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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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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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Titaniq

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Global Travel, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on March 24, 2012 by javedbabar

There was screaming and shouting and people running scared. Shocking din rebounding along the corridors with no means of escape. Older and fatter people fell to the floor. There weren’t many children but those present were screeching. Their parents were wailing. Their grandparents were silent, afraid for all their generations – those present and to come.

The crew behaved dishonourably. They fought through the crowds, shouting. The only difference between passengers and crew was that the latter knew the points of egress, and made towards them quickly, rather than getting stuck amongst the rabble. They rapidly located food stocks, space suits, and emergency shuttles. It was as if they’d never heard of the Birkenhead Drill. Women and children first, my ass. They ran to abandon ship.

There was irony to this situation. The recent campaign by Inter-Planetary Adventures (IPA) was a Titanic spoof. Except this time things were different. The experienced Goan and Filipino crew roped up the iceberg and pulled it along behind the ship, using its ice to make cocktails, and offering mini-water/ski excursions. They pulled the iceberg into New York harbour, where cheering crowds lined the Hudson River. The world’s greatest steam ship plus all its passengers and crew had a safe, enjoyable arrival.

IPA cultivated this image for its greatest space ship: Titaniq. It was a clever ploy in many senses. The clue was in the name, they said: their path was inter-planetary rather than intra-planetary, and they remained in between heavenly bodies at all times, avoiding the dangers of planetary docking manoeuvres (and also associated charges). The journey was virtually riskless. Critics said they were being cheap – what kind of adventure was that, not landing on any planets at all? But customers loved their low prices and every flight was full.

Sandee had waited ten years for this trip. She first heard about Titaniq in science class in Lucerne. Mr. Ismay had shown them the designs. He said that this 12,000 passenger space ship would be the marvel of its age. She decided right then that she would board it one day. Her husband had not proved keen on space travel, or on much else, and last year she’d kicked him out. Now there was no reason for her to not go.

She had been having dunch – scientifically proven to be healthier than having both dinner and lunch – when the commotion began. The Goan waiter had spilled soup on her, and was apologetic beyond belief. She told him never mind and went back to her room to wash. Though Titaniq was half the price of other space cruises, it still wasn’t cheap. Her holiday fund had only just bought her a cabin in the bowels of the ship, with no views whatsoever. But the real-time digital projections were really-good. Jupiter’s red spot seemed so close that she felt able to pick it like a cherry and pop it in her mouth.

Sandee decided to shower quickly before changing her dress. The shower shook strangely. Then her lights went off and the bathroom door wouldn’t open. That’s the problem with electronic gizmos, she thought – when they fail, you fail. Not like mechanical things, which you can fiddle with and fix. Thanks to a childhood episode, Sandee never panicked. She accepted situations and took charge.

Her brother had been mean to her one day. He had offered to push her on the garden swing. At first it was great fun as he pushed her higher and higher. With the sun on her face, and wind in her hair, she felt like a bird flying. But then she felt sick and suddenly scared, and called for him to stop. He laughed and laughed, and pushed harder and harder, till she feared for her life. She couldn’t hold on, she thought, and would soon fall off. There was nothing she could do. But then she felt her heart jolt, its power filling her body. Rather than panic and grasp and try to slow down, she did the other thing, the harder thing, the better thing. She flicked her body forward, changing the balance of Centrifugal – outward – and Centripetal – inward – Forces by the addition of her Fictitious Force, a pseudo force, an apparent force that acts on all masses in a non-inertial frame of reference. She swung right around the metal frame, completing a revolution, a cosmic cycle, and came up behind her brother, giving him the biggest kicking of his lifetime, and sending him flying twenty feet. Sandee was always good in a situation.

In Titaniq’s bowels, she kicked the bathroom door open, slipped on her red dress, and went into the corridor. The ship lurched violently. The corridors were abandoned, the lifts were gone, alarms were ringing, and all locks were open. She decided to try the stairs, and being closer to the ship’s rim it made sense to walk downwards. But after forty flights she decided to exit, to see where she was and what was going on.

Sandee emerged near the engine room. All doors were open with no souls about. She walked right in there. There was the WARP drive, the huge spinning core. Its manual controls had been accessed but lay abandoned. She could handle this – how hard could it be? When she had bugged Mr Ismay for answers, he’d said that WARP stood for “We Are Reasonable People”. She was a reasonable person. Machines were just a matter of common sense. All reasonable too. What was that? It looked like a crank shaft. Sandee turned it gently, then forcefully, and felt her heart jolt. The Centrifugal and Centripetal Forces were stuck. She added her Fictitious Force to change the non-inertial frame of reference, and kicked Titaniq’s ass.

