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Ancient Warfare 6

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 7, 2012 by javedbabar

David was banned from playing video games. He was usually allowed one hour per day, plus whatever he sneaked in here and there, but his mother had checked with his father and realized that he’d been playing them off against each other. “Can I play my hour now?” he’d say to his father while his mother was out shopping, and he’d say “Sure son;” then when his father was out drinking he’d say to his mother, “Can I play my hour now,” and she’d say, “Sure love;” and David ended up with two hours-plus of gameplay.

He mostly played Worldball 2016. His hand-picked team, King David’s Defence XI, would battle and often beat mightier nations such as Italy and Germany. King David’s Defence XI had a rock solid rear formation that few teams could penetrate, and their unorthodox attacks bamboozled opponents. They made it to the final but then lost to the faultless teamwork of Chairman Mao’s Select Party People. David took this loss badly and stopped playing Worldball. He bugged his parents for Ancient Warfare 6. “It’s really, really good,” he said to his father. “It has powerful weapons and amazing avatars. Dad, can I have it as an early birthday present?”

“Ok, but don’t tell your mum how much it cost. Tell her there was a half-price offer. Here’s sixty bucks.”

Ancient Warfare 6 was so much better than Ancient Warfare 5. Whereas before you had only personal weapons, now there were group weapons such as siege towers and battering rams. The Avatars were built upon your own photos, and so realistic that it felt like looking into a mirror sometimes. The Point of View (POV) was smooth and sharp but retained peripheral vision. It was a virtual/real-life experience.

His friend Amir would come around to play most days. King David’s Defenders conquered much of the Holy Land, but Amir’s Arab Armies made inroads too. Now that David was banned though, they just got bored together.

Amir said, “When can we fight again, my tribal foe?”

David said, “Next week, when my ban comes to an end.” Amir said that David’s mum was at the neighbours, so they could squeeze in a quick game right now, but David said, “She’s told me already that if there’s any mischief, the ban’s extended.”

Amir threw a mini-Mars bar at David, but he defended himself successfully. It didn’t really hit him, just disappeared somewhere.

“Do you think that warriors had real powers?” said Amir. “I mean in ancient times? Magical powers?”

“Like what?” said David, still searching for the mini-Mars bar. It must be somewhere. His mother would be angry if it melted and left a mark. Where had it fallen?

“Well there symbols in the game – the coins, swords, beer, and meat – are empowering. The warriors become stronger.” Amir looked up as if heavenwards. “But they also capture holy symbols like Om signs, Stars of David, Allah banners, and golden Crosses. They have mystical properties. They can do special things.”

“Well if they absorbed the symbols, then I guess they would have magical powers.” David felt a sudden rush of energy and said, “Hey want to play catch?”

Amir raised his eyebrows. “Is that allowed?”

“Sure it is,” said David. “It’s just a gentle children’s game, right?” Of course it wasn’t. Their version of catch involved pitching items as hard as possible at each other, and when the item was deflected or hurt them, saying, “Should have got it!” David said, “Ok, I’ll start,” and threw a ball hard at Amir, which hit him in the ribs somewhere. “Should have got it!” Amir responded by launching a dollar coin which also struck its target. “Should have got it!” David grabbed a hardback maths textbook and sent it spinning towards Amir’s stomach. “Should have got it!” Amir whirled a music CD into David’s shoulder. “Should have got it!” David flicked a datastick which hit his opponents head. “Should have got it!” The laughed and chased each other around and upset a side table, just as David’s mother returned.

“Right!” she said. “Your ban is extended by a week!”

“No mum! Please no! We weren’t playing video games. We were just playing catch.”

“Look at the mess you’ve made. What were you catching – cannonballs?” David looked down, ashamed. “Well go on then! Pick up that stuff and put it back on the table. If anything’s broken, you can expect another week’s ban.”

Two weeks later David and Amir next played Ancient Warfare 6. It was the most intense game they could remember. Amir collected ball symbols, before throwing cannonballs with incredible power that destroyed David’s walls. David hoarded coins, and had so much wealth that he built them up again, bigger and stronger. Amir gathered books, and invented new technologies and projectile methods to augment his attacks. David amassed discs, creating new sonic weapons using the vibrational potency of rhythmic sound. Amir’s assembly of data symbols changed the game entirely; they now fought in machine code rather than with graphics. Their virtual/reality threshold thinned, and their bodies and avatars were much the same now. Each item pitched at their bodies had been absorbed by, and now empowered, their virtual selves. Modern and Ancient worlds had merged for them. They heard drumbeats and shouting, and then a flaming boulder smashed through the roof of David’s parent’s house.

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Dark Web

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 6, 2012 by javedbabar

Jens’ computer crashed for the fourth time this week and was stuck on a black screen. “Piece of shit!” he said. “You’re going to the dump next week!” He tried all the tricks he could think of – pressing Esc, Ctrl-Alt-Del, Log Out, and F12 – but nothing worked. He should have gone to Future Shop like everyone else, rather than bought it from Seo. It had seemed like a great idea at the time, this local guy building a computer to your personal specification, rather than a Chinese child screwing together his 400th machine of the day. By the time you added tax, shipping, software, and extended warranty – all of which Seo offered “for free” – there was little price difference, but he was regretting his decision now. Piece of shit. And their relationship had soured since Jens began seeing Seo’s ex-wife Maggy.

The fan and hard disc were still spinning.  Despite the black screen, the computer was still working on something. Hints of lines, and then shapes, began to appear. It seemed like an early math class. Circles, triangles, and squares were followed by more complex shapes, like pentagons, hexagons, and septagons, all ghost shapes, faint glows on the dark page, enmeshing each other, absorbing, expanding, and fragmenting continuously. Very beautiful in a way, but not responsive to his commands. There was no going forward or back, just shapes unfolding. He decided to return the computer to Seo right now and tell him to fix it or else.

