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Community Resources

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on May 7, 2012 by javedbabar

Bobby was still in the drawing with Naomi. His niece’s jungle had come to life, and whatever they added manifested in her parallel world. They could draw things whilst they were inside the drawing, but this was a laborious process as each item had to be detailed individually. It was much better to draw whilst outside the drawing, where large changes could be made easily. They had already drawn roads, railways, power lines, and factories. Their Village was coming to life.

“Let’s build some houses now,” said Naomi. “Everybody needs somewhere to live.”

“What kind shall we have?” said Bobby. His hand was beginning to hurt from all that drawing. Who used a pencil these days? They were awkward to hold. Why did they have hexagonal profiles? Wasn’t it easier to cut and paste images?

Then he felt inspired. He took terms he’d overheard – smart growth, green building, small footprint, and airtight – and strung them into a sentence. He wasn’t quite sure why he did it. Did he really need to impress his ten-year-old niece?

She frowned as he drew the houses. Each feature he added elicited a new twist to her facial expression. There was something on her mind. “Well, what do you think?” he said, proud of his compact, low-rise, transit-oriented, walkable, bicycle-friendly, mixed-use development based upon principles of urban intensification, and championing long-range, regional sustainability over short-term parochialism.

“I don’t like it,” said Naomi. “I want a nice house with a pretty garden and fences around it, and lots of open windows for sunshine and breezes. I don’t want to live in a small, sealed-up box with other boxes above it, and below it, and on both sides.”

Naomi wasn’t in tune with the new guard of urban planners, innovative architects, visionary developers, and community activists. She was a traditionalist, a reactionary, an enemy of resource stewardship best practice.

She had told him off already for using up all the trees in the drawing to make electricity poles and railway sleepers, and made him draw new trees for lumber to build her extravagant residences. He didn’t like what she was doing but couldn’t stop her; she had a right to manifest her own world. So he said, “Okay, Naomi, why don’t you draw big houses, and I’ll draw apartment blocks.”

“Okay,” she said, having started drawing before he’d finished the sentence. “The happy families can live in my houses, and the lonely people can live in your boxes.” She looked up from her drawing. “Is that all right?”

Housing, however, was not just made of wood. They’d also need metal. Bobby drew in some mines – surface mines for minerals, and sub-surface mines for ores. He included protestors at the former, and trapped miners in the latter. Even drawings must be realistic.

Once the ores and minerals were extracted, they were sent to factories in the industrial park at the edge of the Village. Nails, screws, nuts, bolts, beams and girders were produced to build the housing, and extra metal was cut, machined, turned, threaded, ground, filled and fashioned into other useful goods. They were simple things initially like tools and weapons, then jewellery and engine parts, and later boats and rockets. Their village transformed quickly from a low-tech to a hi-tech society.

As Bobby and Naomi continued drawing, their new world’s elements increased and connections multiplied exponentially. Soon their Village was a place of televisions, radios, newspapers, and books; then landlines, cellphones, workpads, laptops, and desktops. Everybody was connected to everybody else. Each object was manufactured, distributed, marketed, and sold, before becoming obsolete, disposed of, repurposed, or recycled. Nothing was just what it was in the drawing. Everything was something else.

“Uncle Bobby, I’m getting a headache,” said Naomi.

“So am I, sweetheart. Shall we take a break from drawing?”

“Yes, let’s listen to my iPod. You can have one earphone, and I’ll have the other.”

They needed to disconnect from this crazy world they’d created. Naomi clicked through the screen menus, selecting Ambient>Instrumental>Nature>Jungle Sounds.

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Village People

Posted in Conceptual Art, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on May 6, 2012 by javedbabar

“Okay, we’re in the jungle now,” said Bobby. “What shall we do?”

“Let’s make a village,” said Naomi. “Like the one we live in. We’ll make it really nicely.”

Bobby wondered if he was really here. It seemed so real, but where was he exactly? The last thing he knew for sure was that he was babysitting his niece Naomi, who was making a crazy drawing, and then somehow they were in that drawing. She seemed to think that this was quite normal, and the obvious result of “colouring it in nicely.”

The jungle was overwhelming. Thick green and deep browns filled his vision. There was only one gap, containing a large tree that he’d drawn himself and in whose roots he’d become entangled until rescued by Naomi.

How do you start building a village? How did pioneers pick a good place to plant their seeds of habitation? The obvious answer was to steal it from the extant inhabitants, smart people in touch with the earth, who knew a good game trail or a clean water hole when they saw one. So why not just give them a little push and take their spot?

The problem was that there weren’t any natives in Naomi’s drawing. Or maybe there were and they’d seen settlers already – the usual parade of explorers, missionaries, and traders, performing cartographers’, God’s, and kings’ works. They bore gifts for natives, always undesirable ones, as there was no great demand for bullets, beads, or smallpox. The natives here may well have disappeared.

