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Pity Party

Posted in Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , on January 21, 2012 by javedbabar

Peter awoke feeling sorry for himself. There was no real reason, it was just an occasional indulgence. Pity for the things that could have been, but hadn’t happened. Oh, he could have been a world-class athlete, a devoted husband, a father to many smiling children, a vast landowner, a big game hunter, and so much more. He lay awake, looking at the ceiling.

In a high corner of the cabin was a spider’s web, and there was the little black rascal spinning it. The powers of this eight-legged creature were awesome: to create a world from your own body, and to entrap and enfold other beings within it.

Peter looked out of the window. It was a gloomy day. Why couldn’t it be sunny, so he could go for a run along the Meadows Road? The sunshine inspired him; it was something to run towards. But this weather was cheerless. Why would someone want to go outside in that?

After an uneasy sleep-in, he accepted that there was no way out. He had to get up and go to work. He did a fat shit, brushed his teeth, and had a quick shower. Pulsating eucalyptus  waters roused his spirits, but when he opened the fridge, they fell again. Fuck! He was out of milk. Why didn’t he buy some from the gas station yesterday? Or keep a stock of evaporated milk? But he hated that stuff. And cereal with water was just wrong.

Because of Peter’s sleep-in, his timings were off. He was a half-hour behind schedule. As he started the truck, he heard the closing bars of his favourite radio show. That Native comic was hilarious, and the East Indian one, and the woman with the lisp – talk about shameless! How could she even conceive of doing that with cayenne peppers! But shit! Shit! He’d missed it. There was some show about psychology, talking about how your thoughts affect your perceptions, which in turn affect your behaviour. Then flaky bullshit about affecting your “realities”.

He was late so pushed the truck hard, slowed behind an old lady driver, and once around the bend, flew past her at 160. No cops here ever. He saw her look of shock in his mirror. He, he, he!

But then his truck wobbled. Bastard! He realized that he had a flat. The low-pressure warning light blinked last night, but he hadn’t been concerned. That sensor was way too sensitive. But the slow puncture was now a flat. He changed the tire, cursing continuously. A spider ran out from somewhere. The old lady driver flowed past him, smiling.

Peter entered the office hoping for company, but there was no-one about. Where was that pretty new receptionist? He enjoyed flirting with her. Anyway, it was all good if she wasn’t there – he could watch porn and play video games.

He switched on his computer. It took forever, and then the blue screen wobbled and quickly died. Cunt! What the hell was wrong with that machine? He called the IT guy and left him an abusive message, telling him to choose between “the blue pill or the poison pill, either way you’re fucked.” Then he went out to grab a coffee.

The girl at the coffee shop seemed familiar, but he wasn’t sure how. Her golden orbs were pushed together, bursting out of her low-cut top. She tried to charge his card, but there was a system error. She swiped it again but still no luck. Peter said to her “Why don’t you swipe it down your cleavage, and I’ll give you a tip?” She bared her teeth uncomfortably, and tried a third time. This was successful. But while Peter was adding cream and sugar, the manager came over and asked him to apologize to her. Peter told him to fuck off, and was immediately asked to leave, and banned from the coffee shop. Idiot people around here, he thought, they can’t take a joke.

When he returned to work, his boss was waiting. She said, “Peter, may I have a word with you?”

“Sure, right now?”

“Yes,” she said severely. “Right now. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Complaints against you from staff, suppliers, and customers have built up to an unacceptable level. It seems that you do not comprehend good behaviour. The company can no longer be associated with such rudeness. You can either resign immediately, or I will fire you. Which would you prefer?”

Peter informed her of his choice – and plenty more besides. He left her shaking with rage and tears. At least he’d made a lasting impression.

He went to the pub and ordered an early drink. In the daylight the pub looked different; less shiny, less clean. More hopeless. It even had cobwebs. That barman should dust higher.

Peter stayed there all day, moping. He told each new customer his woes. Eventually he was too drunk to speak coherently, but kept bothering people, leading to a small tussle with the barman. Peter fell and bashed his head on a chair, and his mouth was edged with blood. “Bash-tard! You broke my tooth!” He slurred as he was thrown out. “I just wanted one more beer.”

Peter managed to start his truck and drove it a hundred yards, before red and blue lights flashed behind him. He pushed the accelerator to try to get away, and then the brake to stop. He was breathalysed and ticketed, and his car impounded. A taxi took him home, where he found an eviction noticed pinned to his door. “Your sexual harassment of my niece today at the coffee shop was intolerable. Please vacate this suite tomorrow. Your damage deposit will not be returned.” Peter ripped the notice off the door and tore it up.

He fell into bed but couldn’t sleep. In the high corner of the cabin, the spider’s web had grown larger. His unfocussed eyes made it seem that he was within it. His sunshine, his breakfast, his laughter, his truck, his job, his coffee, his beer, his home, and his dreams, were stuck in its strands. Each dark deed trapped him further. And Peter wondered if he was the spider, the insect, or the web?

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Teacup

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , on January 19, 2012 by javedbabar

Raj sat cross-legged in bed and drank his tea. This was how he started his day always: slow and civilized. Then it was off to work at the popular tea, coffee, and whisky merchants, Brown Stuff. He was going nowhere there, but it was a steady job.

Raj couldn’t handle coffee in the mornings – it was way too harsh. He would lose his sleep immediately, and with that the crazy wonderland between sleeping and waking that produced his best ideas. He rationalized this as unstructured thought – a Rubik’s cube of possibilities that you solved in reverse. You started with the colours aligned, and twisted them into any arrangement that pleased you. That, rather than uniform colour blocks, was somehow always the answer.