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My Hands

Posted in Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 21, 2012 by javedbabar

Solomon twisted his hands and then clasped them firmly. He wondered how much truth there was in palmistry. Actual physical truth. That parts of your hands corresponded directly to parts of your body, and also to celestial bodies.

He looked at his right hand. Across the top were Jupiter, Saturn, Apollo, and Mercury; below these were Mars +ve, the Plain of Mars, and Mars –ve; then Venus, Neptune, and Luna. Were all of these connected to heavenly objects, and also to Gods?

He held up both hands against light pouring from the windows. He observed his fingers, fingernails, and finger prints; his palm skin patterns; skin texture and colour; his palm’s shape. He tested his hand’s flexibility. It bent back almost to his wrist. If only his life was so easily manipulated.

His head, heart, life, and fate lines tore through this gentle landscape. In one sense they were only creases, he knew, but in another way they were holy scripture written across his body’s most active organs, with every act imprinted upon them already, his duty only to manifest it. There was the story of his life, already told. Solomon’s dominant right hand – his conscious hand – was fighting for control of his mind. Maybe he could overpower his left, unconscious hand, carrying his karmic conditioning.

He looked through his hands at the dramatic landscape. There was Mt. Alba, its snow-capped bulk gleaming in the distance. Hundred foot cedars stood mighty, and poplars shivered in light winds, their leaves turning and flashing continuously, like a sequinned dress glimmering.

Solomon didn’t want to make the call. He had hoped it could be avoided. But he had waited too long already. Was this cowardice yet another sin? He took a few deep breaths, then dialled 9-1-1. He paced his breathing and kept calm.

She asked him, “Where is the emergency?”

He said it was here on the Lucerne Valley Road.

She asked him, “What is the nature of the emergency?”

He said was is a murder.

She asked him, “What happened?”

He said it hadn’t happened yet. It was going to happen. The person who had attacked him was about to be killed. He didn’t give his phone number, or location, or listen to any further instructions from the dispatcher, and hung up the phone.

Fallen humanity had a tendency to sin. He’d better take action. People ate too much and became obese. While a billion starved there, a billion here ate too soon, too expensively, too much, too eagerly, too daintily, too wildly. They filled themselves up till they vomited, or gorged themselves till their organs exploded, like an egg in a microwave. They just couldn’t stop eating themselves to death. That stomach must be torn, like Samurais did when dishonoured.

People lusted for the flesh. After eating animals, they rushed to devour each other with boiling sexual thoughts. There was a reason for god’s gifts. We must use our bodies with respect for their holy purpose. To make beautiful babies. Not sweat and rut endlessly like jungle beasts. Like pigs who needed fattening, or stallions needing taming, there was only one answer. Remove the carnal source.

We are each created in the image of God. Our talents are unlimited, and our gifts are incredible. But we are incredibly lazy. Lying-in in the mornings, enjoying wasteful coffee breaks, engaging in endless chatter, checking stupid messages, and sending pointless texts, all to avoid working, providing service to our fellow beings. Not shouldering our burden. That weak back serves no purpose. It must be broken.

We envy others. We desire to deprive other men and women of what is rightfully theirs. The things that we are too lazy to work for, we want to steal from others. We bear hatred towards them, not realizing the self-destructiveness of provoking feuds. Our loathing is self-loathing; hatred of our own hearts. Let’s remove this one.

We desire to be more attractive and more important than others. We confuse authority with humanity, and fail to acknowledge the good work done by our fellows. This proud chest must be punctured.

We are greedy. Whether deserved or undeserved, and whether productive or destructive, we pursue status, power, and wealth excessively. I have two hands, one for helping myself and the other for helping others. Both have failed. Remove those grasping hands.

We have the solutions to all of these things. We are patients with a ready prescription. For gluttony, take temperance. For lust, chastity. For sloth, some diligence. For envy, show kindness. For wrath, bear patience. For pride, humility. For greed, show charity. We have the doctor’s authority on paper, and stand at the pharmacy. We are next in line. But rather than handing it in for fulfilment, we pocket it quickly and walk out of the store, picking up a Snickers, some condoms, a cushion, and a celebrity magazine, and kicking a dog, sneering at a beggar, and buying a lottery ticket on the way home.

This is what I do daily, thought Solomon. I am a sinner beyond compare, and beyond redemption. When the first responders arrived, they found his butchered body. The only thing visible in the mess was a severed hand holding a phone.

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OM

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on March 17, 2012 by javedbabar

“The highest calling is service,” said Ozwald Malchizedek, also known as OM. “Whether it’s at the grocery store or gas station, by your mailman or cleaner, the guy who comes to check your meters, or the cable girl. They all provide you with service. Even the guy in Bangalore selling you top value telephone packages.” His disciples giggled at his silly accent saying these last few words. Seven of them were crowded around him, at a table meant for six, at Chutney restaurant. It was Saturday night and every table was filled, but theirs was the only one with a bona fide holy man. People glanced over continually at the clean-shaven, bald-headed, dark-skinned man in pale blue robes.