The village would need some basic services. “Shall we put a shop here?” said Bobby. “And a clinic, and a jail?”

“No!”said Naomi. “Those come later. We need infrastructure first. We want a village that will survive.”

Bobby asked how she knew about infrastructure.

“Every place needs it. We need hard infrastructure like roads and railways, and soft infrastructure like education and health systems.”

“How do you know that?” said Bobby. He was in an imaginary jungle talking to a child about industrial organizational structures. He shook his head in disbelief.

“I go to school, Uncle Bobby. Didn’t you?”

I guess my school wasn’t as good as yours,” he said. “Well, what shall we start with? A road?”

Naomi’s expression showed that she took pity on him. “First of all we need to name the Village. I think we should call it Lucerne. I know that might get confusing for you because there will be the real Lucerne and the one in the drawing, but you’ll get used to it. It’s just like the difference between home and wo…. school.”

He knew that she was about to say “work” but didn’t, knowing that it was a sensitive topic.

She said that to make big changes they needed to get out of the drawing. Trying to build infrastructure while in there would be really hard, as they must do it step by step. For a road, they would need to draw a quarry, then an excavator and crusher, dump trucks to transport the rocks, another excavator to dig the road bed, rolls of filter cloth to line it, then large, medium, and small sizes of gravel, and a compactor and grader to finish. That’s just for a rural road. To seal it would need more machines, tarmac, road cones, construction signs, and traffic personnel. To make it from outside the drawing required you to just draw a road – the quality of the road depending on the quality of your drawing.

To make sense of his situation, Bobby thought back to a seminar he’d attended about the Law of Attraction. It’s obvious really; focussing on positive thoughts causes you to manifest positive outcomes. Like attracts like. The process was popularized by the New Thought Movement of the early 1900’s, but its origins are ancient. Prophets of God performed miracles, and the Law of Attraction has been visible throughout history in the practice of magic. Many are illusionists rather than true magicians, but even they make things appear from nowhere.

“Uncle Bobby, now you can draw a road,” said Naomi.

He drew a paved road a hundred kilometre long, heading along a fertile valley, with a dark volcano at one end, and a white mountain at the other.

“Uncle Bobby, draw a railway,” said Naomi.

He drew parallel tracks running along rivers, creeping around hills, and snaking through mountain passes.

“Uncle Bobby, draw power lines,” said Naomi.

He made poles and pylons, and sub-stations and transformers. Even bright yellow “Danger of Death” signs. Then he drew what he had first wanted to – a store, a clinic, and a jail. Naomi drew factories.

“What will they produce?” he asked.

She said, “I haven’t decided yet. Now can you please draw some more trees? Your poles and sleepers have used up all the jungle.”

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Jacob's Ladder

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on May 3, 2012 by javedbabar

The chiming chimney was doing it again. It clanged all night when it rained. This was because of the trees growing for twenty years beside the cabin that now overhung the roof. Rain running along their branches dripped onto the roof, but this wasn’t the issue, for the drops merely joined thousands of other drops hitting metal. It was their hitting the stainless steel disc at the top of the chimney that caused the clanging. It sounded half bell, half cymbal, or like a spade hitting a gravestone every five seconds. There was no peace for the living or the dead. Earplugs didn’t help.

Jacob managed to get some sleep when the rain let up, but still felt disorientated in the morning, like a banana spinning in a blender on low. He didn’t like disturbing the landlord but this was unbearable; it made the place unfit to live in and needed immediate attention. Jacob called him and left a voicemail.

That night the chimney chimed again. First thing the next morning Jacob went into his landlord’s workshop and looked around. There was an old metal ladder beneath a sheet, looking like a clothes drying stand, maybe ten feet long. It would do. What else? A clay pot? Some duct tape? He climbed the ladder, taped the clay pot onto the chimney top and hit the pot with a spoon to test acoustics. Rather than a clang there was a muted thump. Result!

Jacob slept uneasily. He shifted from side to side as if levelling himself. The chimney was fixed and he could hear the result of his handiwork – soft pats, not clangs. Why was he awake? There was something wrong. Something wrong about what he’d done. What was it?

As he moved from bum-cheek to shoulder-blade, and nudged the bed with knees and elbows, he realized something; that the ladder was strange. His need to fix the chimney was urgent and he hadn’t positioned the ladder safely. He should have leaned it against the roof at an angle of around fifteen degrees. Now he remembered. He had positioned it vertically. It wasn’t a roof ladder or rope ladder, it was an ordinary ladder. It should have toppled backwards but didn’t. In his annoyed, sleepy state he’d climbed up the ladder, completed the job, and climbed back down, without thinking. Why hadn’t he fallen?

