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Sitara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready for what?” said Alison.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you mean, ‘slept all night’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Bloody Tree

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , on February 12, 2012 by javedbabar

“Lovely day,” said Mavis, sniffing the air and casting a glance at her fat neighbour.

“Yes it is, indeed,” said Lucy, also sniffing.

“How long since you hatched?” said Mavis.

Lucy thought for a moment, and said, “I’m twelve – God I feel so old! Look at those young ones having fun. Where do they get their energy from?”

“We were just the same,” said Mavis, but thought, maybe you were a little less so, my chubby friend; or maybe you’re carrying more eggs than me; I’d like to know, but we’ve only just met.

“You’ve got nice long legs,” said Lucy. “Does it run in your family?” She didn’t wait for an answer and continued. “My family is chunky; we have sturdy legs. That makes take off and landing easier, but sometimes walking on water is awkward; especially in my state.”

Mavis felt mean now. She decided she would be nice to her neighbour, and said, “I started feeling whiney a couple of nights back; surprisingly soon after my last batch of eggs. It was Saturday night so I would have gone out anyway, but was now a girl with a mission…”

“I know what you’re saying, Sister!”

“I have to say, I did feel old though. There were all these young lads flying around in circles, showing off, and full of juice. For a moment I lost my nerve. What would they see in an old girl like me – bigger and harder-bodied? But I know they have a fetish for older females these days. They call us MILF’s…”

Lucy interrupted, “Mosquitoes I’d like to F…” They both burst out laughing, their wings vibrating with a little whine. “Don’t you start that now,” said Lucy. “You’ll have one on your back again before you know it – double dipping!”

“I might not mind if someone did,” said Mavis. “What did I get on Saturday night? Ten seconds of glory? You’d think after all that wing-beating and whining, they’d do better than that!”

“They never have in my long lifetime, Sister!”

The trees in the forest were thick with their sisters; boys tumbled about in swarms. Mavis looked across at Mt. Alba; what a beautiful place, she thought, but something inside her knew that it wasn’t a good place to live; much too high and cold. She laid her last batch of eggs in a lovely, swampy area across the river. She’d started off laying them singly, jerking on the water, and once she’d got a rhythm going, then forming them into rafts. She’d waited to check the eggs were settled, and then flown away. She’d never see her eggs become wrigglers, or tumblers, or emerge as adults; but she’d love them all the same.

Mavis and Lucy had already detected the presence of prey – through smell and heat sensing – but were waiting till dusk, their feeding time. While Mavis was musing, Lucy had been scanning for a full blood meal. “Look down there,” she said. “That looks juicy.”

“Which one?” said Mavis. She saw two different preys: a fat white one and a thin black one, both laid out across the edge of a pool of flat water. How inviting, she thought: a place to feed, and a place to lay eggs, so close together. Rather than answering though, Lucy shouted, “Whoa! Watch out!”

An iridescent shimmer tore right past them into the crowd of males, which scattered immediately; but the dragonfly then hunted them individually till he’d had his fill. This seemed unfair as they lived only half as long as girls anyway. Mavis and Lucy returned their attention to the prey below. It wasn’t moving, just lying naked, sweating, smelling, beside the pool of flat water. “Well, we shouldn’t wait around all day,” said Mavis. “It’s getting dusky. Time to move in.”

“Ok sister,” said Lucy. “Shall I lead the warrior ritual?” Mavis nodded, her proboscis waving in the air. “O Great Liquid Mother, we thank you for this day. Bless our noble sisterhood which hunts life and creates life, and will continue until we die.” They beat their wings, making a light whining. “Grant us one drop of holy blood, which shall feed hundreds of new lives.”

They flew off together. Mavis headed instinctively for the fat white prey and Lucy for the thin black prey. Lucy flies beautifully for a heavier girl, thought Mavis; she has more weight, but also more strength. Look how she twirls and jives, working with the slightest breeze, like a swirling snowflake. But Lucy suddenly disappeared. Where did she go? She must have found a sweet spot. Hee! Hee!

Mavis homed in on her prey. She had species memory of feeding on these creatures since the beginning; and on many beasts that they herded; there had been a time of luxury; of fatted bellies; of excess. Mavis felt a swishing sensation. Her prey was suddenly on its feet, and was moving quicker than she was. Her final memory was the shock of slamming against something where there had been nothing before.