“Are we not all servants, Master?” said a blonde female disciple, wearing a blue-glitter tikka, and matching sparkling sari.

“That’s a very good question, Shanti.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “You could have also said, “Are we not all Masters, servant?” Shanti looked uncomfortable with this inversion, and looked away. “No, no. It is just the same. I am your Master but also your servant. Go ahead, say it.”

Shanti looked at him and said, “Are we not all Masters, servant?” She looked away again and said, “I don’t like saying that. It feels uncomfortable.” People laughed loudly at another table. A hunting story was in progress. Somewhat incongruous in a vegetarian restaurant.

“Well you must keep saying it till… Aah! Dinner has arrived.”

“Seven Regular Chutney Thalis,” said the waiter cheerfully, “And one Speical Chutney Thali with Fishy Goa?” OM nodded. “Who is the Special Thali for?” OM indicated himself. “Of course, I should have known. A Special Thali for a Special Guest.” OM nodded again. “I hope you enjoy your meal. Please call me if I can be of further service.”

OM raised his eyebrows and said, “See, this man knows about service.” The disciples looked at the waiter lovingly. He became self-conscious as he poured their water. A drop splashed up onto OM’s cheek, and rolled right down, leaving a white streak. He said, “Do not rely on anything in this material world. Not even spray tan.”

OM’s charm lay in his mysterious mix of great wisdom and utter foolishness. This has been the way of all Masters. The disciple’s task was to resonate with the truth apparent, whatever its form.

OM pointed to Shanti’s thali – a rectangular steel plate divided into sections – and said, “Each of us is like one food in this thali. Look, Shanti is the dal, Kim is the mixed vegetables, Simone is the rice, Tom is the roti, Christy is the salad, Gemma is the raita – I mean raita, not writer, though she is that too.” People laughed. “And Mata is the pickle. We are all in this life together, connected by a network of delicious relationships.” Another table laughed loudly. A drinking story.

“Shanti said, “What about you Master?”

OM looked confused, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I am the thali,” he said.

Shanti said, “So you are the servant, carrying us all?” This didn’t come out like she’d expected. OM’s faced flickered. “Oh, sorry, that’s not what I meant really. I meant that you are supporting us all.” She was struggling, thinking of something more to say, and was visibly nervous. “Without the thali, we’d all fall down. Only the thali can…”

“Shanti, Shanti…” he said. “I know what you mean.” She relaxed and closed her eyes. OM took her hands in his and said, “Now let’s eat.” Nobody moved. OM said, “What’s wrong?”

Shanti said, “Aren’t you going to bless the food, Master? You usually do.”

“We are in an Indian restaurant.” OM beamed at them each in turn. “The food has been blessed already. But there’s no harm in blessing it again. Please all close your eyes. A –U – M – …”

Ozwalk Malchizedek was the first to finish. He ordered an extra portion of Fishy Goa. “Oh, so good,” he said. “Just like the dhabas in India.”

“Do they serve Goan food in Punjab?” said Shanti.

“What do you mean by that?” OM snapped.

“I just mean that Fishy Goa is a South Indian dish, and dhabas are popular in North India.”

“Punjabis eat anything,” OM said. “They have all kind of restaurants.” The table became quiet.

“Master,” said a disciple. “I’ve noticed that when you chant OM, it sounds like three syllables rather than one. Is my observation correct?”

“It is incorrect! It is actually four syllables. First you open your mouth wide and say A to signify creation. Then purse your lips and say U for sustenance. Then close your mouth and say M for destruction. Then remain in Silence that is the ultimate servant, underlying them all. Let us all chant these holy syllables together.” The table reverberated to several long “A –U – M – …’s” Other tables stopped laughing and stared.

The waiter felt that it was time for their bill. The disciples fussed over it, but OM insisted on paying with his credit card. He said that they should all give him cash. The waiter gave Ozwald Malchizedek the card machine. He entered his 4-digit PIN: 2-8-6-0, equating to A – U – M – …. on the alpha-numeric keypad. The PIN was incorrect. He tried again with 2-8-6-1, then 2-8-6-*. Then again with 2-8-6-#. Each code didn’t work. He turned towards the waiter and said, “Thank you for reminding us of this most important truth. The fourth syllable – the space between all things – is a great mystery; the ground of all being and truly unknown. You have provided a valuable service to us tonight. Shanti, please use your card instead, and give him a good tip.”

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Two Laws

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , on March 16, 2012 by javedbabar

Noop hobbled into the lounge and looked around her. It was airy, bright and open. The small manager welcomed her personally, saying, “Mrs. Irene Todd, it’s always nice to see new faces. I hope that we will see you here often.”