Jacob decided to get up and look at the ladder, and pulled it out into the garden. Its weighting was strange, as if it didn’t need his support, so he let it go. It stood by itself on the lawn. He placed a foot on the ladder, which eased into the ground a little but stayed firm. He pulled up the other foot, so both feet were on the first rung, and found that the ladder was steady. He climbed to the top of the ladder and felt as if he could step off into the sky.

There was a latch at the top that he hadn’t noticed before. When released, he found that the ladder telescoped another ten feet. The stringers were strange though – they expanded as they emerged, and runners appeared automatically. There was another latch for further extension, then another, and another, and maybe more. Jacob realized that he was standing fifty feet up in the air. He could touch the stars, almost. He felt dizzy and climbed down, collapsing the ladder as he descended.

He got through to his landlord, who sounded drunken or stoned. “Oh, that ladder. That ladder! Old Charlie built tha rescue egrets. They hundred fifty feet high, upst a Douglas Fir. Mother had died. She’s tangled razor wire. So horrible. So horrible. Anyhoo, Old Charlie built it. I wenta save before other kills other. Long way up. Looong way. Charlie hold so long how? Go ask him tha ladder. Tha ladder.”

Jacob didn’t know what to make of this. Charlie’s lights were on so he wandered across the Lucerne Valley Road. There were sparks in his workshop so he was clearly up. “Oh, ladda, I forgettee bout tit.” He was really hard to understand. Was he drunk too? Was Jacob the only person who was sober? “I bild for resun. Sav eglets.” Then a long mumble that Jacob couldn’t understand. “Put back, awah now. No resun.”

Jacob said, “Thank you Charlie,” and went back across the road. He’d heard the guy was a genius and could invent anything. How had he made this ladder? Jacob decided to take another look. He stood it in the garden and telescoped the stringers continuously. They slipped out easily. After a while he lost count. Was he three hundred feet or four hundred up? He felt like a star in the sky. He could see everything. He was King of the World. He would market this ladder and make a fortune. It was almost dawn though; he had better get down before people saw him. It was tu riski to dat hap no se yu in it in oga es…

Old Charlie shook his head as he saw Jacob descending. Didn’t people read their Bibles these days? They should know about the Tower of Babel. Pride always leads to confusion and then a fall. He had built the ladder for a reason, to save orphaned egrets. That was its purpose, nothing else.

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Moti Mahal

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , on April 28, 2012 by javedbabar

Mr Amin was not himself. Though he bore his usual impish smile, and walked around in his usual attire – shirt and tie, and sleeveless sweater – he muttered beneath his breath. Clients of Open Hearts seniors daycare centre were not used to seeing their manager behave like this. Zoe the cook overheard him when he came to the kitchen to make tea. He said, “It’s the law of life. It’s an ancient tradition. It’s biologically ingrained. It’s a moral duty.”

Half an hour later he was back for another cup, still muttering. “But now they feel differently. They say we’re individuals. We’re all responsible for ourselves.”

Zoe wondered if she should say something now. She tried to catch his eye but was unable to, so just said quietly, “Mr Amin… is everything alright today?”

“Yes yes,” he said. “They come once a year. They are coming today. That’s all.” He would say nothing further, and made his tea and left the kitchen.

Later that morning, Zoe said to Smuel the driver, “What’s up with Mr Amin? He seems really bothered.”

He said, “I’m not sure. Shall we ask him?”

They went to Mr Amin’s office together, and Smuel said, “Mr. Amin, you seem troubled today. We were wondering what’s happened, and if we could help you in any way.”

“Nothing’s happened – why should it?” He was hostile to their enquiries so they went away. Only last week he had told them of his dream of living in a moti mahal, a palace of pearls, in the next world. How he’d clammed up.

At midday exactly two cars pulled up. They were of similar make and model, except that one was black with number plate A1 and the other was white with number plate A2. A man stepped out of each car at exactly the same moment. From the black car came a black man wearing a black suit, with black shirt and tie, and black socks and shoes. From the white car came a white man wearing a white suit, with white shirt and tie, and white socks and shoes. Their features looked similar and familiar. They both looked somewhat like Mr. Amin.

The white man pushed open both sides of the Centre’s double doors, and walked in haughtily. The black man pushed open one door only and smiled at the Centre’s clients as he entered. If it wasn’t a crazy thing to suggest, Smuel would have said that they were differently coloured twins.

The white man pushed open Mr Amin’s office door without knocking or calling. He entered and closed the door behind him, and Smuel heard voices raised from within. If they got much louder, he would check to see if Mr Amin was O.K. The heated discussion lasted five minutes before the white man came out, scowling and cursing beneath his breath. The black man knocked and went into Mr Amin’s office, and their voices remained low. A few minutes later the black man emerged, smiling broadly. Both men headed back to their cars.