Seo took a while to answer the door. He often had a dozen machines hooked up, running a dozen programs each. “I just can’t abandon them,” he’d said before. “They’re like schoolchildren. Look away for a moment and there’s a pencil in someone’s eye.” When he appeared, rubbing his eyes, he said, “What’s up, my computer illiterate friend?”

“Your machine’s broken down again. I’m getting fed up with it. Can you please fix it once and for all, or return my money?”

“Mister Jens, don’t be so hasty. What makes you think it’s broken down?” There was the sarcasm, so apparent since he’d heard about Jens and Maggy.

“Shall I send it to Future Shop for checking? I’ll give you the bill.”

This proposal had a sobering effect. Seo said, “No no, of course not. I will take care of it. What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem seems to be that I’ve got a black screen with strange shapes appearing. That’s very pretty but not very useful.”

Seo fired up the laptop and pushed buttons. “Mmmm… You know it seems to be working fine. You are online…”

“What do you mean I’m online,” said Jens, scanning Seo’s roomful of junk – scattered circuit boards, computer shells, and coloured cables, plus beers and takeaway boxes. No wonder Maggy couldn’t bear it anymore. “If it’s working then why can’t I sign into my hotmail?”

“You’re in cipherspace, my friend – encrypted cyberspace.”

“What do you mean?” said Jens. This didn’t sound good. He shouldn’t have viewed those German websites while Maggy was away. They must have left their Deutsche Mark on his computer.

Seo said, “What we use daily is the visible web, but there’s lots more besides. The internet grows and decays in a chaotic way. The Dark Web, for example, picks up abandoned addresses, technical failures, and disputed domains. It uses them to divert traffic or mask illegal activity.”

Jens shuddered and said, “Is someone using my computer for illegal activity?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m not sure. But there’s also the Invisible Web – areas that can’t be indexed by standard search engines. It’s not really sinister, just uses alternative protocols. Many pages don’t exist until they are created dynamically – by a specific action or search – so there’s no way to find them.”

“Is that what the shapes are?” said Jens. “Information being formed?”

“I’m not sure yet. I think you’ve gone beyond the Dark and Invisible Webs, into the Darknet.” Seo sounded like a scary teacher.

“What’s the difference?” said Jens, clicking his fingers nervously.

“The Darknet consists of private file-sharing networks. Some of it is benign – just music and film swapping sites – but it’s also used by shadowy groups like political activists and drug dealers. And terrorists. How did you get into this area?”

“I didn’t get into any area,” said Jens. “I told you. My computer crashed. That’s why I brought it to you to fix.”

“Ok, I’ve reset the defaults and beefed up the filters. Sorry for the trouble.”

“That’s it? You’ve fixed it? Will it be ok now?”

“Do not worry, my friend. It won’t take you anywhere you don’t deserve to go. Sorry I mean want to go. Just stick to Google and you’ll be ok. Give my regards to Maggy.”

Jens was tired of computers and didn’t switch it on again that night. He was awoken at dawn by a loud banging on the door. Before he knew it a team of black uniformed men had burst through the door, guns trained upon him, all shouting. They immediately seized his laptop on which they later found anarchist, animal activist, and pro-life items; images of gang rape, child porn, and bestiality; criminal, extremist, and terrorist literature; and top secret political, financial, and telecomms documents. During his interrogation he told them about the Darkweb and how Seo had said that the problem was fixed. They said that no one called Seo lived in Lucerne. There was no record of him. They had however found an unidentified female body tonight with abusive messages from him on her phone. Where had Jens been this evening?

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Cosmic Pillar

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , on April 4, 2012 by javedbabar

I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar. It was more a shape than an object, with dimensions that were incomprehensible. It was both see-through and substantial, though how that could be I can’t say. It arose from somewhere beneath me to somewhere high above, the space around it filled with fireworks exploding with brilliance of every kind. There were crimson flowers, old gold whirls, and neon green stars, set with bright blue puffs and lilac trails, plus tangerine flashes and clouds of silver sparkles. The darkness was forgotten, overwhelmed by teeming lights.

The pillar seemed a luminous tree trunk, rising out of some unknown earth, and into a boundless sky; the fireworks great bunches of bright foliage, filling the heavens. This tree of light shone in the night, with my soul set as a lamp upon it. It was the Tree of Life in the midst of all three worlds – memory, presence, and fantasy – making communication between them possible. It was nourishing and sheltering, inexhaustibly fertilizing, representing both evergreen, everlasting life, and deciduous regeneration. All roots fused and rose through the trunk, their journey ending as fat fruits with a mystical seeds of potential.

This ethereal vision also had a physical manifestation. My huge erection wouldn’t go down. It was a sign of a potent year to come. Full of potential.

I may as well make use of what I’ve got, so called my occasional girlfriend Kitty, who was always in the mood for some action. Afterwards she said, “Wow, what’s come over you babe? I won’t be able to sit down for a week. Everyone will think I’ve been herding cattle. Have you been eating Superfoods? Or taking Superpills? Does it ever go down?”

I told her I didn’t know, but wanted to make good use of my blessing. “Well I’m out for the rest of this week, babe. You better find yourself another willing volunteer.” This was easier said than done. Who do you call on such an occasion? Then came divine inspiration. I called “Hot Rod” Escort Agency, who asked me what I’d be willing to do, and I said, “Everything”. I quickly became their most popular escort – always available, and never disappointing.

One of the ladies I serviced took me on as her gardener. She claimed it was a way of keeping me busy between our sessions, and had nothing to do with Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I grew to like my second profession involving fertility and planting seed. She had a “big job” for me, she said: planting a white oak tree in her rear garden. Using a buddy’s excavator I dug a hole and placed the tree in the ground carefully. At night it held a ghostly glow, with a million stars shining through its yet-bare branches, as if related to the heavenly tree of my vision.