She said, “I’ve been quite busy since Aidan died. It’s been a difficult period.”

“We’ll do whatever we can to help you.” He indicated the staff now busy making dinner. “Our main goal is sociability. We like to draw people out.” He smiled at her like an imp. He was an imp. “So please don’t be shy.” It must be hard work “drawing people out” she thought. Some of them were drooling and dazed. Thankfully she still had her wits about her. That was a nice little temple they’d made, with different gods and goddesses. There were Ram & Sita. Why did it feel so natural to say Hai Ram?

“Please make yourself comfortable,” said the manager. “Will you be dining with us, or have you brought your own lunch?”

“I will be eating here,” she said. She hadn’t heard great things about the food, but wanted to try it. She hoped it was something spicy, even if they made it poorly. It would be better than bland food.

“Okay, great. I’ll introduce you to some of the others at lunch. Will you be okay here for a while? I’ve just got to call the Village about transport, and the Medical Centre about their new healthy eating guidelines. As you can see, bureaucracy never ends – even when our lives do.”

Noop sat on the sofa outside the manager’s office. She could have walked over to the other women, but preferred to be introduced. There aren’t many men here, she thought. They must have disappeared early like her Aidan. How did the tradition develop – all over the world – of men marrying younger women? On average men die five years before women – it doesn’t make sense. Hai Ram.

Her Aidan had been a good man mostly. He’d provided well for her and the kids. He’d built her a home. He’d taken her on holidays. He’d bought her flowers and gifts. In fifty years he’d never missed one Valentines’ Day. “There was more than one St. Valentine,” he said. “Maybe three or four. But all were martyrs. Let’s go one day to Santa Maria in Cosmedin in Rome, and see St. Valentine’s flower-crowned skull.” They’d never made it. Like the manager here, Aidan complained about bureaucracy. He blamed it for most things – even their lack of seeing the flower-crowned skull. “Bloody governments,” he said. “Making rules and regulations. How’s a man ever to fight his way out? My skull is crowned with photocopies and receipts.” He’d done his best. He was a good husband. But in her heart she had always known that he wasn’t her true love.

Noop looked across the room and saw…

The next thing she knew, bright lights filled her eyes. She was looking up at the ceiling. What had happened? Was she lying on the floor? The manager’s imp face was close to her, saying, “Mrs. Todd? Can you hear me? Irene?” Other staff crowded around her. She panicked at first, but relaxed quickly. This wasn’t the first time. She knew it had happened before. But where? And why? The man she’d seen was known to her. But who was he?

An ambulance came and took her to the hospital. They said that it was just a momentary lapse. Nothing to worry about. She checked out later the same day.

Noop should have stayed at home the next day, but just had to go to the Centre. She knew the man there. He didn’t seem to recognize her though. He had lost his mind. He was drooling slightly. She wiped his mouth with a tissue. Other women began gossiping about her. She didn’t care. The way he looked at her. He knew too. So late in this life! Why so late in this life! But they were still connected. Hai Ram.

Through Noop’s many lifetimes, with many different names, one thing had become clear. That there were only two laws at work in the world. The Law of Attraction and the Law of Karma.

The Law of Attraction was qualitative. There were no absolutes. Its vehicle was your imagination. Whatever you thought about, desired wholeheartedly, and worked towards was ultimately yours. It may take a while to get there, but it would come. Noop and Raja had been circling each other for countless lifetimes, like the gods Ram and Sita. They came together like sugar and water, dissolving into each other completely. But that water was spilled again after forty, fifty, or seventy years. They were entwined and could never be separated entirely, but must find new containers to mingle. That was their endless journey, to find a grail in which to merge. Maybe one day forever.

The Law of Karma, however, didn’t make things easy. You did the best you could, given your circumstances. You tried to be diligent, hardworking, truthful, just, and kind. You retained faith in God and fulfilled your earthly duty. But no one knew the repercussions of their every action, multiplied infinitely. You did your best, that’s all you could do – and that changed continually: with each moment, day, year, and lifetime. Karma was quantitative: a huge balance sheet of plus and minus – leading to a grand net total. If positive – you advanced, and if negative – you retreated. So it was.

Plato spoke of divided souls, searching for their completion. Sufis yearned for a return to their original unity. All lovers seek soulmates. Twin flames, lit from the same source, can merge again. But till then they must wander as lone sparks.

Noop looked into Raja’s eyes, though he didn’t seem to be looking into hers. She held his hand, squeezed his fingers, and said, “I have found you again, my love. I am your Sita. Hai Ram.”

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Jazzy Friction

Posted in Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , , , on March 13, 2012 by javedbabar

“Is that his real name?” said Al. “Jazzy Friction? What kind of name is that?”