The naked humans jumped up without warning, brandishing large circular pans. In this world destroyed by radiation and disease, the only animals that flourished were insects, which grew to ten or more times their previous size. They provided vital sustenance for survivors still inhabiting the ruined homes of the Lucerne Valley, who regularly lay naked, sweating, smelling, to attract clouds of giant mosquitoes, and then caught them in steel pans. They mashed and roasted them into protein-rich burgers. There would be a poolside barbecue tonight, even though the old pool now stank and was being farmed for mosquito larvae.

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Green Power

Posted in Alternative Energy, Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 10, 2012 by javedbabar

They had all lived in hope; a belief that things would soon get better. But the world had continued to fall apart, and BC was no exception. The roads became rutted, power was erratic, water became polluted, and food – when available – was often spoiled. It was a joke among South Asian immigrants that it was becoming “more like home”. Everything was heading downward, but there was the belief, particularly among South Asians – whose religions foretold this dark age – that it was part of a greater cycle, where everything would fall, but then arise.

However, the arrival of grid dismantling teams surprised even them. In units of ten trucks, they took down a whole kilometre of power lines at a time. They used eight-axle logging trucks; the first unit loaded with hydro poles, and the second one with wire spools. The residents of Valley Road were given no warning. One day they had erratic electricity, and the next day it was gone.

A leaflet was delivered to Ashok’s house, titled “Lucerne Valley Energy Independence Pilot Project”. The Authority stated that the world had changed immeasurably in our lifetimes, with the System bearing many new stresses and strains. The “opportunity of our generation” was that of self-reliance. There was no longer a need to be tethered to global, national, or even regional infrastructures. We should become independent in every way possible, and return to living in small, self-sufficient communities. A first step in this process was dismantling rural areas’ electricity grids.

The leaflet said that “The Authority is following the philosophy of the 3 R’s”. They would Reduce electricity usage by downsizing the system. They would Reuse the raw materials – primarily wood and metal. They would Recycle any subsidiary materials. There was basic information on generating your own power – via solar-electric, solar hot water heating, wind turbines, geothermal fields, and biogas. And in the short term, using gas generators or burning wood. There was also advice that the best route to efficiency was not producing more energy, but reducing your usage. It said, “With wise materials choices, earlier rising, and extra sweaters, you can cut your power usage by 90%”. And they had decided to begin with the Lucerne Valley, “an isolated community with a proud history of self-reliance.”

When residents saw the grid coming down along Valley Road, they sprang into action. A century of tax payments had paid for its installation and maintenance – so in truth it belonged to them. Those able to work quickly stayed ahead of the eight-axle logging trucks, and took some spoils for themselves.

Ashok claimed two large spools of wire and two small transformers. His workshop was full, so he loaded the items into his truck and drove to his cabin. It was two hundred metres off the road, and pretty well hidden. That would be a good place to store them.

The grid dismantling work was completed in two weeks. Some people struggled without grid power, but most were coping, at least for now. They’d pulled out their old oil and propane lamps, and used woodstoves more often. The Authority provided cheap golf cart batteries to store energy. That way your generator didn’t need to be running constantly; just two hours daily to charge them up.

“Have you heard about the break-ins?” said Ashok’s neighbour. “It’s pretty strange; houses all along the Valley Road, but nothing stolen. And they’ve ransacked sheds and workshops. Nothing much taken from those either. Only things missing are grid components. I guess some people got greedy and wanted them all.”

“Have the police caught anyone yet?” said Ashok.

“No-one’s reported the thefts to the police, you dummy. What do they say: ‘Officer, I stole some cables and cans, and now I’ve lost them; what should I do?’ It’s opportunists, maybe not from the Village; probably some City crew.”

Ashok went to check his cabin. The bastards had better not have broken into there. He was pleased to see they hadn’t, but he was nervous now and considered returning the grid components. What would he do with them anyway? He could leave them at the side of the road. No-one would know he had taken them.