“Good morning!” said a cheery British voice. “May I help you?”

“Huh?” said Raj. He wondered if he was still dreaming, or sick, or hung over. His “whisky tasting” had gotten a little out of hand last night.

“Hey! I said good morning!”

Raj had been sipping his tea with eyes shut, and now opened them wide. Had he left the radio on? Maybe the television? Or Skype?

“What’s wrong with you man! Did nobody teach you manners?”

Raj shook his head and blinked hard. The sound was very near. It seemed to be coming from his teacup. “Getting warmer!” said the voice. “By the way, I must commend you on that. You warm the cup first. I know it’s not quite a pot, but it makes such a difference. These North Americans murder tea. They have no idea.”

Raj peered into the cup, almost expecting to see a little person in there. A sort of lep-tea-chaun. But there was nothing there, just a few drops remaining, and a shiny bottom.

The voice continued. “Let’s get this awkwardness over with. Come on, look deeply into the cup. That’s it. Don’t be shy, put your nose in. Don’t breathe so hard, you’ll fog things up. Now can you see me?” Raj mumbled something, peering into the black shiny teacup. “I’ll take that as a yes. I know that I may look like a creepy reflection to you. Believe me, I’m not too happy about it either. But that’s the best I can do right now. People have been doing this for hundreds of years – looking into tea leaves – and sorry about the C-word – coffee grounds. And studying goat shit and cattle guts – you have to admit I’m better than that.”

Raj was speechless. He could see something moving at the bottom of the cup. But it held only his distorted features.

“Look, I know that you could throw a dice, flip a coin, open a book to any page, or see who comes along next. But stick to the old ways, my friend. They’re tried and tested. The Way of Tea has been with us from the beginning. Think of India and China. And look at the nations promoting it in recent times – Britain and Japan. Both world leaders! Now who pushes – sorry again about the C-word – coffee? Italians, Indonesians, and Ethiopians. All disasters! Need I say more?

Raj nodded his head, forgetting it was still in the cup. He banged the bridge of his nose and top front teeth. He pulled away and put down the cup. He held his nose and teeth.

“You have been initiated my friend. Let’s get to work.”

Raj thought of taking the day off – he was clearly unwell. But he couldn’t stay here either. He needed to get out. So he showered, dressed, and left.

He was drawn to the office kettle. It was in an offset kitchenette, where two was a crowd. A foxy brunette from Sales almost came in, but saw him and retreated. He returned to his desk with his first cup of tea. He was somewhat fearful, and nervously gulped it down.

With his last mouthful, he heard a kind of throat-clearing. “About time too!” said the voice. “What kept you? Anyway, I’m here for you my friend. That sweet lady back there – your heart jumped. You like her, don’t you? Well that’s hardly a challenge, but we should start slowly, so you can build confidence in your new buddy. So look, here’s what I want you to do. Next time she comes in, offer to make her some tea. In fact, insist on it. Say it’s a new blend that she just has to try; her customers will love it. Leave the rest to me.”

Raj made the foxy brunette some tea. By the weekend she was in his bed.

“Next up, my friend, is to strengthen your position here. I’ve noticed that new guy makes you uncomfortable. Why do they keep bringing in consultants? Overpaid buffoons. I know he’s examining your department, looking for cuts. Make him a cup of tea.”

The consultant realized that Raj’s team were the key drivers of profitability within the business. He recommended cuts in the coffee team.

“You are going places, my friend. But your boss has been in that big corner office for far too long. Wouldn’t you say it’s time for him to move on? Let’s give him a good brew.”

The boss announced that he was taking early retirement. He would sail to Kenya with his wife on a tea clipper.

“Sorry for the C-word – coffee is not good for you; it’s got thrice the caffeine of tea. And when you ask for a double-double grande soya mocha frappuccino, who knows what other junk? And whisky is a toxin. It’s not even brown! Just caramel colour. Call a board meeting, and let’s serve them a cuppa.”

The board agreed with Raj’s mantra that there was “No C in Strategy – No W in Future – But both contain T”. Brown Stuff sold their coffee and whisky businesses, and used the funds to buy other tea companies. They became North America’s biggest tea merchants.

Sitting cross-legged in bed one morning, Raj looked into the bottom of his teacup. For a moment he saw his own clear reflection. Almost immediately it was replaced by the distorted version. “You have a meeting today with a scientist who says that tea increases the chances of throat cancer. Make him some tea. Then in your desk drawer, you will find a handgun…”

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Morning Light

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , on January 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Grandma’s ritual was to light a candle daily. She said it kept the spirits away. “There’s good spirits and bad spirits,” she said. “But you don’t know which is which. So you better play safe and keep them all out, or you’ll be in for a nasty shock one day. You’ll run round looking for matches, but won’t find any.  And even if you do, the candles will have disappeared. And if you find the candles, they’ll be damp or rancid. The spirits are quicker than you. If you miss your chance in the morning, that’s it.”

Grandma never missed her chance in the morning. She was up at dawn to light a candle, wherever she was. This was tricky when travelling, as naked flames are forbidden in hotel rooms, but she’d say, “Spirits know if you haven’t lit a candle; hotel managers don’t know if you have.” This proved to be generally true. Except for the time when the hotel manager was alerted by the smoke alarm, and activated his sprinkler system. Grandma claimed that he was an evil spirit who didn’t play by the rules.