My employer recommended my services to her friends. One was a very adventurous lady, especially in the area of landscaping. She wanted her garden to have the feel of an English village, so I suggested installing a maypole in the centre of her lawn. We celebrated Mayday with twenty handsome youths and twenty fair maidens drinking country cider, and clutching bright ribbons, weaved in between each other, losing our grips and our inhibitions, right there and then, not even making it to the woods.

My English village design was noticed by a City firm. They called me in for a meeting. “We love the thrusting nature of your work,” said the lead architect, licking her lips. “Its raw energy. We would like you to help us design a skyscraper.”

“But I don’t know anything about designing buildings,” I said.

“You’re a versatile guy, I’ve heard,” she said, winking. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You start Saturday at my home office.”

I told her that a building should really mean something. Imagine it as the Centre of the World. Show everything whirling around it. When Thrust Tower was completed, its metallic swirling design of caused a sensation. “This represents our new nation,” said the President on his visit. “Something to which we can all aspire.” He was photographed with me so many times that people began to associate my name with the highest public office. I thought why not aspire to that? A photograph of my pointing skyward became iconic. I used it on my campaign poster, and won the election.

One of my main achievements in office was doubling funding for scientific research, much of which went to our under-resourced military. It was a proud day indeed watching the Thrust One missile shoot out of its silo into the sky, blazing fire behind.

What should be my next achievement? To boldly go? Yes of course! I doubled funding for the space program. Within three months we had developed the world’s most powerful rocket, ready for launch. My announcement on launch day stunned the nation – that I would lead by example. I would head the mission, and be the only one in the shuttle entering the Black Hole. The first man ever to do so.

Via the external monitors I saw my slim silver pillar arise into the sky, surrounded by clouds of glowing fire. And some days after, I left the main craft and went beyond the Event Horizon, and as predicted by Dr. Einstein, entered the realm of curved time-space. In the Dreamtime I entered, each day lived is the First Day, a world of pure imagination. I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar.

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Crazy Garden

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on April 3, 2012 by javedbabar

Yvonne’s parents were really busy. They worked full-time and were only at home in the mornings and evenings, and at weekends just stayed in bed. They loved her of course but they never had time for her. They were always like this, having sort of given up in the world.

Yvonne did her share of washing, cooking, and cleaning, and the garden was completely her domain. Mum and dad wanted to pave it over. “Honey, it’s too much to manage,” they’d said. “Imagine how much time we’d save if it was maintenance-free?” She recalled pulling the worst face ever. “We could have some flowerpots if you like. And think about your own sports yard – to play whatever you want.”

“What would I play by myself?” she’d said.

Her mum had turned away, about to cry. He dad had flashed anger but quickly controlled it. He’d said, “Whatever you want, honey. Play whatever you want.”

The truth was that she didn’t want to play anything by herself. She wanted another sister. One that didn’t disappear.

Yvonne went into the garden daily. It was only a patch of lawn edged with some rosebushes, daffodils, and tulips, but she’d done a nice job of planting. She loved being involved with nature. It seemed magical that things just grew out of the ground. Mrs. Murdoch called over the fence, “How is Lucerne’s most promising young gardener?”

“Very well thank you. How is Lucerne’s hardest working gardener?”

Mrs. Murdoch lived by herself and didn’t go to work. How she paid her bills no one knew. She had made an amazing little world in her garden, and devoted her time to tending it. It wasn’t a big space – the same as Yvonne’s, about thirty feet square – but she had transformed it into something extraordinary. She was always out in her garden, come rain or shine, cutting, pruning, planting, and singing. There was a tall fence right around it, so Yvonne couldn’t see her when they chatted outdoors. She only ever saw her from above, peering down from her sister’s room. It made her sad to go there, but it was worth it to see her neighbour’s garden.

At its centre was a rough brick well with a pointy slate roof, reached by walking around a circular labyrinth made of stones. There were two prominent fruit trees, one with golden shining apples, and the other with what appeared to be black and white blossoms. There was a wall of metal mirrors on one side – had she had a TV makeover? – and a tiny bog on the other, always enveloped in mist. One corner held a rockery with many fluffy mosses, and the other was filled with spiders’ webs. A glass globe dangled from one corner of the house, with a luminous surface like oil spilled on the road, and on the other corner was a spiral metal drill spinning with the wind. There were bird, squirrel, and hummingbird feeders. A red-roofed, white shed seemed like home to the white statues placed around the garden. It was hard for Yvonne to note their features from high up, but she could see they were wearing angelic robes. A nice change from gnomes.

Her dad said, “Why would someone go to all that trouble to make something just for themselves? Something they never shared. It seems selfish to me.”

Her mum said, “She’s a good gardener, she’s probably had horticultural training, or landscape design. But she just does it for her own pleasure.”

“What’s wrong with that?” said Yvonne. “Shouldn’t we make ourselves happy?”

“That would be a fine thing,” said her mum. As soon as I’m back from work, and have cooked dinner, done the laundry, changed the sheets, and washed up, I’ll get right on it. I’ll make myself happy.”

Yvonne saw she was raw, and said, “Sorry mum.” Her mum turned away, and Yvonne knew she was crying again. Her dad hugged her mum, and then hugged Yvonne.

There was a huge storm that night – thunder, lightning, and drumming rain so loud that Yvonne woke up. From her room she saw her own modest garden – the rosebushes were bending, and tulip and daffodil stems had snapped. How sad. She wondered about the garden next door. She crept into her sister’s bedroom to see.

Mrs. Murdoch’s garden was going crazy. The golden apples were shaking and flying off; black and white blossoms floated into the sky; the rough stone well cranked, and the labyrinth’s stones rearranged themselves; mirrors flashed back bolts of lightning, which lit up mists arising from the bog; the mossy rockery had become a little Niagara; the spidery corner held raindrops like jewellery; the glass globe reflected all of this; the spiral drill spun furiously; bird, squirrel, and hummingbird feeders swung violently, dispensing seeds, nuts, and sweet squirts; red tiles flew off the shed roof.