As he pondered the best course of action, the end of a wire spool caught his eye. He was no electrician, but that definitely wasn’t copper or aluminium; it seemed like fibre-optic cable. Why would they use that in power lines? What a strange thing to do. He studied the transformer can for clues. There was something about that too; but he couldn’t say what. Hey, was that a USB hub near the bottom? It seemed to be. That was curious. And the can was really light; was there anything in there at all? There were only six screws to undo, which he managed in a minute. The can was filled with computer components. Is that the inside of a transformer, thought Ashok? Just like a PC. He plugged a USB cable from his computer into the transformer. No security code was needed; a series of folders appeared. It made no sense. Files on a transformer.

He thought a search may be fruitful, so typed in his address. A related file appeared. When he opened the file, it had nothing to do with stepping down voltage for transmission to his home. It was a series of snapshots and notes about him. The photos were taken from outside his house – recording his comings and goings. There was a prominent note – an e-sticky – on the file that read: “Grid Systems Analysis: This individual is by nature suspicious. Post-deregulation, he is likely to be disruptive. In the event of his becoming aware of Valley-Wide Surveillance, he would add significant risk to T/T (Telecomms/Telepathy Projects). We recommend elimination.”

Ashok heard the floor creak behind him, but turned too late to see. An elite Hydro Service bullet went right through his head, and hit the transformer. Like a gong marking the end of a great cycle, it clanged too loudly.

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Golden Thread

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , on February 9, 2012 by javedbabar

“Where are we now?” said Andrew, looking around.

“I’m not sure,” said Dennis. “But we must have walked ten kilometres. Come on buddy, keep up. Fall behind and you know what happens. You’ll miss your chance. You may not get another one.”

“I know, I know,” said Andrew. “I know.” He was being silly. He stepped up his pace. He could surely admire the beauty just as easily walking faster – the snow-capped mountains; rolling dark forests; rivers sparkling; patches of rock, naked and strong; and closer by, long flat fields that produced their sustenance, and under their feet, the rutted black road with a golden thread running along its centre, leading to the Source.

People bunched up ahead of him. It looked like the Leader had called a stop. He pushed into the crowd to hear. “This was the largest farm in the area,” she said, speaking loudly. “It was 12,000 acres. They raised vast herds of cattle and goats; there were also llamas. At first it was mainly for meat, and then they moved to dairy production. When they realized that was also cruel, they turned it into an animal sanctuary. But people were not as enlightened then, and didn’t support the sanctuary, so eventually it ceased operations.”

“What happened to the animals?” asked Andrew.

The Leader hesitated, and said, “Of course they all died naturally,” and then, “Ok, let’s move on.”

They had started at first light after a ceremony at the Transparent Temple. After all these years it was still an impressive structure. Andrew wondered if any other Village had a building this inspiring. He had heard that there were bigger monuments in the City, but surely none of those had survived. And even if they had, they didn’t have views of the home of the gods themselves, Mt. Alba. Their group of 33 pilgrims had left Lucerne just after sunrise, and walked steadily for ten kilometres. It was the first time that many of these Service staff had ventured this far up the Valley. They were neither involved in Production nor Defence, so had no reason to go.  But today they walked the sacred road from Mt. Alba to Mt. Negra.

They continued admiring the Valley’s beauty for another ten kilometres. More mountains, forests, rivers and rock; and fields; all connected by the hard black road, and by the golden thread upon it. There was another bunching. The Leader spoke up. “This was the largest crop producer. It was a family that was here for over one hundred years. They grew mainly root crops – carrots, beets, onions, and potatoes.”

There was a muttering among the pilgrims. “Yes, that’s when potatoes were still allowed. Before the Great Blight.” There was further muttering. “Now I’m sure that none of you grow them in your gardens secretly.” She gave an exaggerated wink. “I know I’ve never eaten any grits or home-fries.” There was laughter. “Ok pilgrims, let’s break for lunch. Thirty minutes. You’ve done real well. You’re a good group. Now rest and nourish, and we’ll continue at midday.”

“Who does the scheduling around here?” said Dennis. “We should get an hour at least. And I don’t want to walk in hot sun at noon. I want my money back. I’m gonna tell her. I only did it because my wife kept bugging me. All her friend’s husbands had performed the pilgrimage. She wanted me to do it too.”

“Be quiet and eat this,” said Andrew, passing Dennis some proteinicious bread. Everything you need in one slice. Then he said, “Do they have a pilgrimage in Strattus?”