Grandpa didn’t like her lighting candles. Firstly he thought it was dangerous. Burning candles were the number one source of house fires in the country. Secondly, he thought it was superstitious. Thirdly – despite secondly – he felt that if you thought about something, you made it more likely to occur. So lighting candles was self-defeating. It was best to not think of spirits at all.

Grandma said, “Now there are five hundred people in the Valley, and two thousand in town. But when we first came here, we were the only ones living out here in the bush. I was a city girl who’d married a country boy. It was a greater wilderness than any I’d imagined. It frightened me. That’s when I began lighting candles. And that’s what my grandma used to do too. She lit hers to honour God. Mine were mainly for hope.”

A country boy works hard to survive. There’s no easy money or taking days off. As well as being a trapper, logger, and miner, Grandpa was also a hunter, carpenter, and farm hand. He did it all. The logging and mining kept him away for weeks at camp; he could be gone for a month or more. These were the most difficult times for Grandma. The candle became a reminder of him. A light to keep him safe. A beacon to guide him home.

The light was Grandma’s daily companion, and she saw its subtle changes. Of course these depended on the type of candle she used – beeswax, paraffin wax, soy wax, tallow, or spermaceti. The flames burned mainly orange, but within that hue were many others. Like a lover of fine wines, Grandma saw their infinite variety. Every flame had something to say.

A good candle was a good candle for Grandma, whatever it was made of – except resins and gels, which were unnatural. If the candle was well-constructed, unscented, and undyed, it burned well. But in truth it was the wick that made the candle. Its capillary action drew melted wax up to the flame to vaporize and combust. And as the candle burned, a good wick curled back into the flames. It was not the fuel, but was itself consumed.

Grandma noticed that similar candles burned differently. It had less to do with the candle than the day. She saw that all candles burned violet on birthdays, and green near Christmas; they burnt red at Easter, and blue on anniversaries; they burned yellow on happy days, and darkly on days of sadness. When they finally got television, she saw that good news led to pink flames, and bad news to grey. The flame was still orange, but its hidden colour was revealed to her. She didn’t tell anybody about it. It was her secret knowledge, and she didn’t want people to think she had cabin fever.

As soon as she lit a candle in the morning, usually with an Agni match – made by East Indians in the City – she knew what kind of day it would be, and was able to prepare herself for it physically and mentally. If it was indigo, she would pin back her shoulders, shove her chest out, hold up her head, and push against the assaults lined up for her. If it was lemon, she looked forward to a day with her feet up.

One winter morning the candle wouldn’t light at all. She tried many times with her Agni matches. This had never happened before. She changed the beeswax candle to a paraffin one, then a tallow one, then a soy wax one, even her Grandma’s antique Spermaceti. But none of them took. Grandma went upstairs and put on a black dress. Maybe today was not a day to keep spirits away with candles. There was a soul far away that needed to come home.

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Orchextra

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , on January 17, 2012 by javedbabar

Knock-knock! Dana ignored it. Knock-knock! She ignored it again.

“Honey, may I come in?” said Tony.

Dana withdrew her mind from Supersoul. The divine colour of water-filled clouds eased into that of pale blue wall. It wasn’t so different – more a question of quality than hue. “Yes, honey,” she said slowly. “Come in.”

“Hey Firecracker” – he’d called her that since she’d gone from blonde to redhead – “I know you are doing yoga, but I thought you’d like to see this.” His lips quivered when he was thrilled about something. She wanted to kiss him right now.

Tony brought over his laptop, hesitantly. “Honey, I need to focus,” she said smiling broadly. “That’s why I could do with a distraction. Go ahead.”

“Are you sitting comfortably?” he said. His lips quivered again.

“Only enough to merge with the Supersoul. I guess that’s pretty comfy.”

“I knew I had it somewhere. Good job I didn’t empty my recycle bin. It was hiding there. Ready?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a historic moment captured on video.”

“Hey, I told you to get rid of that video! You never know where it might end up. Do you really want to see your wife on the internet doing that?” She felt her brow furrow. Sudden tension. Just what she needed to avoid today.

“No, not that!” said Tony, waving his arms as if flapping the idea away. “I got rid of that, honest! Though it was a minor classic of Sea-To-Sky sensuality….”

“Tony…”

“Just kidding you. Look…” he clicked. The Transparent Temple – their nickname for the fancy community centre – appeared, surrounded by crowds. It was last year’s Canada Day. The camera zoomed towards the first floor balcony, showing a dozen people in smart black dress. Amongst them was Firecracker holding her cello. The small orchestra sat down, tuned up, and began playing. It was Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, reworked as a dance tune. It started off gently – flowing like caresses – and then burst with beats – like your brain was your heart. The crowd went crazy, threw their arms in the air. It was classical music renewed. It felt great to move people so strongly and deeply; more than she’d ever done before.

And that was the day when she’d heard the sounds. At first she thought it was feedback harmonics, but listened more closely, and was confused. She wasn’t playing those notes, they were way too deep. Long, long frequencies, like hundred metre strings being bowed. And a big boom somewhere, and mighty clangs, and long whistles like trains. She wondered whether she was going a bit crazy. But others told her that they’d heard the sounds too. The mysterious vibrations resonated with her vision of Supersoul. They had sparked her idea; the one that had brought her here today. She was tuning herself for the biggest day of her life.

“Do you remember what the District said when you suggested it?” said Tony. “And BC Hydro? And the lawyers?” She smiled completely. He liked that red lipstick, setting off her hair. “I’m so proud of you, honey. Tonight will be unforgettable.”