Jodi said, “He’s a music producer, love. I don’t know his real name.” She fiddled with the volume on her amp. “He may have the same initials. They sometimes do that. Jeffrey Foxtrot. John Fong. Jeremy Farah. Who knows?” The beats continued. It was IDM, she’d told him. Intelligent Dance Music.

A broken beathood; jarring and jumping; intelligent how? “Jazzy Friction. Is that meant to sound sexy?” He was being cynical. She ignored it. It had become tiresome.

“Soon my love. It will be soon. But I’m not ready yet. Can we just wait a little longer?”

“Of course we can,” he said quietly. “Of course we can. There’s no schedule.”

“Do you mean that? Can you wait?” Her eyes were bright. He’d said the right thing. “I want it to be perfect – our first time. My first time.” Her eyes brightened more.

Boy she was beautiful, thought Al. How was it possible that no one had been there yet? A ripe woman, unspoiled. Or maybe she’d left it too long, and developed silly hang-ups. Carrying around a sack of junk, clinging to it, never letting go. Silly thoughts. Let them go, man. She’s she, and me’s me. Enjoy what we have.

She turned up the volume. Her powerful system was so much better than his crappy laptop speaker, which she called “Tinman talking”. She had a two thousand dollar BCS amplifier and waist-high Rose speakers, probably the same cost again – and he was pushing sound out of his $400 laptop. That’s why she always wanted him to come to her place. Their replacement for sex was dancing – and talking Tinmen just didn’t cut it. So it was her place most nights for techno/house, jazz funk, IDM, and World Fusion – all under the guidance of the mighty Jazzy Friction.

Their dancing was fun and often fierce. He’d forgotten how heady beats and motion could be. The melody moved you, but the rhythm drove you, and the deeper – unknown, unheard even – harmonics vibrated your soul. Did she use a vibrator, he wondered? Or sex toys? Masturbate at all? She must do. Had she really not opened Pandora’s Box.

For a man used to regular sex, this was very frustrating. To meet a girl, date regularly, feel chemistry and the spark of powerful desire, but to hold back his natural urges, and keep them dampened down. In this day and age. Was he dating a nun? A prude? A neurotic? A she-male? This last thought made him smile.

Thank God for the great outdoors; for rolling Coastal forests, for his cabin surrounded by cedars, cottonwoods, alders, and poplars. All fuel for fire. Chopping wood relieved the tension. It felt potent, primal. Swinging a tool of Barbary, unthinking, smashing the whole, standing over your handiwork, mighty and gloating, then doing it again, and again, and again, and again. Sweating profusely, swinging, aching, grunting, and shouting, till the anger was spent, and the need fulfilled – for now.

He went to her one night expecting dancing. Jazzy Friction poured through the door. It was an ambient tune with quiet harmonics; a promise of deeper vibrations. He smelled her before he saw her. Her fierce perfumes. Rose assaulted his senses, and chilli overwhelmed them; the first inch of door opening allowing sensual passage. She was fully made up – ruby lipstick, cinnamon eye shadow, rich mascara extending her eyes, with a scattering of red glitter beneath them. She wore a raw silk, red kimono, its folds holding darkness, its belt creating tension. The lights were low, with scented candles burning cherry, plum, and blood orange.

“Hello darling,” she said, her voice deeper, larger than before. “I’m ready now. What about you?” She clasped his waist and kissed him, then stepped back and released her belt. Beneath her kimono was fiery flesh, but covered yet. Sheened silks, stitched and shaped for her body alone, covered her mounds and havens.

He saw them together, joined in every way possible. Like sticks on a burn pile yet to be consumed – finding their own arrangement. A relation of height, width, and depth. Adding to that the fourth dimension – time. Coming together, rubbing together, creating friction. Making a spark. Igniting their pyre. Burning like a bush, a moth, a phoenix, Helios, witches, Joan of Arc, Al-Hallaj. Sacrificing themselves like Prometheus. Having the choice to dampen down or add fuel to the fire. Self-consiousness creates friction. The trick is to lose yourself and become effortless. Become the light born of darkness. Bright fire from dark wood. Emanation. Adding fuel, they crackled and burned.

They lay beside each other after, but had to move away. Both bodies were sated, but overheated. A need to cool down. But as they lay a foot apart, it seemed that air was rushing between them, as if glowing logs, their passion creating a draw. Both of them were spent but their fuel was inexhaustible. Flames continued to roar. A fire tree between them remade. Al said, “You were right my love. We were worth waiting for.” He was breathless, unknown.

“I knew it when you first touched me,” she said. “You set my heart aflame.” Then she turned to him and smiled, and started laughing. “Are you Jazzy Friction.”