Smuel didn’t know how to handle this situation. As an employee of Open Hearts he need not do anything. No crime had been committed and management appeared to have the situation under control. As a person, however, he couldn’t stand it. Who was this white man who had upset his impish boss? And who was the black man who had soothed him?

Smuel ran outside and tapped on the white car’s window. The white man rolled it down and said, “How may I help you?”

Smuel said, “What did you say to Mr. Amin? Why were you rude to him?”

The man said, “I didn’t say anything to him, and I wasn’t rude to him.”

“Don’t be smart. I saw you. You went into his office and shouted at him.”

“Believe me,” said the white man. “He shouted at me first. He always does. That’s why I was in a bad mood when I entered. I knew what to expect, and now that it’s over with, I’m relaxed.”

“Why does he shout at you?” said Smuel, confused.

Smuel hadn’t noticed Zoe come outside. While he’d been talking to the white man, Zoe had engaged the black man. He heard a furious exchange between them. He never would have imagined Zoe using such words. He ran over to the black car immediately. Zoe was crying, so he held her. It seemed so natural. “What happened?” he said.

“That black man was nice only on the surface. He was rotten within. He came here to threaten Mr Amin. That’s why he was so carefree. And he only seemed quiet because his threats were muttered.”

“But who are they?” said Smuel, staring after the disappearing cars.

They saw Mr Amin peering scared from his office window. He was a gentle soul now, manager of a not-for-profit social service ensuring that Ma, Pa, Grandma, and Grandpa had something to look forward to daily. He was unquestionably doing public good. But before retiring to Canadia, he had been Minister of Culture for Northern India. He was a corrupt killer, a most evil man. The Agents of Karma tracked him everywhere, and once a year they came to check in. At the end of his life their collated reports would determine whether Mr Amin would reside in a palace of pearls or a demonic dungeon.

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Steamed Peacocks

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , on April 26, 2012 by javedbabar

James sat in his usual chair facing away from the television. Who knew how much more life he would see, so he may as well witness what was available. He watched the people that had become his daily companions here at Open Hearts seniors daycare centre. They were not the people he would have chosen, but God, fate, or Satan had chosen them for him. He knew that he was here for a reason. He had been angry at first – really angry – about his third stroke and partial paralysis.

What they fed him at lunchtimes was dull – things like chicken stew, chow mein, or potato curry. It wasn’t bad food, just uninspired. The cook Zoe tried hard in the kitchen, but there’s only so much you can do with an ingredients budget of $2 per person per day. James had flashbacks of sumptuous feasts – steamed peacocks with their iridescent fans spread wide, and above them were roasted quails speared on golden trees; baked fish were set in tanks of crystal wines; spiced curds in mango and saffron sauce; necklaces of black grapes and pomegranate seeds; bejewelled women and turbaned guards; lavish tables spread in marble palaces with rose-scented air seeping through grilles, and cool water spouting from fountains inlaid with precious stones and tinkling along floor channels.

James’s static state had enhanced his powers of observation and concentration. Sitting in one place all day – facing real people and life, rather than fake versions – made him aware of himself and his world.

The manager Mr Amin always said hello to him. James appreciated being recognized as a person rather than a pet or statue, which is how most others viewed him. He only turned towards the TV when Mr Amin played an Indian movie. They were mainly for the female clients, who loved the fabulous colours, clothes, dances, and songs. But James also liked to watch them, for they ignited memories of red saris with golden embroidery, and blue ones with pearls, of troupes of fat men performing devotional songs in trances, and women with curves and luscious lips banging their feet strung with small bells. He wanted to tap his feet to the rhythms but couldn’t move them. He found himself rolling his eyes instead. Sometimes blinking rapidly.

Ex-cowboy Albert greeted him too. He’d say, “Howdy Jesse!” meaning Jesse James. “Now don’t you be causing any trouble today. I’m keeping an eye on you pal. Remember I’m the sheriff ‘round here. Self appointed of course – who else would appoint me?”

Zoe was unhappy in her relationship and it showed in her food. Her chicken stew was stewy, her chow mein was mean, and her potato curry was full of worry. Why didn’t she get together with their driver Smuel? He was a decent chap. He’d said to James this morning, “How do you like life on the road, James? I’m thinking of taking a trip across Canadia, maybe across the world. I’d love to take Zoe. What do you think of her? Want to come along with us?” James felt an affinity with him, the hopeless romantic. He knew that Zoe was in a long term relationship and unlikely to join Smuel’s road trip. Still, it didn’t hurt to dream.

James’ dreams held only one person: Irene. He didn’t know why at first, but it soon became clear. As he sat in the Centre’s communal Temple – filled with OMs, Stars of David, Crosses, Crescent Moons, and other holy signs – he visualized a new sign, a Black Sun, which was in truth an old sign, recalled from long ago.