It was only when CBC got involved that things had started moving. Initially she wasn’t keen on the name “Orchextra”, but after a while got used to it.

An hour later, Dana left the house. Cranes and scaffolds were set up along the Meadows Road. They were concentrated at the end of the power lines near Camel Mountain. This was Dana’s place – pole position. The production crew fussed over her. They adjusted her hair, her makeup, and her dress, and then clipped on a microphone and earpiece. Two hours later, she was ready to start.

At 11.30am they did final checks on the power lines. A micro-current ran through them. They put her in a zoom boom and raised her up thirty feet. She was ready. At exactly midday, she put her bow to the neutral wire. From down the Valley she heard the sounds of people striking big boulders, which sang out like clear bells. From up the Valley, others beating the trunks of huge cedars, which hurt like vast drums. Everywhere in the Valley, people used compressors to push air through their chimneys, and blew into car exhaust pipes. A range of shrill, strong whistles filled the air, everywhere. It was time.

The front of her cello was spruce, the sides maple, the bridge pine, the bass bar willow, the sound post fir, the purfling ebony and abalone; all affixed by hide glue. Many fine craftsmen had built that instrument. But her instrument today was an insulated copper cable. Her bow was of brazilwood, stretched with horsehair. Dana drew her bow across the wire, which stretched from here to the Village, an instrument of thirty kilometres, ready for her touch. She was the lead player, with cellists raised up every kilometre to strengthen her sound. It would meet the sounds coming from elsewhere in the Valley to create a mighty circuit of sonance.

Today was September 22nd, 2012, fall equinox. This was the great practice.

The great performance would be on December 21st, 2012: the winter solstice. The “X” in Orchextra came via Ancient Arabic, Old Spanish, and Mathematics. It was used by Malcolm X, X-Rays, Generation X, and the Illiterate to sign their names. In all these cases it represented the same thing: an unknown quantity. On this night, ancient and modern, natural and cultural, vibrations would fuse together. This would be the sound – a last brave howl, as the planet Nibiru approached earth, its collision now confirmed – of the end of the world. What the future held for humanity after this was unknown.

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Conditioner

Posted in Unknown with tags , , on January 16, 2012 by javedbabar

All that time alone beneath vehicles caused Mark to philosophize. The word engine comes from the Latin ingenium, he thought, meaning ability. And motor from the Latin word for mover. Wasn’t that the essence of it all – motion. But if you want to transform chemical to mechanical energy, you have to take care of the toxins, and of course the noise. An exhaust system acts as a conditioner, improving the quality of air expelled. The engine exhaust and sound pressure share the same complex exit pathway. Somewhat like a person’s “exhaust system”. Now if you…

“Have you got any accounts?” someone said quickly. It was a strange, thin voice, as if constipated.

“Hello!” he called out.

“Have you got any accounts?”

Mark pulled himself out from beneath the Frontier. Nice truck that one. Not from around here; it’s clean below, not much salt. A tall, smartly dressed fellow peered down at him. His electric blue eyes matched his tie and cuff-links. “Hello,” said Mark. “Did you want to set up a company account?”

“No, I meant do you have any bank accounts I can use to transfer money?”

“Huh? What for?” said Mark, wiping his hands.

“That’s not your business. But I’ll make it worth your while. You’ll get 5% for doing nothing. Handy in these tough times, eh?”

Mark changed his mind. He decided not to shake the guy’s hand. His nails seemed varnished, and were too clean to be honest. “I don’t know what your game is, Mister. I run an honest business here. I don’t do funny stuff. Straight down the line.” Mark glared at him.

The man did not blink. He said, “Sorry, I must have been misinformed.” He turned and walked out.

Mark was up now so made some tea. He filled the kettle with crappy Valley water. Despite being conditioned, it was still quite rusty and smelled of eggs.

After tea, he finished replacing the Frontier’s cat-con. He got a thrill from handling parts containing the world’s most precious metals. Ok, the platinum was suspended in an aluminium washcoat and sprayed on a ceramic substrate, but it was still pretty special. Its name came from the Spanish meaning “little silver of the Pinto River”, but these days mainly came from South Africa. He’d like to visit Capetown, but who could afford that right now?

Mark went home and jumped in the shower. He used coconut hair conditioner (and unknowingly, acidifiers, thermal protectors, glossers, sequestrants, and antistatic agents – you get a lot in your bottle these days). Then he called his wife in Ontario. “How are you, honey?” he said. “Missing you, my oily hero,” she said. He spoke to the kids. They’d be back on Sunday.

He chugged half a beer. It ran through his body and brain immediately. Ahhh, that’s better. He realized that as he increased the level of ethanol in his blood, he was also conditioning himself. Yes, it was a toxin, he thought, but a most pleasurable one. He had recently learnt that the word alcohol comes from the Arabic, al-kuhl, a very fine powder that is used as eyeliner. It’s probably best that Arabs were forbidden from drinking. You don’t want to get disorientated in the desert. It’s bad enough stumbling home from the Village pub.

Mark didn’t watch much TV, otherwise he’d lose his moral authority. But it was ok when the kids were away. He watched a finger-flicking mix of game-shows, reality shows, sitcoms, news, and dramas. All of it was lame or overhyped. Bread and circuses, the Romans called it. It was a way to keep the masses happy and docile. To condition them.