“Sshh! Keep your voice down buddy; you know what people are like.” Dennis looked around. “Well if they do, I’ll bet it’s an exciting one. Some of their ancient lifts are still running; the ones they built for recreation. They use them to reach hilltop lakes and meadows. They grow some “summer crops” there too.”

Andrew was a regular smoker of “summer crops”. He grinned and said, “So they can’t be all bad.”

They walked for another ten kilometres, and the road became rougher. The golden thread had been refreshed for the pilgrimage, and was still visible; evidence that the Village was connected to the Volcano. It was aligned with the Source.

The Leader told a further bunching that the dense forest before them was where their ancestors had hunted and gathered. It was the first place they had settled in the Valley, when only the Valley existed. Not much has changed since then, thought Andrew, but now it’s by choice; the Separation has cut us off from all other communities.

It was the blush of afternoon. “How much further?” asked Dennis.

“I heard someone say we were nearly there,” said Andrew.

A short while later, they reached the base of Negra mountain. There was a river between the pilgrims and the Source. They camped there that night. The long day’s journey had put them into a sort of trance, which fused into exhausted dreams.

The next morning the Leader gathered them together. She said, “Today is the great day you have waited for. You will be taken individually to see the place where all life in this Valley began, and you will see why Mt. Negra is as powerful as Mt. Alba – maybe more so – as it also has the power of death. Once you have witnessed this miracle, you will become an Initiate. From then on, you and the Secret will be one.”

She took them, one by one, across the river, and into the cave at the base of Mt. Negra. There they beheld the Secret that protected this Valley. During the Chaos of Separation, the Village had acquired a nuclear bomb. It sat quietly in the cave, protected by, and protecting, the Valley. If the mutant hordes invaded, they would of course be resisted by the Defenders. But if they overwhelmed Lucerne, then the device would be activated. All would end here, and then one day, begin again.

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SS

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Unknown with tags , , on February 6, 2012 by javedbabar

Simon Smith noticed something strange. That on the 15th of every month there was an entry in his diary stating “SS”. He had no recollection of writing it in, and no idea what it represented. No time indicated, no location given, no others participating – just “SS” written across the page.

The first thing that came to mind, of course, was his own name, Simon Smith. Then he thought of Hitler’s SS, but it could hardly be anything to do with that. Maybe it was work related? A regular meeting that he’d written in at the start of the year, and then forgotten about entirely. Yes, that was probably it.

“Hey, Stephen,” he said to a fellow manager. “What are you doing on Thursday?”

“Erm. I’ve got lunch with the Supervisor, and I’m interviewing a new Supplier. Other than that, just the usual.” He looked at Simon quizzically. “Why, do you need something?”

“No,” said Simon. “I was just wondering if you have something called SS?” He felt silly somehow saying it.

“What do you mean, SS?” said Stephen.

“Oh, nothing,” said Simon. “Just something in my diary. It’s probably a mix-up.”

He wondered if it was Something Social? At home that evening he asked his wife. “I don’t know honey,” she said. “Maybe you’ve got Something Sexy planned. Lucky me! Or maybe it’s for some other hussy, that’s why you’ve been keeping it quiet.” Thank God he had a wife with a sense of humour. She hadn’t made him feel more of an idiot than he already was.

Ah! Something Spiritual! He recalled making a resolution along these lines. He did plenty for his mind and his body, but didn’t take time to nourish his soul. Maybe that was it – one day a month to de-stress and rebalance. Though he wasn’t religious, he felt it may be best to ask a professional, like a rabbi or priest. Luckily he bumped into Shanti, a yoga teacher, at the coffee shop. “That’s Paramatman,” she said. “Super Soul. You may be ready to begin the journey of many lifetimes. Why don’t you join my class? Or I can give you lessons.”

Simon felt that he was onto something. Yes, that must be it – Super Soul. He looked into it. Hindu holy books described the relationship between the Individual Soul and the Supreme Soul as being “Like two birds of golden plumage, inseparable companions, the individual soul and the supreme souls are perched on the branches of the selfsame tree. The former tastes of the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree, and the latter, tasting of neither, calmly observes.”