Suddenly the storm stopped. The house door opened and Mrs. Murdoch walked out. She smiled up at Yvonne and waved. She had a beautiful face. Yvonne waved back. Mrs. Murdoch beckoned her down. Yvonne felt compelled to go. Mrs. Murdoch opened a small gate and let her into the garden. Despite its disorder, it seemed beautiful and wonderful. Too late Yvonne realized that the statue next to her was familiar. Mrs. Murdoch touched Yvonne on the head and she joined her sister, asleep in a witch’s garden. Mrs. Murdoch was pleased with her dozen adopted children. They were better off here than with parents too busy to care for them. She would tend them instead.

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Train Spotters

Posted in Global Travel, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 2, 2012 by javedbabar

The railway station had been closed for years, but there was always something going on there. Mack had seen it operating as a Greyhound terminal, FedEx office, coffee shop, massage parlour, deli, toy shop, beauty salon, and art studio, and whatever the business, it was always called The Station. The only thing it didn’t do was operate as a railway station. How stupid, he thought.

The funniest thing was that the same small man always worked there. Regardless of the business, there he was. Mack wondered whether he was the owner trying different ways to make money, or a long-suffering employee being made to change jobs annually. Mack hadn’t much need to courier documents, have a Fairtrade Shiatsu massage, or buy crazy sculptures, but if he ever went in there for something the man was super friendly. He felt a kind of kinship.

Mack also noticed that however hot the day, the small man never wore short-sleeves. This was kind of strange. Ok he was indoors mostly, but even there it got sweaty. He didn’t even roll up his long-sleeves.

Mack was small for his age and got bullied at school. He hated being there, so spent his free time hanging around town by himself, often near the railway tracks counting trains. Though passenger service was no longer operational, there were still regular freight trains, and occasional tourist trains. The freight trains had dirty diesel locomotives and up to a hundred container-cars. The tourist trains had shiny engines and a handful of glassy cars, plus one with a clear plastic bubble filled with grinning idiots waving.

He loved hearing the warning bells at the level-crossing, seeing flashing lights, and watching barriers go down. That meant five more minutes away from school. While drivers dozed, sent texts, or made calls, Mack watched the rail cars fly by – each a daring colour, a mysterious container on a great adventure. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum.

One day at the crossing, waiting for a freight train to pass, Mack did a double-take. Was that a passenger car in amongst the freight cars? A regular passenger car, not a glassy tourist one? He hadn’t been paying attention and it was too late now. Maybe it was just a fancy-painted freight car, or had clever graffiti.

The next day he looked more closely. It was hard to stay focussed with so many cars going by. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. They sort of dazed you.

Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. Mixed colours overwhelmed.  Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. Fifty blue cars together entranced. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. Either way they affected your attention, delving into your imagination. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum.

Mack remained alert though. He stared straight ahead and didn’t miss a car.

Yes! There it was! A passenger car with passengers in it! They didn’t grin or wave though; they were busy working and talking, and looked like regular commuters – how was this possible? Mack went to find the small guy, but he was busy polishing a red steel sculpture, sort of like an alien. He decided to ask him next time.

Mack watched the trains very carefully every day after that. Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum-Dum-da-rum. He counted the cars, and checked and matched them, noting their size, markings, speed, and direction. He felt less desire to go to school than ever.

Then one day, Mack felt a shadow fall across him. Uh-oh! Was it his Principal? “I see you like trains,” said the small man from The Station.

“Em, yes I do,” said Mack. He was suddenly nervous.

“I grew up here when they still ran passenger trains. I was totally obsessed by them. I thought I’d leave Lucerne as soon as I grew up, and imagined all the places I’d travel to. But they shut down the service, and I never went anywhere.”

“But there’s still passenger cars!” said Mack. “I’ve seen them! There’s one in the middle of each train. I don’t know where they come from or where they’re going, but there’s passengers in them – I’ve seen them!”

“How do you know that?” said the small man with mock surprise. “Have you been train spotting? You know that’s not a cool thing to do. What would your friends say?”

Mack suddenly felt like crying. He turned away and said, “I don’t have any friends.”

“Don’t worry, kid. You’ll soon be making some new ones. I was a loner like you when I was young, and still am, but I am part of one of the world’s greatest communities.”

Mack was scared. He blurted out, “I’ve seen how you never wear half-sleeves. You must have tattoos. Are you a gangster or a Hell’s Angel?”

The small man was amused, and not angry at all. “My community is much older, and much greater than those. Look.” He rolled up his right sleeve. Running along it were tattooed railways tracks – endless rails and regular sleepers, his muscles providing ballast, his fingers tracing rolling stock. “I am a member of the Occidental Rail Brotherhood, ORB, founded by Periander. Have you heard of him?” Mack shook his head. “Periander built the Diolkos, the world’s first public railway, in Ancient Greece. It was a limestone trackway running from the stormy Aegean Sea to the sheltered Ionian Sea. A hundred men hauled ships on wheeled vehicles along parallel grooves. The Diolkos saved much precious cargo and thousands of lives. By running The Station, I proudly serve Periander.”

“The passenger cars among the freight trains, who rides on those?”

“We do. Our Brotherhood has branches worldwide. We’re always travelling on business. As well as the Greek systems, there were Egyptian systems – how do you think the Pyramids were built? And the Indian Chakra system, and Chinese chi meridians are railway systems internalized.”

Mack said, “But you want to travel, so why don’t you? You can.”

“Someone must run The Station. I can’t abandon it.”

Mack felt a jolt in his heart, and said, “I could do it.”

The small man said, “Do you mean that?” Mack nodded. The true work of the Occidental Rail Brotherhood was accomplished by spiritual passion, which provided the rhythms of their lives, and the means by which their journeys to distant destinations were fuelled. “Then you must be initiated. It will mean one year of much pain.”

“What do I have to do?”