Mark’s thoughts turned to the visitor at the garage. It was obviously dirty money that he wanted laundered – made legal and respectable. Would the money truly change though? Would it somehow become better? A banker had explained to him at a party that money didn’t really exist these days. Once upon a time, money was based on precious metals – like the platinum in cat-cons, or the gold in airbags and braking systems. In Roman times, one ounce of gold bought you two outfits and a belt. These days it was about the same. Gold was a dense, malleable metal that held real value, in the way that vacant land did in the Valley. You could use it for something. Paper money was just a promise of value from world governments that were inept and corrupt. Yet even paper money could be recycled into books or toilet paper. The majority of money was electronic now. Just a beep in some powerbroker’s computer. An asshole who didn’t work for a living.

After his fourth beer, and two hours of mindless television, Mark wondered if the tall, smart man would come again to the garage. Maybe he had dismissed him too quickly. Yes his too-clean hands had offered Mark bundles of dirty money. But wasn’t this just a twist on some financial fool taking the clean money earned by Mark’s dirty hands? And if Mark took it, would he be conditioning the cash, or would the cash be conditioning him? He wondered if a bad deed created a bad habit, and if a bad habit created a bad person?

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Cracked Light

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , on January 15, 2012 by javedbabar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry. Just leave it there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh? Where to?”

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

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Cake

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , on January 13, 2012 by javedbabar

“Now, quieten down children. I said quieten down! Ally, didn’t you hear what I said? Sshhh!” The teacher turned to the museum guide and said, “Sorry about this, they’re usually much better behaved.”

“Not to worry,” said the guide. “It’s understandable.” She turned to the children. “Children? Children! Thank you. I’m going to tell you a little story. It won’t take too long. I think you’ll like it. And then you’ll get your cake.”

“Cake!” shouted a fat white girl.

“Cake!” repeated her friends.

“Yes, I promise. But first you must listen. Who has heard of Azir?” Most of their hands went up. “Good! Well Azir woke up one morning wanting some cake. He wanted something sweet and eggy that melted in his mouth, with strawberry jam in the middle, and chocolate icing on top…”

The fat white girl interrupted. “And cream in the middle, Miss?”

“Yes, child – and cream in the middle. Azir licked his lips. But before he could have any cake, what must he do?”

There were several answers, including, “Bake it”, “Mix it”, and “Order it”, before she got the one she was looking for: “Brush his teeth.”

“Yes, brush his teeth. Azir always brushed them as soon as he woke up. That’s why his teeth shone like pearls.”

“Do you brush your teeth?” asked one of the children.

“Yes I do, I have a special way.” She gave her a big smile, and said, “He didn’t have to bake the cake himself because he was from the Rulers. He was Lord of this estate and had lots of servants.”

“How big is this house, Miss?” asked the fat white girl. Her enthusiasm was to be expected.

“Well, the house is 12,000 square feet, and the estate is 12,000 acres. Azir liked things to match. He also had 12, 000 servants – the rule was one servant per acre. But only a few served in the house. A buttery-baked smell filled the air. He put on his morning clothes and went down from the Tower into the hall, and peered into the kitchen. The servants seemed busy and happy. They were sharing cake. But as soon as Azir entered, they hid it away in their aprons.

“Azir said, ‘Good morning everyone.’

“‘Good morning, Master,’ they replied.

“‘You seem very busy,’ Azir said casually.

“The Chief Servant stepped forward and bowed. ‘Yes Master. We are busy because we are finishing work early today. It is our festival of Zolly.’

“Azir became conscious that he was delaying them. As soon as he had entered the kitchen, they had all lined up and work had stopped entirely. ‘Well, I’d better let you get on with it then. Happy Zolly.’ It was only when Azir returned to the hall that he realized he’d forgotten to ask for cake.

“Cake!” said the fat white girl. The guide smiled and continued.

“He was wondering whether to return to the kitchen, when Mitra rushed in. She had a duster in one hand and a net in the other. When she saw him she froze, and looked down immediately. ‘Sorry Master,’ she said. ‘I thought you were still in the Tower. I didn’t know you were here. Please excuse me.’

“Azir had never liked this formality, but the castes were regulated, and Master-Servant relationships were set. Here was a woman who had raised him from childhood, who wasn’t allowed to speak to him unless spoken to. How ludicrous!

“‘It’s really no problem, Mitra. You weren’t in the kitchen just now, so I’ll wish you Happy Zolly.’

“‘Thank you Master.’

“‘Listen Mitra, could you get me some cake?’

“‘Master , Cake?’ she said.

A child raised her hand. “What kind of cake was it?” she asked.

“It was a cherry-fruit cake with golden raisins,” said the guide, and continued. “Azir said, ‘They were baking it this morning. I smelled it when I woke up in the Tower.”

“She looked uneasy, but said, ‘Of course Master, I will bring it.’

“‘What’s wrong Mitra? You seem uncomfortable with my request.’

“‘The cake was not on today’s menu. The cooks used some old flour to make it. It’s a Zolly tradition.’ She stopped and looked up. ‘And Master, you can’t eat it. We didn’t use the cook machines. It was made by hand.’

“‘Don’t be silly! Bring me some cake immediately!”’Azir hoped that he’d got the tone right – friendly not bossy.

“He expected her to return quickly, but she took forever. He used the time to enjoy the view through the huge windows of the hall. Beyond the misty fields and forests was Mt. Alba, its wide base rising to a sharp peak. A fitting symbol, it was said, for human society.

“Mitra entered the hall, her face flushed. Azir saw that her discomfort had increased. She held a silver tray with a covered plate. ‘Here, near the window, Master?’ she said.