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Starsailor

Posted in Alternative Energy, Global Travel, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 12, 2012 by javedbabar

It was unusual to see one on an inland lake. Sapphire thought that large sailing ships only ploughed the high seas. There it was though – what looked like a floating mansion with a fabulous clothes line of gleaming whites, gliding along the emerald waters, with mountains and forests behind. How did it get here, she wondered? Was it possible to sail all the way from the ocean, along the Glaser River, through Morrison Lake, then via smaller rivers, all the way to Lucerne?

Her grandma had first shown her the lakes. When life at home became unbearable – her parents fighting non-stop, and Sapphire crying non-stop – her grandma said, “Let me take you to a beautiful place where everything will be better.”

Sapphire said, “Where are we going, grandma? Are we going to India?” She’d heard her mother talking about living there. That was the main thing her parents argued about.

“No child. We’re going to the Magic Lakes. I discovered them when I was your age. I’d swim and fish there. You’ll like them.”

After her parents parted company, Sapphire travelled with her mother and saw many beautiful places – the temples of Varanasi, the churches of Jerusalem, the Oracle of Delphi, Angkor Wat, Borobudur, and Giza – but none of them were home. They were others people’s homes. Her grandma died the year after they visited the Magic Lakes, and Sapphire hadn’t returned there for ten years now. But this year she felt lost in life – stuck in a dead end job, with a fractured relationship, a poor body image, and negative mindset. She felt drawn to the Lakes.

There were so many lakes there – some round, some long; some green, some black; some transparent, and some thick with muddy clouds, seeming thunderous skies upturned. She traversed them endlessly in her kayak.

There was a bustle of activity around the large sailing ship. Teams of swarthy sailors – were they Goan? Maybe Filipino? – unloaded cloth-covered boxes manually. The operation seemed antique. Sapphire paddled across the lake towards the sailing ship.

Her paddle was quickly pulled from her grasp. She screamed in shock. A sailor was swimming beside her. He steadied her boat, clutching her paddle. She’d been ambushed.

“Please come with me,” he said, clearly Goan.

“Why should I?” Sapphire said fiercely. “Leave me alone, or I’ll scream.”

“You already did,” he said, smiling. “But don’t worry; I won’t force you to come. I am only delivering a message from the Captain. She invites you to join her for tea.”

“She?” said Sapphire. “Your Captain is a woman?” She wondered why she was so surprised by this.

“Yes, she is,” said the sailor. “And a truly great Captain too. She has taken our ship to places we never imagined.” He beamed at Sapphire, his white, white teeth dazzling. “Will you accept her invitation?”

“If I say no, will you give my paddle back?”

“Immediately,” said the Goan.

“In that case please give me my paddle.” The Goan’s smile declined, and he passed back her paddle. “Now swim ahead,” said Sapphire, “and I will follow you.” His smile returned.

It was a beautiful ship with an elegant puzzle of ropes and sails. The three main masts had five square-sails each, and there was an array of long triangular sails – seeming washed kites – attached to the tusk-like mast at the front – was that the prow? Further triangular sails stretched taut between the masts. Why so many? What were they all for? A flag flew atop the main mast – royal blue with a golden sun, and a shape within, which was hard to indentify whilst limp.

“Welcome aboard sailor!” someone called down from the rear top deck – the stern? It was a strong female voice, maybe Anglo-Indian. Sapphire saw a sturdy, dark-skinned, dark-haired woman in her fifties – surely the Captain. “Thank you for accepting my invitation. Shall we?” she indicated for Sapphire to enter some ornate double-doors. Well I’m here now, she thought, so may as well.

The inside of the ship was beautifully crafted. There was teak panelling and mirrors, and ornate lamps of exotic designs, featuring spiders and peacocks. The captain led her to a spacious room with three sides of stained glass glowing. She said, “We were wondering who was watching our operation. I sent Gonzales out to investigate. He took more direct action than anticipated, but here you are.” She nodded warmly. “We’ve got a bit of cleaning to do – those barnacles really build up on the bottom, and algae accumulate. That slows us down. We need to lose some cargo too. Reduce weight to lessen water displacement. We’re near maximum deadweight tonnage. We’ll only carry high value items from now on.”

“But where are you going?” said Sapphire. “You haven’t told me.”

“You must join the crew if you want to know that, sailor. All I can say is that throughout history, ships have been used by men for many things – fishing, commercial, and military purposes; to transport people, to entertain them, to spread technology; to colonize and enslave; to spread new crops leading to our world’s crazy population growth, and promoting energy-intensive economies. Here’s our chance to make a difference.”

“I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

“Have you read Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn?” Sapphire nodded. “We follow the advice of the great sailor-philosopher, Mark Twain.” The captain closed her eyes and recited, “‘So throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbour. Catch the trade wind in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.’ To this I add ‘change’.”

“Change what?” said Sapphire.