“I will change this place into a tattoo parlour and we will begin immediately.” The crossing points of this world must be left open. He was pleased to have found The Station’s next keeper. He would ink him, and then be free to go.

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The Joker

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 1, 2012 by javedbabar

“Who has come here today to laugh?” said The Joker. Everybody who could raised a hand. “Who has come here today to drink?” Hands went up again. “And to feast?” Hands up. “And to die?” Hands shot up, accompanied by cheers.

The Red Barn was packed as it was every week with an older audience. The high ticket price did not deter them. What else would they do with their money anyway – get squeezed for more taxes, or leave it for their children to waste on foolish things? It was time for the show, and people were laughing already, a visual expression of their joy.

The Joker was pleased at another good crowd. A hundred people times a hundred bucks each, that’s ten grand. After insurance and legal costs, he would clear almost half of that. More importantly though, The Joker was a twelfth-generation healer with a divine gift to share for which there was a six-month waiting list. They were sitting down wanting laughter, sharing laughter, living laughter, and maybe dying laughter.

“How many times does a baby laugh?” he asked the audience. He picked on people as their hands went up. “Fifty… Hundred… Seventy… Hundred and fifty… Ten? What kind of miserable mother are you?… Ninety… One? Ok, you mean one long laugh? Boy it must be fun at your place! Actually the answer is three hundred. A baby laughs three hundred times each day. What about adults?” Again he picked hands. “Fifty? Is your answer always fifty? Ok, how many extra-marital affairs have you had? What about extra-marital, sado-masochistic affairs? Bi-sexual, extra-marital, sado-masochistic affairs? Meet me later!… Hundred… Thirty… Two hundred… Zero? Are you a police officer?… Forty? Close. The answer is thirty. So adults laugh ten times less often than babies. Why is that?”

He picked on hands. “Work… Tax… Mortgage… Marriage? Well certainly if I was married to you… Children… TV? Surely Teletubbies isn’t that much funnier than Family Guy? Simpsons? Ok, maybe… Yes, all of these are true, but let’s take a deeper look. May I have some volunteers?” Half the audience’s hands went up. The Joker invited five of them onstage. They hobbled up, some with canes.

“We’ll start with laughter psychology. Madam, what’s your name? Helen? Ok, Helen, I’m going to tell you a joke. A patient says, ‘Doctor, I’ve got a strawberry stuck up my bum.’ The doctor says, ‘I’ve got some cream for that.’” Helen chuckled, and much of the crowd laughed. “Not a great joke, just an average joke. But your laugh was a signal of acceptance and positive interaction. It shows we’re all friends here.”

“Sir, your name? Robert? May I call you Bob? Bob, are you ticklish? Not much? May I reach into your armpits? It’s a habit of mine. I do it all the time. Ooh! So you are ticklish after all! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Shall I stop now? Shall I? Shall I?” The Joker finally stopped. “So this was a little different. Tickling creates neurological stimulation, causing inward feelings of joy. Thank you, Bob. By the way, do you use antiperspirant? You should do. Do you have a towel at least? No? Never mind. Thank you.”

The Joker asked the next volunteer his name. “Jamie? Wonderful. Now sit down here. Can we dim the lights please? A little more, perfect.” The Joker switched on a desk lamp, and held his wrists together but with palms apart. The theme from Jaws played suddenly. His fingertips created the vicious silhouette of a sharp fanged mouth, opening wider as it approached Jamie’s head, about to consume it. Suddenly the music stopped, the lights came on, and the fanged mouth disappeared. Jamie burst into a high-pitched breathy laugh. The Joker continued the tune, “Daa-Na! Daa-Na! Daa-Na! Daa-Na! Now Jamie, why were you laughing? That’s right, because you were scared and then felt relief. That’s what Freud said. Laughter is a coping mechanism for when we are angry, scared, or sad. It releases tension.”

He turned to the next volunteer. “You are… Janet? So Janet, why did you laugh too? You were not the one about to be consumed by a Giant White Shark? That’s right, you also felt relief. But Morreall said that it’s even more than that. Laughter has biological origins – it’s a shared expression of danger passing. Jamie is safe, and we all are safe. Hoorah!”

The Joker turned to the fifth volunteer. “Now Sandra, please take the hot seat. Lights down again please. Perfect.” He again made the jawed silhouette, but his time there was a sudden scream. Sandra jolted and then laughed. “Sorry for the shock,” he said. “I just needed your reaction. So what did that sound like? Someone screaming? Who? That’s right Sandra, it sounded like yourself. It was your own scream. Nietzsche said that laughter was our response to existential loneliness and despair, a recognition of our mortality. A joke creates a cognitive puzzle which we see solved, and realize that it isn’t dangerous at all and laugh with relief. Some people have fits of laughter, and periods of excessive elation – known as sham mirth. But these are the result of psychological or neurological conditions.”

The Joker told many more jokes and provided insights into laughter. He elevated the audience’s mood and relieved their tension. He created intimacy and connection, his playful communication bringing them all together. The final part of the evening approached. He said, “Please call out why you wish to die.” Hands went up. “Depression… Divorce… Bankruptcy… Alzheimer’s… Parkinson’s… Bowel cancer… Heart disease… Multiple Sclerosis… Cerebral Palsy… ok, a good selection. You are very brave people, taking charge of your own lives. I’m going to make one of you very happy.”

Using his ancestors’ secrets The Joker now crafted an incomprehensible joke. The only person who understood it was a man with Huntington’s Disease whose suffering had become unbearable. He recognized the truth of The Joke of Life and died right there laughing.

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Re-Search

Posted in Global Travel, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 31, 2012 by javedbabar

In Varanasi Robby had met an old man with waist-length dreadlocks wearing saffron robes. He was sitting on the banks of the Ganges with a mass of jumbled jewellery, and marigolds in his hair being nibbled by the occasional cow. He said to Robby, “There is no search; there is only re-search.”