He was seated in a desert encampment, the air warm with cloves. Torches blazed, casting golden glows across horses, people and tents. That’s where he had first known Irene – then called Noop, a royal maid in Northern India. He was a guard called Raja, tasked with protection of the prince’s wives. He guarded them with honour. His loyalty was absolute. His feelings for Noop however were special. He fell in love with her at first sight. Love between servants was forbidden so they kept it quiet, but Raja couldn’t bear the prince demanding “royal favours” from Noop. He had sworn to protect the royal family so couldn’t attack him, but he could try to reason with him. With great humility he asked permission to marry Noop. The prince blessed their union, but that night had him arrested. “Bastard servant,” he said. “Who do you think you are? You have spoiled this woman for me. She is no longer fit for a prince.”

The last thing Raja had seen was Noop executed before him. Then his eyes were gouged out. First there was one black spot, then another, and then nothing at all.

Here they were at Open Hearts seniors daycare centre living together again. Here they were at Open Hearts seniors daycare centre dying together again.

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Black Spot

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 25, 2012 by javedbabar

Gemma said, “Mr Amin, have you seen what’s happened in the Temple?” Being the manager of Open Hearts seniors daycare centre had its challenges and Gemma was one of them. She always complained about something – the food, the staff, the decor, and now the Temple. What a shame really. The Temple was a place where people came together regardless of differences, yet even that was a target.

“What has happened, Gemma?”

“A black spot,” she said emphatically. “A black spot has appeared. I don’t know what else to call it. A nobby. A circle filled with black paint. That’s what.”

A range of black spots dotted Mr Amin’s mind. A piece of paper given to pirates as a verdict of guilt. A fungus causing rose diseases. An accident-prone section of motorway. Parasitic cysts on fish. Night attack aircraft used in Vietnam. During his time as Northern India’s Minister of Culture, he recalled discussions about buying some from the US government; their low light level radar was revolutionary. “And what is your issue with this black spot?” he said. “There are many signs in the Temple. It is a place of free worship.”

“The other signs are holy symbols,” she said. “That sign is creepy.”

“But didn’t you knit that sign for Guru Baba?” he said. A week before, Gemma had made hats for Guru Baba’s disciples, each with a different symbol. One had featured a black spot.

“Yes but that was a pattern on clothing,” she said. “Not something to worship. Are you going to remove it?”

“The Temple is for everyone,” he said. “If someone has installed a meaningful sign, we should keep it there. It’s not offensive.”

Gemma looked annoyed and returned to her knitting. Tik-TAK-Tik-TAK-Tik-TAK-Tik-TAK. Mr Amin thought that he’d better take a look. James was in the Temple sitting quietly. Mr Amin nodded a greeting despite knowing that he would not react. This second – or was it his third – stroke had made him unresponsive. He now just sat wherever he was, looking straight ahead. Mr Amin however always greeted people. It was simply good manners.

The Black Spot was a perfect dark dot, nestled between glowing holy symbols. These included a silver Cross, a shiny blue Star of David, sparkly green Crescent Moon, glittery OM in saffron, dark blue Khanda, red Dharmic Wheel, pale blue Cofucian Water sign, purple Torii Gate, white Pentagram, seven pointed Bahai Star, and Taijitu. The black spot seemed to be pulsating. Mr. Amin rubbed his eyes. It was appearing and disappearing. It was just an optical illusion though. When you stare at anything for too long it fills your vision and continues to exist even when you look away. Mr Amin nodded to James again as he left.

Gemma didn’t mention the Black Spot again, and Mr Amin thought that the matter was settled. She must have accepted it.

Mr Amin visited the Temple weekly to meditate upon the holy signs. He was most drawn to the OM sign – feeling its potent vibrations first fill his eyes, then his head, his mind, and the world. But he was also moved by other signs. The Cross centred him, the Star of David pointed up and down, to heaven and earth, the Crescent Moon ruled nature’s cycles, the Khanda’s swords inspired bravery, the Dharmic Wheel spoke of non-attachment, the Confucian water sign symbolized duty, the Torii gate allowed rebirth, the Pentagram bore magic, the Bahai Star held unity, and the Taijitu symbol revealed the essential complementarity of  the “ten thousand things”. And what about the Black Dot – what did that mean?

Mr Amin saw that it wasn’t there. Had Gemma removed it? Maybe somebody else had. He would find out who did it. What a shame, he had been looking forward to including it in his meditation.

Later that day James shuffled into the Temple. He settled into his usual comfortable brown chair. His motions were limited and it was hard to adjust his body. The plastic one was too hard on his back and he sometimes slipped while visualizing. The comfy chair kept him stable. He stared daily into the constellation of symbols before him, and manifested his own one. His favourite. The Midnight Sun, or Black Light, known to mystics worldwide. The union of opposites. The synthesis of impossibilities. The light of the underworld. The womb and tomb. The power of belief. The light born of darkness, known as Hope. James made the Black Spot real.