“‘Yes thank you Mitra. Now take off the cover.’

“She did so, wobbling slightly. Reflected in the window, Azir saw kitchen staff peering into the hall. He said, ‘Now break a piece off for me.’ She reached for the knife. ‘No, with your hands.’

“Her body shuddered. ‘Master I cannot. It is forbidden.’

“‘But isn’t that the tradition? To feed people with your hands, as Zolly once did?’

“‘Master, yes it is. But only between ourselves. Not between Servant and Master.’ She held the knife in the air, not knowing what to do with it now.

“‘Do you not wish to follow the example of Zolly?’ he said.

“‘Master I do. But I am not as strong as She.’

“‘Well I think it’s time to update that tradition. Mitra, feed me with your hands.’

“‘Master I am an old woman now, and don’t have too long to live. But I value the years I still have left. I am not sure that I could spend them as Zolly did. But you are my Master. Your wish is my command.’  She broke off some cake and fed Azir, with tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Azir hugged her and said, ‘Mitra, in my home, your hands and your heart will be honoured always. As will those of all others.’ Then he called in all of the white-skinned servants and fed each of them cake with his brown hands.

“So that, children, is what happened here in this room. You listened well, thank you. It’s time for your cake now.” The teacher cut the cake into slices. Then the children broke off pieces of cherry-fruit cake with golden raisins, and fed each other beneath a bust to Azir, and a gleaming plaque saying, “Who shares cake shares all”.

The children also fed the guide. She was unable to feed herself for she had no hands. The story of Azir feeding Mitra had been sweetened for public consumption. The guide was Mitra’s daughter, and had loved Azir. For this she had been punished in the traditional way, as had her mother for touching Azir, as had Zolly for preaching such acts long before. None of these mothers had ever held their children. It had been a long, hard, bitter struggle to change the old ways.

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Golden Apple

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Organic Farming, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , on January 10, 2012 by javedbabar

Helen hated fruit. You had to wash it and peel it, and check it wasn’t mushy or spoiled, and even then, it was full of pips and junky bits, and maybe worms. You couldn’t just open and eat it like you could with chocolate or a bag of chips. And the taste wasn’t always the same. You could have an orange that was sweet and juicy, and the next one would be hard and sour. If it wanted to get eaten, it should be the same each time, then you knew what you were getting. Fruit was stupid.

However, fruit could not be avoided. Her mother often let it slide, but after conversations with her healthy friend Shannon – went on a fruit frenzy, and this was one of those times. Helen had been told to get some fruit. “Ten-a-day they say, sweetness.”

“That includes veggies too though, mom.”

“Ok, how many fruit and veggies have you had today?”

“I’ve had tomato ketchup and onion rings. That’s two. And potato chips. Three. There were berries in my ice cream. Four. Sprite has limes and lemons. So six so far.”

“I’m not sure all of those count, sugar. I’m afraid my order still stands. Go and buy some fruit.”

Helen biked down to the store – that was healthy! – and went inside. Why do they put all the fresh stuff near the entrance? Then you can’t say you didn’t see it. She began to browse.

Fresh fruit definitely looked good – all those colours: red, yellow, green, purple, orange; and those shapes – long, shiny, round, lumpy, and prickly; but it was those very things that disguised its dark side – the mushiness, spoilage, pips, junky bits, and worms. She looked at their labels. They came from all kinds of places: California, Florida, and Mexico, and further afield: Brazil, Iraq, and New Zealand. She imagined people in those countries sitting in the sunshine with rolls of stickers , putting one on each fruit.

In the corner was a display of golden apples, whose scent intensified as she approached. More like melons than apples, they drew you in. She picked one up. It’s label said, “Do Not Eat”. WTF! What was that supposed to mean?

The new Produce Manager was misting the greens. Helen called him over.

“These apples are the most real thing in the store,” he said with a faint accent. “They are grown in the Valley, in a hundred-year-old orchard, by refugees from Russia. I know them well. They use an ancient way of farming, unchanged for two-thousand years, called Deo-Dynamik. Deo means God, and Dynamik means Alive. They say that they bring forth divine spirit.”

This was way more information than Helen wanted. “But why do they say ‘Do Not Eat’?”

“Each fruit is completely different. Look.” One small and pale yellow, another was large and almost orange, and a third was misshapen like a potato. “People are used to fruits looking alike. But none of these golden apples have the same appearance. And their tastes are even more unpredictable. Their appearance is a warning to everyday shoppers – you may get more than you bargained for.”

“If they are so special, then why aren’t they more expensive?” said Helen. These apples were cheaper than chocolates and chips.

“They cost more to grow, but they are not transported thousands of miles, so the price works out about the same. Look, why don’t you try a golden apple? A free sample. Pick one.”

Helen pointed to the small, pale yellow one. The Produce Manger polished it on his apron and handed it to her. Up close its scent was like her dead grandma’s dizzying perfume, and its skin was sagging, like that on her shrunken skull before burial. She had a moment of revulsion, but her action was already in progress, and ended in a crunchy bite. It sent juice down her chin.

As Helen’s teeth sank into the apple, the apple seemed to bite her back. Her teeth closed upon it, but the apple enclosed her too. She was captured by the life within it. What had the Manager said – Deo-Dynamik? She remembered her mom’s friend Shannon saying that, “Those Russian scientists are clever.” Maybe their farmers too.