Saffron-shirted Robby was fully immersed in India, and had even taken a Vedic name, Karma. He said, “What do you mean by that?”

The old man said, “Do you think that this is the first time we have lived? We have existed countless times in an endless universe! Everything is known already! It has been done already! You have no power. You cannot do anything. So re-search for true knowledge. Otherwise you are just wasting time.”

“But if time repeats itself, then why does that matter?” He was all for Indian holy talk but also needed logical veracity. Why would it matter? Why would anything matter?

The old man said, “This you must discover for yourself.”

“Can’t you tell me?” said Robby, annoyed. Why was he talking to this guy anyway? He wasn’t telling him anything new. Just another holy man wanting cash probably. But he hadn’t yet asked Robby to make a “donation to God”. The old man instructed him to bathe in the Ganga River, to chant great mantras, to pray to the home of the Gods, Mt. Kalash, and to make holy designs with coloured powders. “Do re-search,” he said and turned away.

Robby had pretty much forgotten the old man, but every now and then his silly phrase came to mind. “There is no search; there is only re-search.”

After many years of travelling, Robby washed up in Lucerne. It was a beautiful Valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains, cedar, fir, and pine forests, and glacial rivers. He spent most of his time in a cabin on the riverbank, and worked occasionally stacking shelves or pumping gas. It was an easy life but he felt that something was missing. The old man’s words came back to him, and also his epilogue, “Otherwise you are just wasting time.”

What did he mean by re-search? Did that just mean finding again something that was lost or forgotten? This sounded like a regressive activity. Maybe that thing had been forgotten for a reason. The vegan yogini he was dating in India told him of horrors such as witch-burning and widow-burning. Why would you want to re-search for these? Best to forget them.

Could he have meant research, meaning looking into things further. This sounded more progressive. You could look at old newspapers, magazines, and books, or search online. There was plenty of information on everything, you just needed the skills to delve and sift. Decide whether to trust Wikipedia’s 4 million amateur articles, or stick with the 100,000 professional ones on Encyclopaedia Britannica. Grass roots versus experts.

But surely even better than research was search – actively finding things, real things, rather than their records? Real people and places during real adventures! The Knights of King Arthur’s Round Table didn’t sit in Camelot doing research; they went on a Quest for the Holy Grail. Robby had heard that there was a difference between looking and seeing. Everybody looks – for example at a blank canvas, or empty steppe desert – but few people see – like Picasso saw Guernica, or Genghis Khan saw Mongolia. Underlying any search lay the ability to see. It was all about awareness.

But was not seeing also a secondary act, witnessing what existed already? Prior to seeing must come creation. Was this notion contained in the S of see, a fluid symbol of being like the Taijitu –Yin-Yang – symbol. SSSsss… like a snake. The serpent that lay coiled at the base of your spine, awaiting stimulation. Ready to arise, energizing your chakras one by one – your base, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye, and crown. Like the serpent at the base of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, that tempted Eve to offer Adam the evil apple. A being of power but also of danger. The serpent lives in both worlds – both upon the earth in light, and beneath it in darkness. By coiling a snake around Mt. Meru and churning the milky ocean, gods and demons created the world.

The old man had said, “There is no search; there is only re-search.” Was this his ultimate meaning? The S curving like the shape of the lingam – egg shaped symbol of Siva, the world’s destroyer and regenerator, which curved like Einstein’s notion of space-time. A completed curve made a circle, a circus, a circuit, a cycle. A beginning and returning.

Robby sat beside the river and repeated the old man’s rituals as best he could there. He bathed in the River Lilly, chanted forgotten mantras, prayed to Mt. Negra, and made holy designs in sand with his fingers. He recalled his Vedic name, Karma, meaning action.

Then he thought to himself, what on earth am I doing sitting on my ass here in the forest – a grown man with no job, house, money, or purpose – when I have the whole world and my whole life before me. Robby’s ten years of re-search were complete. He arose, got dressed and walked down the road.

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Hope Springs

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , on March 29, 2012 by javedbabar

“That puff of cloud’s been hanging there for days,” said Rab. “Strange isn’t it?”

“I guess it’s a little strange,” said Sarah. “But there’s always mist in the Valley, like there’s a little factory somewhere in the forest producing it.” She watched the silvery cloud swirling, as if boiling inside a large invisible kettle.

“But it’s only there in the mornings, and clears by midday. The mist is never there all day for three days, love. Shall we go and take a look?”

Sarah wondered if he meant driving up the forestry road and looking down from the mountainside, or hiking into the bush. It was a gloomy day, and she didn’t fancy either. Her silence betrayed her. “You don’t have to come, love,” said Rab. “You can stay in the cabin. I’m just curious about this land we’ve bought. We’ve barely explored it. There could be anything hidden within these 72 acres.” They’d got a great deal and bought it immediately, despite silly stories told by local farmers of it being “bad land.”

“Ok if you keep the monsters away from me, I’ll come along.” Sarah put on her coat and boots. In truth she was as keen as Rab to explore the patch of wilderness they’d bought together, 30 km up the Lucerne Valley Road. It was mainly second growth forest but with scattered patches of first growth. “It’s near that big depression in the centre,” she said. “The one we tried to get to, where you sank to your knees. Feeling brave, Tiger?”

“Is it there?” said Rab. “Are you sure?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to have great spatial awareness,” she said. “This humble woman awaits your word.”

Rab said, “Watch it love. Not everyone who enters the woods returns.” He made a face like a serpent and hissed.

“Well are you coming then?” said Sarah grabbing a machete and heading out. Rab grabbed the other one and followed her. It wasn’t a tough trail to cut, and within an hour they were at the the rim of the depression. Within it was a large pool of water draining the surrounding area. Then they noticed something that they hadn’t before. The rim of the pool was higher than the surrounding land – so water wasn’t draining into it, it was emerging from it. Something else was also apparent. “Man, it’s hot!” said Rab. “Can you believe this water’s hot! That cloud is steam! Shall we?” Rab tore off his clothes and so did Sarah, and both jumped right in.