“Change everything! We sail great rivers, lakes, and seas, following our dreams. Taking ideas everywhere. We’re always looking for good crew members. Will you join us?”

Sapphire felt that she had nothing to lose, and said, “Aye-Aye Captain! When do we sail?”

“As soon as you salute our flag,” said the Captain, indicating for Sapphire to go above board. The royal blue flag was now fluttering. Within its golden sun was the shape of a little girl.

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Most of the Stars

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on March 10, 2012 by javedbabar

“Where’s the sci-fi section?” Gemma asked the librarian. “There? Over there? Uh, ok.” She walked over to the wall filled with her favourite writers – Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Frank Herbert, Robert Heinlein, William Gibson, Philip K. Dick. She’d read them all. There aren’t too many women authors, thought Gemma. There’s Ursula Le Guin and Margaret Atwood, but that’s pretty much it. I wonder why? Maybe I will become a sci-fi author to swell their ranks.

She wandered by mistake into the poetry section. P is pretty close to S. She didn’t mind skipping the Romance section. Romance books are often cheesy, and always stupid. She’d rather do it than read about it anyway, so never mind.

Let’s take a look at the poetry, she thought. William Shakespeare… To be or not to be, that is the question. William Wordsworth… I wandered lonely as a cloud. William Blake… Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, in the forests of the night. Walt Whitman… I sing the body electric. It was great to see more women here. Maya Angelou… You may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise. Emily Dickenson… Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. Sylvia Plath… I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; lift my eyes and all is born again. Kathleen Raine… And see the peaceful trees extend their myriad leaves in leisured dance….

She saw an old book out of place among the new ones. It was pretty battered. A layer of dust slipped off when Gemma retrieved it. Its outer was deepest blue, reminding her of night sky, and the same colour continued within, featuring the sun, moon, planets, stars, and comets. The image must have been over-printed many times to achieve such depth of colour. The book was called “Most of the Stars”, and consisted of one long poem which began:

“Most of the stars rose up within in her;

And she met her needs by reflection…”

Beside these lines was the stunning image of an upside-down, inside-out, heavenly goddess. It was a most unusual illustration, possibly Victorian. The lines were clean, yet held great fluidity. Gemma wondered how she could be standing proudly, but also be upside-down? And have a substantial body, but also be inside-out? The celestial objects filling her body made it heavenly; to know her required stellar navigation.

The Goddess reminded Gemma of her teenage years. They were very difficult years. Her skin changed as she grew. Multi-coloured blotches appeared across her body. The doctor said that they were unusual, but nothing to worry about, merely pigmentation abnormalities, known unofficially as “Spectral Skin”. But as Gemma continued her study of stars, she noticed that her blotches were not random patterns. They matched the positions of heavenly bodies, and moved around. There were ten main blotches that circled around her, appearing and disappearing around her front and back. Gemma knew that her search must be among the stars.

She recalled her childhood’s most thrilling event: visiting the planetarium. Entering its vast, cool white dome made her think of the inside of her skull. The stars appeared magically, and shone everywhere forever. Wherever she looked, there was sky.

The Goddess in the book seemed Mistress of the heavens’ motion. She could see the stars from any position in the world, at any point in time. She seemed a living starball, and also a spherical projection screen.

“Do you want a telescope for your birthday?” her father had asked her. “You spend so much time with your head out of the window, you may as well.”

“That would be great,” she’d said, and was soon an amateur astronomer. She peered at the moon mostly, saw its craters and scars – that poor little thing had really taken a battering. Mars had also had a rough ride, and were those long streaks really canals made my Martians? Saturn’s rings were creepy, looking like they would cut it in half, like a magician’s bad trick. Most of all she loved Jupiter’s red blob, like a bloody eye, staring back at her. Plus all the comets, nebulae, star clusters, and galaxies. She wondered how this universe formed.

Her mother read their horoscopes daily. She said, “The stars are fate, showing secrets permanent and predestined.” She’d call out, “Honey, do you want to hear what’s going to happen to you today?” They were never very accurate though. Gemma found a website that asked for your time and place of birth. It calculated the positions of the sun, moon, and planets above that particular place at that precise moment, and predicted everything about you. Its central principle was that of our cosmic integration, recognizing divine communications within celestial cycles. It said, “The cosmic order determines the place of everything in the universe – stars, planets, people. We were not apart from anything, ever.”

When Gemma had problems she didn’t take them personally. She knew them as opportunities written in the stars. She realized that we see the world as we are. As above, so below. As within, so beyond. The planets circled around her always. And her soul was their sun. What she yearned for now was a Starman. A Tyger who truly was, to join her lonely wanderings. To rise like stardust together. To lift their eyes. He would extend his hand and ask her to dance. Till death stopped for them.

“Excuse me,” said a bookish boy. “Do you know where the sci-fi section is?”