Helen felt that she had been given this apple because she was the most beautiful girl in the world. There would be a fight about it, for sure. Other girls would object and create discord. It may even lead to a great war. But she had been led to the apple, and the apple to her. Her beauty was hers, as theirs’ was theirs’. She was its rightful owner.

Helen changed her mind about fruit instantly. This apple would bring her everlasting youth and health. She would retain her natural glow forever, infused with earth magic. If one day she were captured by a liar and deceiver, the earth magic would protect her, and surely force her release.

Within the apple seed, Helen saw mighty trees of the future. The branches of each were heavy with glowing fruits. Each apple ripened in sunshine, and was washed by rain; it was caressed by winds, and sent to earth by thunder. People would try to own these seeds, to change them, to fill them with death. But many would swear to protect these seeds forever.    Helen realized that this apple contained all the world. Its roundness was wholeness. Its shine was illumination. Its body was flesh. Its seed were immortality. By tasting this fruit, she had known this world. She was this world.

Helen’s arm was hurting. Really hurting. She realized it had been twisted around her back. Someone was talking harshly. What was happening?

“Eating our apples without paying, eh? Well, let’s see if you try that again. Bloody kids always stealing fruit. Some excuse or another.” The person put on a series of silly voices. First, high-pitched: “I wanted to be healthy”; then whining: “I was seeing if it was sweet”; then chirping: “I was testing its ripeness”. He returned to his normal, harsh voice. “Bah! Fruit is standardized these days. It’s all the same. It’s all ripe and good for you. Now get out of here, kid. And don’t come back for a month – you’re banned!”

Helen was marched out of the store, quite confused. If this was the Produce Manager, she wondered, then who was the other guy? She never got the chance to find out. He had taken off his apron and badge and slipped out earlier. He had to tend his hundred-year-old orchard, as his people had done in Russia for two-thousand years before coming here.

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Black Towel

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , on January 9, 2012 by javedbabar

Jamie loved the shower. He would spend all day in there if he could, but usually took a short shower of only five minutes because he had to get to work. But even in that time, the hot water, pulsating jets, and steam clouds turned his bathroom into a dreamy somewhere else. It was like being inside a piece of music. Dance music, melodic but also trancey. In the shower you could just let go of every part of yourself, and have no cares in the world. He felt so light, floating free.

He opened the shower door, stepped out, and pulled his towel off the rail. Now the dread began. As lovely as the shower had been, coming out still felt terrible. He couldn’t say why. He had a sudden fear and loathing of the world. What a stupid way to feel. Like everyone else, he better just get to work.

He began to dry himself. Halfway through, he stopped. Was this his towel, he wondered? It was white. Didn’t he have a black one before? He wondered if it was his housemate, Eddy’s. He couldn’t ever remember buying a white towel. Never mind, it got him dry.

As Jamie was dressing, he noticed that the towel was quite grubby. It had dark stains. Like most single guys, he didn’t change his towel as often as he should. He knew that. His logic was that these stains were from water: the same stuff that would be used to wash it. Water is water – what difference does it make if it’s from his shower or from the laundry? Still, maybe its time to give it a wash. He threw it into the laundry basket, and took the basket with him to work.

Community Services seemed to get busier each day. He stayed late to finish a chart showing the effects of income inequality. The rich-poor gap was getting bigger – not just financially, but also in terms of physical and psychological health. On his way home Jamie went to the laundry. He heard voices in the back room. He loaded the machine, but as he filled the dispenser, the manager came running out.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “What are you washing?”

“Just my usual stuff.” Jamie wondered why he was bothering him.

“But is there something I can help you with?” The manager seemed eager.

“Not really. It’s just my jeans, shirts, underwear, and, er… towel.”

“Towel!” The manager’s eyes lit up. “Towel!”

“Yes,” said Jamie, about to push the start button.

The manager stopped him. “Oh, towels are hard to clean properly. Let me do it for you.” He was sweating slightly.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Jamie. “But I don’t want to pay the extra. I’ll do it myself.”

“Oh, no extra! Just good service!” The manager opened the machine door and pulled out Jamie’s stuff. He held up the towel. “See those dark stains? You won’t get them out. Let me wash this for you.”

Jamie was flummoxed. “Em… ok, thanks.” When the machine started hissing, he went for a drink and came back 34 minutes later. He knew that’s how long the wash took. The manager was waiting for Jamie. “Oh, you’re back. Super. Your wash is done. And here’s your towel.” He held out a neatly pressed white towel, the sort you get at hotels. Wow, thought Jamie. Good job.

“Excuse me,” said the manager. “I have some business to take care of.”

As Jamie waited for his laundry to dry, he wondered how the manager had washed and dried the towel so quickly. He was about to step into the back room to ask him, but saw through the doorway that he was busy. He was putting stained white towels into a bag, while a pile of fresh ones sat next to them. Jamie decided not to bother, and left. In his car mirror, Jamie saw a dark van emerging from the laundry’s rear.

A few weeks later, a black towel appeared in the bathroom. It must be Eddy’s, thought Jamie. They never really saw each other, as both were busy working multiple jobs. There was always less money, and more bills to pay. It was getting harder to survive these days. They were friends but fought often, and were both in bad moods. Jamie caught Eddy one morning, and asked if that was his black towel.

“Why? Do you want to use it?” he said.

“No, I was just curious. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

“I got it from the laundry. Someone left it in a machine. The manager said it was a good towel, and told me to take it. But it’s pretty low grade – the colour’s coming off. It’s going grey.”