Sarah shouted, “We’ve got a forest spa! Yippee!” They spent the rest of the day, and many coming days and nights there.”

They told their friends and soon there were people in the spa daily. They had Roman, Venetian, Atlantis, Titanic, and Amazon-themed parties that went on for days. The pool was 12 feet at its deepest point so all kind of antics were possible, with no neighbours to disturb, and no internet or cell reception to distract them. It was a swirly steaming world as if back in the Chaos of Creation – or at least the chaos before social media updates. There was always nudity, and sometimes debauchery. Rab and Sarah’s spa acquired a reputation. They tried to control usage by putting up notices, but people felt entitled to use what was now thought of as a community amenity, and ignored them all. They also tried fencing it off. Completely pointless. Even the occasional spotting of unidentified creatures did not scare people away. It was assumed that the observers were stoned, which was generally true.

Rab’s friend Loki said that he’d like to live there, but because of the danger of wildlife eating his foodstuffs, or his person, he wanted to build a treehouse. Rab and Sarah agreed. At last, they thought, someone to keep order. He wedged a ten-foot square platform between two cedars, twenty feet off the ground, and built a network of suspended rope walkways around the pool.

One day he came to the cabin and asked Rab and Sarah to follow him to the Spa. He climbed up to his treehouse and along a rope walkway, and then said, “Watch this!” He jumped feet first into the bubbling pool and disappeared. After 30 seconds Sarah was worried. After a minute Rab said, “Oh my God! Where is he?” He stripped and ran into the pool, but couldn’t find Loki. He shouted out to Sarah again and again, “Oh my God! Where is he?” After five minutes of panic, they heard raucous laughter. A soaking wet Loki tramped out of the bush. “Where the hell did you go?” said Rab. “You idiot! We were terrified! What happened?”

Loki said, “Clear away some rocks and there are caves down there, my friend. A huge network running along the Valley. The ones near the river are flooded of course, but the ones near the mountain are clear. There’s endless caverns filled with crystals. You wouldn’t believe it. Come and see!”

Loki took them down into the caves, saying it was a “third world” for them to know. They had enjoyed the Air, walking along the walkways. They had swum in the Waters. Now they toured the Underworld. It was just like Loki said – caverns of crystals, filled with strange light, reflecting itself endlessly. What he hadn’t told them was what these three worlds together represented.

The Upper World, the Middle World, and the Lower World were separated only temporarily. The Cruel Monsters of Hell were just resting a while. Now that the passage between worlds had reopened – as it had when Mt. Negra first exploded two million years ago – they were in the mood for another outing.

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Asteroid

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 28, 2012 by javedbabar

“Ok! Back up! Back up! More! More! More!” Lugus called out. “Ok! That’s it!”

The truck stopped and hissed, dropping an inch. Its cab door opened but no person emerged. There was a faint noise like someone talking, but someone far away. Was it the radio? Eventually a hand appeared, drawing his attention, beckoning him. Lugus walked to the cab and peered upward. The driver’s ear was glued to his phone, with a hellish woman’s voice pouring out, sounding like pork skin crackling and spitting. The driver listened intensely but also tried to break away. Clients these days were really rude, and changed their minds like the weather. The poor trucker was not to blame.

Lugus waved his left arm about and mouthed to him, “What do you need?”

The driver covered his phone’s speaker and said gruffly, “Road job – Footballs – fill her up.”

Lugus wandered to the loader. Rocky’s was Lucerne’s premier, and only, sand and gravel merchants. The gardening centre and hardware store sold some material too but you couldn’t take them seriously. Any serious project – a road, driveway, or private beach – required a visit to Rocky’s.

Lugus bore responsibility for maintenance of the fourteen bays. It was his idea to give the different aggregate sizes memorable names. The smallest size of sand was called Pollen, the next up was Smack – a British term for heroin, then Coke, Salt, Peppercorn, Coffee, and Granola. The Gravel range began with Pea, followed by Bean, Eyeball, Football, Basketball, Swissball, and ultimately, Asteroid. The latter was anything over a metre wide. The colours of the sands and gravels varied dramatically, but Rocky’s dealt in size rather than colour. The colour was just whatever it was.

The driver’s arm appeared again, wanting attention. The pork skin crackling continued on his phone. Lugus had started up the loader, preparing to fill up with Footballs. He left it running and hopped out. The driver covered his phone and said, “Sorry pal, change of plan – beach job – Salt – fill her up.”

Lugus wasn’t annoyed. His job was to serve. So he nodded and headed back to the loader. His boss had told him about the Wentworth Scale for particle sizes, ranging through Clay, Silt, Sand, Pebbles, Cobbles, and Boulders. It was a comprehensive spectrum but lacked a sense of humour. His Pollen to Asteroid system was way more memorable, and made work fun. That’s why truckers drove to Lucerne rather than Strattus. It gave them a word to reflect upon – for example “Eyeball”– rather than a dull descriptor like “One-inch-minus crush.”

The drivers liked coming here but their bosses tried to dissuade them, saying that Lugus’ system was flaky. What did they know? Had they ever even held a rock? He looked into a more descriptive system covering composition, texture, and genesis – including weathering, explosion, earth movements, and meteoric – but then thought, “Screw them!”

He was about to fill up the truck with Salt. The arm appeared again waving frantically. “So sorry – Dike job – Swissballs.” Lugus closed his eyes and nodded. He pointed the loader towards the Swissballs.

Two years back he’d spent a summer working an excavator. It was really hard initially – with many controls and twelve motions to master – but after some days he’d became proficient. It was a huge infrastructure job on a Valley farm, but seeming more an excavation of an ancient culture. He’d imagined being in Greece, Egypt, India or China, digging out a temple. Maybe it would be fun to work with archaeological teams, finding tombs, treasures, and mummies. Working with a mix of delicacy and brute force. The Mughal culture of India, he’d heard, “built with the might of Titans and the skill of jewellers.” Uncovering wonders also required this approach.