It was clear now! He, the individual soul, would seek the supreme soul! This cramped modern man had a date with boundless eternity – on Thursday! When he tried to book a class with Shanti though, she said she didn’t teach on Thursdays. Could he have a private lesson then? Sorry, she said, she was away that day. Simon felt frustrated. His answer had appeared but then disappeared just as quickly.

Flicking through his diary some more, he saw that SS appeared not only on the 15th of future months, but also on the 15th of previous months; but he had no recollection of previous occurrences. He wondered if “Super Soul” had been a false alarm. Could it be something else? What was so secret that it couldn’t be written explicitly in his diary?

Was it just that – Something Secret? Was he a member of the Secret Service, somehow brainwashed – a sleeper agent activated only once a month. It was safer that way. If captured he could honestly say – even under torture – that he didn’t know anything. But the secret service scenario didn’t ring true. It wasn’t that.

Was it something that his wife had written, and was too shy to say? He’d been working full-time for three months now; his probationary period was over. There was no need to reconsider Social Security. But maybe they wanted update meetings.

Was he broadening his knowledge of Social Sciences? There were many part-time courses; was Thursday their monthly meet? He’d love to cruise on a Steam Ship; didn’t SS Canberra dock regularly in the City? It was boring to always see the same things on your computer; maybe a reminder to change his Screen Saver? As a child he’d been interested in transistor radios, and built one in his bedroom; Solid State. There were complex calculations required for work; Spread Sheets. You could catch diseases even when married; Safe Sex. He would really like to fly a Space Ship. Maybe live in a Space Station. Save money on gas; Self-Service. Go Vegan; Savage Species. SS-SS-SS-SS-SS-S-S-S-S-S-s-s-s-s-s….

Power surged in a socket and there was a shower of sparks. Simon Smith came to a halt. Pah! How annoying, thought his wife. She’d thought a Super Spouse Enhanced Partner, would be less trouble than a human one. But every single month, just before System Set, his cerebral circuits went into overdrive and blew components. Then once repaired and rested, he forgot all about it – till next month. She’d complained so many times, but they’d never fixed him. Shoddy Service.

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Drawing

Posted in Conceptual Art, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , on February 5, 2012 by javedbabar

“Let’s do drawing,” said Naomi.

“Sure, Sweetie,” said Bobby. “What would you like to draw?”

“Everything!”

“Well, we’ve got all day,” he said; his sister wouldn’t be picking her up till six. “Let’s see what we can do. I’ve got some paper in my printer; we can use that, and…”

“No! Not on paper,” said Naomi emphatically. “You have to draw in a proper book. Then it’s a proper drawing. Do you have a book?”

“Will this do?” he said, producing a hardback notebook with black cover.

“That’s perfect!” said Naomi, and found a good page.

“And let me get some pens, I’m not sure what…”

“I’ve got special pencils,” said Naomi. “I always use them for drawing. You can use them too.” She produced a dozen fat, coloured pencils with natural wood casings, their colour only indicated by the lead.

“Thank you,” said Bobby. “Shall we start?”

Naomi nodded, and said, “I’ll draw me, and you draw you.” She started with a circle for a head, and triangle-dress below; stick arms and legs were followed by pig-tails, hands, and shoes. Bobby drew himself: tall and thin, with red hair and beard. When he’d finished, he looked over Naomi’s drawing. She had added more details to herself. She now had facial features, folds and buttons on her dress, and some elbow and knee details. Much better than he’d expected.

“That’s great!” said Bobby. “How do I look?”

“You look ok,” said Naomi. “Let’s draw some other things.” She drew a star and sunflowers. He drew a tree and snake.

“Do you mind if I go and do a few things?” said Bobby. It wasn’t urgent, just checking his email and Facebook, but his habit was unbreakable.

“Ok,” she said. “But don’t be too long. You have to help me with drawing.”

When he came back after twenty minutes he was amazed. She had filled the page with thick jungle. The first tree, sunflowers, and snake were enclosed within it, with the lone star shining above. It was surprisingly good for a six-year-old.

“You took too long,” she said. “I had to do all the drawing myself.”

“I’m sorry, Naomi, there was something important,” he lied. “But I’m back now. What shall we do?”