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Nice Views

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on April 17, 2012 by javedbabar

It was a gorgeous day and the clients of Open Hearts seniors daycare centre sat outside. Whether they could or couldn’t be outside the centre’s “protected atmosphere” was a hazy area in the regulations. The centre was built to modern construction parameters and was completely airtight, making it highly energy-efficient. No air entered or left without being conditioned – pre-heated in winter, pre-cooled in summer, and something in between during spring and fall. Windows were never opened, and doors were double doors, regulating variations and tempering sounds. Floors were washed daily and walls wiped weekly. Insects and pets were forbidden. It was entirely spick and span.

None of this could be said for the great outdoors. Wild filthy nature was filled with birds and bees, richly-microbed soils, and every kind of allergen imaginable, including floating pollens, sneaky bacteria, communicable viruses, choky tree nuts, pointy oily seeds, five-bellied dairy producers, and gluten-filled grains. And of course there were all kinds of people not obeying rules and regulations, doing whatever they liked. The Authority discouraged the Centre’s clients from going outside. But as mentioned, it was a hazy area. The manager Mr. Amin took the view that culture must be tempered by nature. Today clients sat spread across the lawn – some in sun, some in shade – before Mt Alba, which rose up among the Valley’s swirling mists, as if to God.

Mr. Amin thought about Guru Baba’s great pilgrimage. It was both the highlight and the lowlight of his recent life. It had been a privilege to spend time in the company of such a great holy man. The residents of Lucerne had been shocked when this revered Master announced that he would retire to “that lovely little village with the white mountain above it.” The Authority had immediately offered him a mansion with acreage and horses, but he said that wasn’t necessary. He just wanted one of the “little houses” that he had seen there, meaning a seniors’ housing unit built by the local fraternal group The Tigers.

An empty unit was provided for Guru Baba and he moved right in. Nobody knew what happened to the Italian woman who had been living there already. Despite being over eighty – some claimed he was a hundred, even a thousand – Guru Baba was fit and strong, and led a hundred-person pilgrimage to the top of Mt. Alba. Mr. Amin’s knees had only allowed him as far as the base camp. It saddened him to have not attained the summit with Guru Baba, but upon his return, the sage gave him a holy rock upon which to dream.

Irene looked into the forests clothing Mt. Alba’s lower slopes. She wondered how the little girl who had become St. Sandrine had managed to ride her horse up there? Irene had once walked the forestry roads at its base, searching for crystals. Even those roads were overgrown and barely passable on foot. But Sandrine had ridden Thunder, her powerful charger, right to the summit. Stories of her horse having eight legs confused facts with legends. Odin’s horse Sleipnir had eight legs, not Thunder, who was just a working farm horse. He had a huge heart – which was what had drawn Sandrine to him – but the usual number of legs. Thunder’s owner, an Old Family farmer, had immediately seen the love between this young beauty and beast. He had also seen the holy light in her eyes. He had given the horse as a gift to Sandrine, and requested that she “ensure this fine beast accompanies you to heaven.” Sandrine had taken him literally, riding Alba’s trails with Thunder, and they died together at the top. This story of God’s creatures rising together had captured people’s hearts, and caused Sandrine’s elevation to Sainthood.

James too sat staring into the distance. Since his stroke he did little else. His thoughts however were as lucid as ever. People didn’t seem to understand that he may not be able to sing and dance, but that his mind ran free. In some ways it was stronger than ever, as there were fewer distractions, just flowing possibilities. He thought of diabetic amputee Safira climbing the mountain. How had she managed it without legs? She’d had a support team, of course, carrying food, water, camping and medical equipment, but the exertion had been all her own. The thought of her struggling up there with steel legs and canes was so inspiring that he often cried. People mistook those tears for sadness at his personal condition, but that was not true. He was resigned to the life that fate had delivered, and that was the thing – that Safira wasn’t. She had achieved the impossible. She was an amazing woman. An inspiration to all.

Gemma sat in the shade, knitting and purling. Tik-Tak-Tik-Tak-Tik-Tak-Tik-Tak. She wondered if Ozwald Melchizedek had really climbed Mt. Alba? He was her spiritual mentor – and occasional tormentor – but some of his stories did seem quite tall. He said that he’d climbed Mt. Alba in his mind, raising his level of consciousness “to the top of his Man-Head, and the bottom of the God-Head”. He had balanced his soul at the mountain top – which he referred to as the “pyramid point” – and at that moment, intersected with divinity in a “holy checking in” of transcendent involution.

They all stared at the holy mountain, knowing that soon they would be climbing it together. “Okay, time to go inside,” said Mr. Amin. “Last one in is a mountain goat!”