The arm appeared again, and Lugus raised his eyebrows. The trucker was deeply embarrassed saying, “Driveway – Peas”. Lugus nodded and began immediately – to help the trucker as much as himself. Once the load was in, ownership transferred. He filled the truck with four scoops of Peas. That’s it. A dust cloud arose and drifted across the yard. All was lost for a moment. He could be anywhere; any place and time. The trucker waved his arm in panic, then both arms. He jumped out of the cab and spoke into the phone urgently. He called out to Lugus, “Why did you fill it so quickly? There’s been a change of plan!”

“I’m sorry pal. I was just following your orders. I can take it out if you want, but there will be a 25% charge.” The trucker relayed this to the client, and then said, “She says we’ll take it.” He whispered to Lugus, “Thanks pal.”

Lugus knew that there wouldn’t be any problems. The client would be happy with whatever he sent, and would use it for something. All rocks were the same essentially. During his summer excavating at the farm he’d made an important discovery. He had uncovered an asteroid deep in the earth, a smooth black block 2 metres wide, with glassy sides. Set within it were fossilized pollens. That’s what had inspired his aggregate naming system – running from Pollen to Asteroid. He knew that their source was the same.

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Double Lines

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 26, 2012 by javedbabar

Danny was getting frustrated. He was stuck behind a dark car going very slowly, which he could easily overtake, but there were solid yellow lines along the road. He would have to wait for dashes, or a free-for-all unmarked stretch. He could push ahead anyway, as you do with old ladies and tractors, but a dark car is different. It could be a cop car. Why was it doing steady fifty in an eighty zone? On the blind bends – ok; but on the straights too?

He’d been stuck behind this car for four kilometres. It was getting ridiculous. He considered making a call to say that he’d be late, but what if it was a cop car? Then they’d nab him for talk-driving. He already had a ticket for that, along with speeding, no-seatbelt, and no-lights infractions. He was the local cops’ best customer. Ever since good, god-fearing Albert Samson was elected Premier, no road was complete without them.

There seemed to be double solid lines right along the road. The few sections that didn’t have lines held road works, with, of course, no work going on there – just signs, boards, and cones. At least there was a reason for doing fifty here – because the little girl on the board says, “My mommy works here.” Maybe her mommy was still making her breakfast.

There used to be long stretches with just tarmac and common sense, meaning “You’re smart enough to know how to drive.” There were dashed sections meaning “Buddy, keep your eyes open.” Places with lines and dashes on alternate sides meant “You are members of a civilized society; this is a tricky curve, so please take your turn in an orderly manner.” But now there were double lines everywhere saying “We make the rules here, and you do what we say. Drive nice and easy along this laneway that we’ve made nice and smooth for you. Keep a steady speed. If someone before you is going slowly then you go slowly too. Why do you need to get ahead anyway? Take it slow. Good boy.”

Danny took an executive decision to overtake the dark car. It was probably just a foolish tourist overwhelmed by the beauty of the Lucerne Valley, or nervous about driving on the right and wanting to stick to the rules. Danny pulled out on a short straight stretch and pushed his Frontier forward. There was no battles of wills here, and it was over in five seconds. He was now the car in front.

A blue light began flashing somewhere. He was unsure where it came from. Then he saw it in his mirror, coming from the dark car behind. Shit! It was a cop car. They were signalling for him to stop. He indicated and pulled over, and the dark car crept in behind.

Danny sat in his car as per the protocol. Last summer he’d stepped out without thinking and almost been shot. Nothing happened for a while. Then the dark car’s door opened and a man stepped out, and walked towards his car.

“Hey, Danny, remember me?” said the bulky man with short orange beard. “Jim from the pole yard?”

“Sure I do!” said Danny, relieved. He’d had a few drinks with this guy. Why was he driving a cop car though?

“Did you want me to stop?” said Jim.

Danny said, “No, you were flashing me. I thought I’d better.”

“Flashing you?” Jim looked confused. “Oh! I see! You mean the blue lights? No, no, pal. Those are transceivers, front and back, aligning positions.”

“There wasn’t anything at the back,” said Danny. “Only the front. I thought you were signalling me.”

“Damn, that rear light must have broken again. I was having trouble with it yesterday. I thought it was fixed. I’d better take a look. You must have wondered why I was crawling along. Hell, you must have been cursing! Why didn’t you overtake me earlier?”

“There were double lines all along the road, and I thought you were a cop. What are you doing?”

“I’m working on the IQ project,” Danny recalled finding little white posts in the forest when hiking. They used to say IP – for Iron Point, indicating official property boundaries – but they now said IQ. He’d thought that this was the next level somehow, to be followed by IR. “It stands for Investment Quadrant, the new government model for land value, following Native traditions of respect for all land. Every feature is seen as equally precious – the road, river, swamp, forest, ancient sites, towns, and mountains.”

“How can everything be equal? What does that mean in practical terms?” It’s like everyone having to drive at the same speed, thought Danny. It’s false and frustrating.

“We use the ADAM apparatus – Advanced District Allocation Module – the blue light you saw flashing – to divide areas into EVEs – Equal Value Entities.”

“How’s that?” said Danny.

“We ensure that each EVE has equal assets. For example, Lucerne Valley West has Kalash subdivision, Mt Negra, and the Taxila ruins. Lucerne Valley East has Lucerne Village, Mt. Alba, and the Golden mines. ADAM is based on Biblical principles – to be stewards of the earth. The first step is to divide this land into fields for us to tend as holy guardians.”

“But how do you divide Lucerne Valley into East and West? It runs north to south.”

“We’re dividing it along the Lucerne Valley Road. The double lines are the boundary.” He winked at Danny. “Never to be crossed.”

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