“Let’s do colouring. Us first. I’ll do me, and you do you.” She filled in her dress bright blue, added shading in the creases, and brightened up the front and sides. She made her skin a realistic milky-golden, and her hair brown-black. She got the hues just right. Bobby thought, she’s got some talent, this one, and began to colour himself. He didn’t quite get it right though. His skin was the colour of potatoes, and his hair and beard seemed fire-engine accessories. He wasn’t pleased with his purple shirt either, which he’d wanted to make black; and was he really wearing turquoise trousers?

Naomi giggled. “You look funny!” she said. “Do you prefer that you, or this you?”

“I think I like this me,” said Bobby, tapping his chest.

“I like the other one!” said Naomi. “Shall I help you finish him?” Bobby nodded. “Ok, you can finish the other things.”

Naomi selected her pencils and got busy. Bobby didn’t want to waste too much time on this. He quickly coloured the star, sunflowers, snake, and tree. He started feeling drowsy. He’d forgotten how tiring it was playing with kids. They seemed to have unlimited energy and imagination, and were happy just being themselves. It was good being a kid! And it was tiring being an adult, with or without them. Even more tiring than usual today; what was going on?

Bobby realized that he was somewhere else. Where was the cabin? Where was Naomi? Where was he? All he could see was jungle everywhere. It was not green, but white – a ghost jungle. He looked at his hands, his arms, his legs – they were coloured naturally – but everything around him was plain.

Leaves rustled in the distance. He wondered whether to hide but then thought, “what from?” and stayed where he was. Leaves quivered close by, and a moment later, Naomi burst out of them. “Hey, you’re here too, Uncle Bobby! Isn’t this fun?”

“Where are we, Naomi?” Bobby was dazzled, and disorientated.

“We’re in the drawing of course.”

“What – actually in the drawing?”

“Yes, that’s what happens when you colour it nicely,” said Naomi. “Didn’t your parents ever take you to art galleries?”

“Sure they did. But only into the galleries. Not into the paintings.” Bobby couldn’t believe he was even having this conversation.

“Didn’t you ever go into the paintings?” Bobby shook his head. “Oh, I only mean into them a little bit, to look around. Only the painter can go into them properly, and see what they really are. But see – You came into my drawing! I know I helped you, but now you’re here. Let me find some other people.” She skipped back through the leaves, but then poked her head out and said, “Just wait here; I won’t be too long.”

Bobby sat on a tree stump – was there logging in drawings, he wondered? – trying to make sense of his situation. He felt cool darkness and turned around. Naomi’s sunflowers towered over him, their heads filled with teeth rather than seeds – looking like octopus mouths – walking hulkily towards him. Bobby ran away from them into a forest clearing. High above, Naomi’s star began pulsing and screeching. It sent down red death rays. Bobby ran faster and further, till he reached a giant tree, and became tangled in its strange branches. He sensed movement around him, a slithering and hissing. It was his own snake about to attack him in his own tree. He shouted, “Help me!”

There was a rustling nearby. Naomi popped out of the jungle. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I should have given you some pencils. It’s hard the first time, till you get used to it. Then if you don’t like something, you just rub it out and redraw it. But don’t rush it this time; remember to colour it in nicely.”

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Auras

Posted in Unknown, World Myths with tags , , on January 31, 2012 by javedbabar

“What can you see, Akbar?” said Miss Jewel.

“It’s quite hazy,” he said.

“It will be initially. Please concentrate on Monika. Tell me what you can see.”

Akbar gave Monika his full attention. “I see a body, about one inch thick, all the way around her.”

“Good,” said Miss Jewel. “And what else?”

“Then a thicker body, about a metre wide, enclosing her, like an egg.”

Good, she’s well protected, thought Miss Jewel, and then said, “Yes, go on.”

“There are other bodies too,” he stopped to focus. “They’re not too clear. Quite thin ones, like layers. I can see three or four of those.”

“Well done,” said Miss Jewel. “You’re making progress. And returning to our question, do you feel that the perception of auras is a spontaneous act, or one that can be improved with practice?”

“I think it’s something that can improve with practice.”

“Yes, keep up the good work. And now, your turn Monika. Look closely at Akbar. What do you see?”

“I can’t see any shapes, really,” said Monika.

“Well, what can you see?”