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One-Do

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on April 13, 2012 by javedbabar

Kenneth felt sorry for the boy walking along the Lucerne Valley Road. He was always out, regardless of weather, scampering home alone. He seemed brave and fierce like a guard dog, while Kenneth floated past in his car. Kenneth had twice stopped to ask if he wanted a ride, but he’d declined politely. He didn’t stop to ask again, as he may get accused of being a paedo. That was one of the sickest things about the world today. Now adults feared children they didn’t know. What a perverse situation.

The boy’s face was often bruised. Was it another kid, Kenneth wondered? Was it a parent? Should he ask him what happened? Should he get involved?

Kenneth waved to the boy as he passed him, but he never waved back. He seemed to be moving his arms about, but more like dancing than waving. He must be listening to music. Was he alone by choice, Kenneth wondered? The kind of boy who was shy, and not yet ready to handle the world. Or was he alone by rejection? Someone who yearned for company but was denied. Kenneth had been the former when younger, but now as an old man he was the latter.

He didn’t see the boy for a while. He must have moved on like they all did eventually. This place is too small, thought Kenneth. Kids need a bigger town, maybe with a hockey rink or a swimming pool. However a month later the boy returned. On a silvery full moon night, there he was again, walking up the Lucerne Valley Road, but this time on metal crutches. Kenneth pulled up and said, “Hey son, do you need a ride today?”

The boy said, “No thanks, I’m building up my strength again.”

Should he ask him? He decided to. “What happened to you?” Then he made it a less pointed question. “A sporting injury?”

“Yes it was, but I’m almost healed now.” He indicated his legs.

“What sport do you practise? I used to play cricket.” In his mind Kenneth heard a leather ball smack a willow bat.

“I’m a martial artist,” said the boy. “It’s a style called One-Do.” As soon as he said that, Kenneth felt his limbs burning. He shivered slightly and then grimaced. “Are you feeling alright, Mister?” Kenneth said yes. “You know I think I will take that ride after all. Thanks for asking. Is that ok?” Kenneth said yes. “You can drop me at the Golden turn-off.”

They drove in silence initially, and then Kenneth said, “Please tell me about One-Do.” He felt that he should know already, but didn’t, or couldn’t remember.

“It’s an ancient martial art developed by the Golden King in 3,000 BC. Some say it developed in Arabia or India, others say China or Japan. It requires internal and external training.” Kenneth asked him to elaborate. “Internal practice like awareness and focus. External development of muscular flexibility and cardio fitness. Are you interested in martial arts?”

What could Kenneth say? He had watched a Bruce Lee film but that was it. Yet the moment the boy had said One-Do, Kenneth’s body came alive. “Yes I am,” he said. “But I’ve never tried any.”

“Would you like to start now?”

“Are you serious?” said Kenneth. “At my age? I’m seventy-seven you know.”

The boy said, “I think you’re much older than that.”

“Cheeky bugger!” said Kenneth. “What a thing to say!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was trying to be funny. It’s a One-Do joke.”

“There’s One-Do jokes too?” said Kenneth. “It must be a truly holistic system.”

“Yes it is.” The boy said that he was fully conversant with Techniques, Forms, and Stances, but needed to practice Applications. If Kenneth wasn’t too busy, he would like him to become his practice partner. How about it?

Kenneth was speechless. He didn’t know what to do. But there was also another explanation. He knew exactly what to do, so there was nothing to say. Somewhere deep inside, this was what he had been waiting for. He knew it would happen. It must.

For the next week he practised rudimentary techniques, conditioning exercises, and simple movements performed repeatedly. The second week he focussed on stretching and meditation. The third week was striking, throwing, and jumping. The fourth week he worked on adapting the techniques he had learnt to hunting and military applications, by fine tuning his muscular strength and flexibility, breath and energy management, and proper body mechanics.

The boy worked with him daily, with endless patience and full support. It was clear that the boy was not just a martial artist, he was a Master of the Art. He taught Kenneth the wisdom of animal mimicry, the powers of religious ritual, and hidden meanings of legends. They practised with curved and straight swords, fighting knives, bamboo sticks, and bladed nanchuk. For closer work there were brass knuckledusters, Cretan cestus gloves, D-shaped tekko fist extenders, and Indian push daggers. For longer distance they used four-pointed shuriken throwing stars, Aztec atlatl spear launchers, 3-balled bolas, and ebony knobkierrie. The boy taught Kenneth both Hard and Soft techniques. It was clear that the boy preferred blocking head on force, and diagonal cutting moves – Hard techniques. Kenneth’s inclination was to yield, and turn an attacker’s force to his disadvantage – Soft techniques.