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Spinthro & Aquila

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 8, 2012 by javedbabar

Spinthro spotted a good hole in the snow. Pickings were slim in winter so he was glad for the find. He could have stayed in the trees for longer but that was getting boring; a hunter can’t stay cooped up forever. A spiderling’s got to travel – see the world – to become a spider. The dark bulk of Mt. Negra had called him forever, and it was time for him to go.

He spun an orb-web immediately. One of his proteins was a little off, and not mixing well with others. He tested it with a front leg – yes, it would intercept prey; yes, it would absorb their momentum; yes, it would entangle and hold them, ready for dinner. The web was fit for purpose. Within the hour, a cedar moth flew into the web. It struggled for a while but soon gave up, exhausted. Spinthro watched its terror increase through all eight of his eyes; he zapped it with venom, and flooded its corpse with digestive enzymes. Then he ground it down further with pedipalps. Dinner was thus served.

Spinthro’s brethren hunted various prey – he’d heard of spiders eating lizards, even birds – but he stuck with insects and smaller spiders. Of course the most popular, proven method was using a sticky web; but spiders also lassoed prey with home-made bolas; to avoid detection they camouflaged themselves, or mimicked prey; ferocious spiders even ran prey down!

He thought back to web class. They learnt how to use their spinnarets efficiently to produce all six kinds of silk together; how to draw out their proteins smoothly and transform their structure; and how to harden them into the world’s strongest, most flexible, versatile material. It could be used for many things besides webs. Sperm and egg wrappers, and safety ropes. Girls focussed on nest-building; boys used silk to make parachutes!

Survival class taught them about peripheral vision; putting your eight eyes to best use. With dragonflies and birds around, this saves your life. They learnt about hydraulic repairs. Spiders’ limbs operate by fluid pressure; one leak and you’re done for. The most vital class was sex education. How to deal with females. You needed to create the right web vibrations, or mighty females may gobble you up. The Spider Code was instilled into all spiderlings: Be Patient, Be Scary, Be Cruel, Be Creative.

Spinthro knew he was a holy being of mysterious power. Spiders had spun webs to protect Muhammad, King David, and Robert the Bruce. He was Anansi the trickster god, and Spider Grandfather. In modern times, he was Spiderman. He weaved his web as humans weaved their lives. The Shaman he spoke to said that clever humans behaved like spiders, manipulating their thoughts and actions skilfully, like strands of a web. He had eight legs and eight eyes. Eight was the symbol of infinity. He was the spinner of the fabric of existence.

High above Spinthro sat Aquila. Though the spider only knew her as the moving top of a tree, the eagle had seen the spider clearly, crawling way below. Her huge pupils allowed in much light, and ensured minimum diffraction, leading to a clean, deep gaze. She sat in this perfect nesting site, a giant old-growth cedar with 360o vantage.

Both her eggs had hatched successfully, but the older sister had killed her younger brother soon after he appeared. This is a cruel world and females must get ahead whenever they can. Aquila had been sad to lose her son, but knew that this was the way of life. She had done the same to her younger brother. It was a wonder that there were any guys left at all.

Her mother had told her about her name. Aquila means dark, on account of her dark feathers. The similar aquilo referred to the north wind, whose thermals she rode. But their moniker bald eagle was misunderstood. Its derivation was from a word meaning white-headed, rather than bare-headed. The shamans she spoke to had told her that.

Many gods had adopted eagle form. Zeus became an eagle to attack and seduce others. Garuda’s eagle body was so massive that it could block out the sun. Muhammad’s black standard was known as the Banner of the Eagle. An eagle was symbol of St. John the Evangelist. A knight bearing an eagle crest would be courageous, a man of action and justice. Spread eagle’s wings indicated protection, as embodied by Holy Roman, Russian, and French Emperors. It was the emblem of the old lands of Egypt, Iraq and Palestine, and newer lands of Poland, Spain and America.

Aquila was proud of her noble lineage. It made her welcome everywhere in the world. If Lucerne’s lakes froze over this winter, she would migrate somewhere south. She could swoop and snatch fish from Mexican or Bolivian lakes. Her broad even wings created direct, fast flight; her heavy head and large hooked beak, strong muscular legs, and powerful talons ensured that fish had no chance of escape. How could they against a spiritual messenger of the gods? They had given her the gift of clear vision, and the ability to fly above life’s worldly levels.

Aquila’s keen eyes looked around. There was the little spider in the snow hole, in which it had built an orb-web; created its own little world. She could swoop down easily and have a little snack. It would be good exercise and worth the effort nutritionally. But she didn’t feel like doing it. He was working so hard down there. Let him continue to work the land, she thought. She would uphold her dominance of the air. The spider was the Actor; she was the Observer. Their worlds were different yet the same.

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