“I see colours. I see mainly green around him; a glowing green, kind of like sherbet. The top part is bluish, and the bottom part is mixed with yellow, I think.”

“Very good,” said Miss Jewel. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there’s some patches of orange,” Monika squinted. “But they’re hard to make out; when I look at them they disappear.”

“Great, well done. What you are seeing are Akbar’s thoughts and feelings charging the space around him. Let’s try someone else now. How about you…” But just then the school bell rang. “Ok class. Thanks for your efforts today. I know this isn’t an easy subject. Keep practising at home. See you all next month.”

Miss Jewel loved teaching this class. She’d wanted to teach school children about auras for years, but the Education Board had pretty much laughed her out – even though she often saw them at The Lotus, buying spiritual gifts and books about sexy vampires. Bloody hypocrites, she thought. So it was great when the International School set up in Lucerne. They had lived up to their promise of a “broad, progressive, global syllabus” and though she only taught Psychic Studies once a month, awareness was growing. She also taught “regular” Religious Studies and English Literature.

She was on a one-year contract. That was the problem with private schools – less job security. And she wasn’t really sure how it was going. English Literature was pretty straightforward. Everyone accepted it was a subjective area – a matter of opinion. Religious Studies was trickier though, in a land where people now defined themselves as “spiritual not religious”. They believed without belonging, and accepted that there were many paths – you just had to find the one right for you (except some paths, of course, that were clearly evil).

Psychic Studies went further, teaching that everything was a matter of direct personal experience. Numinous perception. And this is where the problem lay. She wasn’t sure whether everyone was able to see things like auras – in the same way that not everyone could sing opera, or dance salsa, or eat snails. Sure, they could be persuaded to see them – but then were they authentic? Their “auras” could be caused by stress-migraines, or visual disorders, or eye fatigue. In fact, with the amount of time people spent staring at screens these days, it was amazing that everyone didn’t see auras. Her hope was to teach at least half the class to see hidden dangers, such as vampires.

So many things were still unknown about auras. The main question was whether everybody had one, or just particular people. In sacred art of every faith, holy persons’ haloes symbolized auras; but it wasn’t just Jesus, Buddha, and Vishnu – it was also their companions. Maybe auras were contagious, and would eventually illuminate everyone. There was also the question of internal and external auras. Miss Jewel thought of internal auras as chakras, or the traffic lights of your soul. Some said that external auras had unlimited “skins”, initially embodying your individual manifestation, and easing into the universal soul.

Akbar saw Monika in the hallway later. She was on her way out of school. “Hey cutie!” he called out. “I liked the look of your aura.”

“And yours wasn’t bad either,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Very shapely!”

“Did you notice Miss Jewel’s?” said Akbar.

“How could you miss it? So fiery. And hey, keep your orange spots to yourself next time.”

Akbar smiled. “Do you think she’s seeing Mr. Cooper tonight?”

Miss. Jewel’s class was more advanced than she realized. Many of them saw auras clearly; they just didn’t want to show off in front of her.  To avoid vampires it was good to keep these things quiet. They knew that Miss Jewel was not a Sanguinarian – a drinker of blood; but she was a psychic vampire – who fed on others’ energy to balance her own deficiencies. Miss Jewel always chose her prey carefully. Tall, handsome, nerdy, and vulnerable. She dated them for a year and sucked the life right out of them. Poor Mr. Cooper had no chance. Neither did Mrs.Cooper.

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Lost Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why do we still do it today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Invisible Horses

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , on January 28, 2012 by javedbabar

Ben used to hear the horses outside his bedroom window. They snorted with surprise and delight, and the earth would shake as they tore across the field. He didn’t see them much in daytime, but at night he heard their strange language of frothy laughs and hoof clicks. He didn’t know much about animals, but the horses seemed happy here. They were rescued horses; who knew what horrors they had endured? No longer whipped at a circus, choked in a mine, or stuck in a filthy basement. Now a field in the Lucerne Valley – surrounded by forests, rivers, mountains, and glaciers – was their home.

But a beautiful location attracts attention. The owner made the mistake of mentioning to a real estate agent at a Christmas cocktail party that she was thinking of selling. The agent had “motivated” buyers on his books already, and the listing attracted many more. The bidding war was won by an Australian couple who wanted the land but not the horses. So the horses disappeared with the previous owners – but to where was unclear. Thankfully Ben, the tenant, could stay in his cabin.