Within one month Kenneth had re-learnt everything that he had known in his previous incarnation 2,000 years ago as the Floating Turtle Warrior. He now fully recognized his cyclic foe, the Thunder Dog Brave. His noble opponent had retrained him well, for it would not be a fair fight otherwise. And following this auspicious full moon of the ninth quarter their time had come. As soon as the boy’s leg was fully healed, they would engage in mortal battle once more beneath the holy peaks of Mt. Alba and Mt. Negra. Kenneth also had the benefit of his current knowledge. He could lead his opponent into a disadvantageous position and then snap his weak leg, exerting of course only minimum force.

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Mission Critical Destructive Data Simulations

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on April 11, 2012 by javedbabar

Client (in a pompous voice): “XOXOX is your name?”

Voice: “It’s my working name.”

Client: “Isn’t that usually a woman’s email sign-off? Meaning love and hugs?”

Voice: “I am a woman, but it’s not my sign-off. It’s my working name.”

Client: “How do you pronounce it? Just say the letters individually, or read it like a word?”

Voice: “It doesn’t much matter to me. Say it how you like.”

Client: “What does it mean though? It’s a strange thing to call yourself. Why not MCDDS?”

Voice:  “You are a curious fellow, so I will tell you. I specialise in the field of Semiotics. People often write XOX, which seems pessimistic to me – X, a sign of negation, then O, a sign of creation, then another negation; that’s it. But OXO is overly optimistic – presuming that creations are followed by negations, and then recreations. XOXOX is more realistic. Correct symbolically. It represents creative and destructive cycles – but starting and ending with the Void. The world is germinated and will end with nothing. We are nothing. But until that final cycle, we may as well all do our best.”

Client: “Are you a Buddhist? A nihilist?”

Voice: “Yes I am both.”

Client: “But we work by strategic and scientific principles. Can you work within rational parameters?”

Voice: “I only work within rational parameters.”

Client: “But what you say is more mystical than rational.”

Voice: “Are they different?”

Client: “Yes they are. Aren’t they?”

Voice: “I’m not so sure.”

Client: “Emotional things and rational things come from different places. Emotions come from the heart, and thoughts come from the brain. Isn’t that right?”

Voice: “That may be true for you, but I feel differently. Emotions are underpinned by logic. You feel a certain way for a reason. Intuition and instinct are powerful forms of knowledge. I feel the truth first, and then analyze it. For example, I feel right now that Time is precious. My daily rate is $200,000. I suggest that you use my time and your money wisely.”

Client: “Yes, you’re right. I don’t know why I was acting so casually. We must press on. Have you read the brief? It was edited by the President himself.”

Voice: “I haven’t read it yet. I’ve been too busy.”

Client: “What! You haven’t read the brief! Do you know how serious this situation is?”

Voice: “I do know that. That’s why I’ve been so busy. My services are much in demand.”

Client: “But we’re not talking about just anyone here. We’re talking about the President of Canadia. You should put him first.”

Voice: “Does he put me first?”

Client: “But he doesn’t even know who you are. How could he?”

Voice: “Exactly. He doesn’t know me. He should.”

Client: “Well who are you? I will tell him.”

Voice: “I am everyone who didn’t want this war to begin.”

Client: “But he didn’t start it. What could he do?”

Voice: “I agree it wasn’t him individually, rather it was the system he promotes. However, we have now spent 4 minutes discussing general matters rather than the situation at hand. I suggest that you allow me to begin my work. I will call you in exactly 236 minutes with a status report. The task will be completed 240 minutes after that, inclusive of any further discussions. Is that all to your satisfaction?”

Client (in a deflated voice): “Yes thank you.”

XOXOX examined the brief. It required the standard process but on a larger and longer scale. She initiated analysis. It amused her that clients always assumed she was male. The scrambling software disguised her voice completely, making it robot-neutral. This was a good reflection of her character. Her instincts as a woman, mother, and grandmother told her one thing. But her professional persona often disagreed.

She called the Client in 236 minutes as agreed.

Voice: “Hello, it is XOXOX.”

Client: “Things have got worse. I’m sure you know. The threat is real and growing. Where have you got to?”

Voice: “I have performed initial analysis of your Financial-Telecomms-Military-Energy-Knowledge-Agricultural-Industrial Systems, plus a selection of Soft Systems. If the threat is executed, I predict that 52% of all systems will be harmed irreversibly, 38% will be recuperable within 12 months, and 10% will remain largely operational. 91% of the human population will not survive. Many won’t be harmed directly by the onslaught, but will become indirect casualties of failed systems, and will die through lack of water, food, power, products, medicines, communications, co-operation, and hope. However the 9% remaining will be lean, healthy, smart, and strong, and will provide good genes for their descendants, who will be able to build a lighter, better, more balanced, and more sustainable culture. It will take seven generations to rebuild a standard of living comparable to today.” She felt pretty bad saying it, but the conclusion was clear. “I recommend that you allow the threat to proceed.”

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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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