Two weeks later, the black towel was gone. This was unusual, as towels stayed in the bathroom for months. Jamie asked Eddy about it. “Oh, it turned into a white towel,” he said. “But it still had dark stains. So I took it back to the laundry. The manager washed it for me. It turned out great.”

Eddy felt that something wasn’t right. Black towels shouldn’t become white towels. He went to the laundry to ask the manager about it. While he was finding a car space, he saw a dark van parked at the rear. The same one that had pulled out behind him last time. As he approached the back of the laundry, he overheard the manager’s voice. “That was twenty this week.”

Another voice said, “All black to white?”

“Yep,” said the manager. “One hundred percent cleaned.”

“Ok, good job. Here’s $2,000. Do you think you can handle more?”

“Maybe five more. But that’s it. I can’t push a black towel onto every customer.”

“But you may have to. The powerful people who blacken these towels need to stay powerful. They use witchcraft to bypass karma, and transfer their stress and sins through these dark spell cloths. They have accumulated more stress and sin than ever, so we must expand the operation. Soon we’ll give you your own special towel.”

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Dark Harp

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , on January 8, 2012 by javedbabar

The crowd at the Great Hall funked and grooved. They shook their bootys and whirled round and around. They were more dervishes than dancers, their souls lost in sound.

The Harpees didn’t play here too often. Ever since they won the World Fusion Championships, they were always touring. But this was their home town, and they didn’t forget their own. They were a twelve piece band with two basses, two sitars, bongo drums, tablas, two trumpets, keyboardist, harmonium, violinist, and lead harpist. Each instrument played its part beautifully, but the harp was what made their band really special. The vibrations of its strings climbed high, touching people’s hearts and dreams. And it was a unique instrument. While other instruments gave feedback – muddying the music – the harp never did. It produced only pure sound.

Rufus gave a final flourish, and set all of its strings vibrating. He dropped his head sharply to end the number, and the rest of the band followed his lead. There was huge cheering and applause. The band thanked their loyal fans who had set them on the road to stardom, and called it a night.

Before Rufus had even stopped sweating, the manager of Resonance – the recently completed apartment block in the centre of town – came to bug him. He wanted The Harpees to endorse his building, continuing its musical advertising campaign. This had included taglines like “Sounds good!”, “In tune with you!”, and “Live in harmony!” Rufus said he didn’t have time right now.

No matter how many times you’ve done it before, teardown is always a messy business. There’s always mounds of boxes, jumbles of plugs, and a jungle of wires. The building’s steps made it even more work than usual humping the gear. Finally everything was loaded, and Rufus drove home. They had to hit the road tomorrow, so he left his gear in the truck. He didn’t sleep well that night, which was unusual. He usually soared heavenward.

The next morning was the worst of his life. He checked and rechecked but the harp was gone. Had he misplaced it, he wondered? Or had someone taken it in error? After all, instrument cases were all dark and bulky; they could easily be confused. Yet he recalled placing it into the truck carefully. He really didn’t want to consider it, but the only real possibility was that someone had stolen it!

Rufus held his head in his hands and snarled like a dog. He was so angry, he could not think. He could only feel colours.

When his Grandpa gave him the harp, he’d said, “It’s been in the family for centuries, and I have been its guardian for fifty years. It’s now your turn, Rufus. But don’t lock it away somewhere. It is alive I tell you! Play it! Play it! Play it for the world!”

At first it had been hard to know what to do. It wasn’t the coolest instrument, or the easiest to master. Dull black wood with a hundred strings. But Rufus persevered and became proficient. He started out as a street-musician, then joined a chamber orchestra, and later a local experimental band. He played so well that he displaced the lead guitarist, and became “lead harpist”. Eventually they changed their name from The Spudees to The Harpees, and the stage was set.

“All instruments have souls, and they respond to others,” his Grandpa had said. “But this harp has seen too much in its lifetime. It braved two wars. Now it makes its own music, that is all, and doesn’t echo the sounds of other instruments. It is like a great person, who is sure of himself but wary of the crowd. And because he stands apart bravely, he attracts others.”

Rufus hadn’t known what to make of that, but the musical benefits were clear. There was no feedback, and thus clarity and force in performance. Its sound would rise above all others.

But now the harp was gone. He had lost it! Rufus snarled again. His hearing was so keen that he could detect the quiver of a nearby string. But he knew that even if he drove around the Village, house by house, playing other instruments, the harp would never answer back. It gave no feedback. Its special quality was now its loss.

Of course they cancelled the rest of the tour. Rufus stayed at home. He was mainly quiet, but sometimes found himself snarling.

That night there were strange occurrences in the Village. Dogs barked non-stop, and the glass in shop windows kept trembling. Reflections distorted and shook.

The next night everyones’ car alarms went off everywhere, and many streetlights shattered. Everybody in the coffee shop was talking about these strange events. Had there been a series of small earthquakes? Or maybe some kind of electrical-field reversal?

Only Rufus knew. The harp had broken its long silence. It was responding to his call.

The third night, the Village fire-trucks’ lights and sirens came on. Also those of the ambulances, and the police cruisers. The centre of town was like a fairground. Emergency personnel all turned out in response to the sirens, and it’s a good job they did.

The Resonance building crumbled into dust. It wobbled initially, and then fell flat. Fortunately the manager had noticed some cracks that evening, and evacuated the buildings’ few occupants before he disappeared. No one was hurt.

Some days later, among the rubble of Resonance, was found a large black instrument case. Inside was a dark harp.

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