The field outside Ben’s window was soon leased to a farmer. It was ploughed and planted – initially with clover, next year with alfalfa, and then there would be spuds. Ben got used to the silent field outside.

“Did you hear that?” he said to his girlfriend, visiting from the City.

“What’s that, love?” she whispered, moving her head slightly towards him.

“I heard the sound of running.”

“Well go join ‘em, Road Runner, I’m staying in bed.” Then she added a sleepy, “Neep-neep.”

“No, not a person,” said Ben. “A horse. I heard a horse running.”

“I thought the horses had gone, love.” He loved how she always continued conversations, however tired she was. She was especially sweet when half-asleep.

“They have,” he said. “That’s why it’s strange. There aren’t any horses there.”

Ben pushed himself out of bed and went to the window. The moon was almost full. The tight rows of the field shone silver, like a mountain Zen garden. But there was nothing to contemplate but invisible horses.

Another night, Ben heard the horses again. This time their hoof clicks were more pronounced, and echoed along the road. “Can you hear them?” he said to his girlfriend. She liked getting out of the City, and was visiting again.

“Go ride ‘em cowboy,” she said in a manner so drawn out, it became a lament.

Ben threw on his dressing gown and ran outside. He was right! A dozen horses were ambling along the road. They gathered around his neighbour’s magnolia tree, tearing off petals. Some fell like big shining teeth. Ben recognized these horses – they were the wild ones from Lilly, which grazed freely on reserve land. But he had never seen them in the Meadows before – only causing mayhem on reserve roads. He watched them wander, and sometimes canter, up the road, moonlight gleaming off their glossy backs, seeming unexpected lone waves. The next day he heard that they were rounded up, and finally put in paddocks.

Once while cooking, a little drunk, Ben left a bunch of beet tops on a fencepost. He forgot that the horses were no longer there. But in the morning the tops were gone. He wondered if the neighbour’s cow had somehow gotten to them. Would she now produce red milk?

Another day there were muddy hoof prints around the field, but it had rained plenty, so their shapes were hard to define. Large patches of clover had been grazed. Ben wondered if this was by migrating deer.

As well as hoof clicks, there were other sounds. There were long blows, like greetings; vibrating snorts, as if sensing danger; a sort of snickering, like sharing a joke; a loud whinny to attract attention; a squeal of surprise; or a scream of aggression. It must be the wind carrying these sounds, thought Ben, from stables way up the road.

The neighbour’s dogs were always barking. One night they howled, and after that only whimpered and cowered. Had they been scared by a bear?

Ben spoke of these strange occurrences to an Old Cowboy he knew. The Cowboy said that he would come over one night, make a fire, cook some rice and beans with bacon, sip whisky, and watch. “There is more to horses than you’ll ever know,” he said. “Tell me when your girlfriend’s visiting. We can show her something special. Mind you, I’m not sayin’ you don’t already.”

When Ben’s girlfriend next came, they joined the Cowboy around the campfire. He was making lots of food. “Why so much?” asked Ben.

“You’ll see,” he said evasively.

Ben wondered if they would be feeding the invisible horses. When four pickups arrived, he realized they were feeding cowboys. They ate and drank and sang all night. The campfire talk was pretty rich, and Ben’s girlfriend said she was going to bed. What a waste of time this has all been, thought Ben, and followed her in.

“You’ll miss the show,” said the Old Cowboy, slurred and smiling.

“Well, why don’t you wake us up for it?” said his girlfriend.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

There was a dark tapping on the window, blended with light thundering. Ben and his girlfriend went outside.

“Look,” said the Cowboy, pointing to the sky.

Subtle shapes slipped across the heavens. Within these moving patches, the stars shone more brightly, as if cut out of the sky. Ben saw that there were many of these patches, and as they drew together, their thundering became intense, and neighs and whinnies echoed through darkness bejewelled. Brilliant stars glittered at the front of each surging patch. Ben gazed in wonder at these leaping constellations.

“Those horses hadn’t finished their healing yet,” said the Cowboy. “Their souls were stuck here; they couldn’t leave. We stroked them with the Old Songs and sent them on their way.”

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Call Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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