having sex was like torture for you – but you’ll have to deal with it.”

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