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The Debaters

Posted in Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 5, 2012 by javedbabar

It was Lucerne Museum’s Annual Debate. Dimpy (Dimples) was pleased with herself. Who would have imagined, five years ago when she became Director, that an event at the Museum could be sold out – jammed! There was a waiting list for tickets, even a small black market she’d heard. She was a natural bringer together of people. It was her gift from God – or gods if there was more than one.

Dimpy was inspired by many sources. She recalled watching parliamentary debates in her childhood. Though the subject matter was generally uninteresting, members’ logical strategies and emotional appeals were fascinating. She had always enjoyed the Massey lectures – presenting original points of view. Recently she’d been impressed by a radio show called The Debaters, where pairs of comedians tried to provide the best combination of “facts and funny”.

Topics of debate were chosen by the Museum Board. In the past four years they had included, “Is Lucerne Village an independent entity or a slave to Strattus?” It was felt that Lucerne was basically a big bedroom for the local resort town of Strattus. “Should Lucerne Village retain its capacity or double in size?” It was felt that Lucerne should double in size. “Should Lucerne Village support old farms or modern industry?” This was declared a tie. Last year’s debate was controversial: “Should Lucerne Village create population quotas, or remain laissez faire?” The audience supported gender, racial, cultural, sexual orientation, religious, disability, and age-related quotas. People asked Dimpy why she had promoted debate on such a divisive issue. She said “That’s exactly why. People should speak freely, and think fiercely.”

Today’s topic was safer. More abstract. “Who is the true guardian of Lucerne Village: St. Lucy or Cernunnos?”

It was traditional for debaters to dress up. They did not disappoint. St. Lucy entered. She had long, blonde hair bound in plaits, topped by a wreath of greens which held seven lit candles; she wore a plain white dress, belted by a red sash; she bore a golden platter on which were small biscuits shaped like eyeballs. These symbolized the eyes that she had herself removed to be rid of a pagan suitor. She offered the biscuits to audience-members. Dimpy felt that this may be unfair, but let it go. Being eight months pregnant – the less effort expended today, the better.

Cernunnos danced in to cheers. He was dressed head to toe in a woolly brown goat skin, and bore twisting black horns. His long black boots gave the impression of hooves, and both arms and legs bore heavy golden bracelets called torcs. He carried a goatskin bag of liquor, and criss-cross belts filled with shooter glasses, which he rapidly filled and passed to audience-members. This was definitely not allowed, but Dimply also let it slide.

It was time to begin. She addressed the audience. “Welcome to the Museum’s Annual Debate. As you can see, we have a pair of very engaging characters present this evening. So without further ado, let us debate the motion of who is the true guardian of Lucerne Village. There will be four rounds in total. The first is their Arguments.”

St. Lucy wondered why they were even discussing this topic; the answer was apparent in her name. “Lucy comes from lux,” she said, “meaning light. What is more welcome in this land of long, cold, dark winters? Lucy brings light and warmth to your frozen souls. In Central Europe on St. Lucy’s day, bands of fortune-telling boys sing her songs of life; in Scandinavia, eldest daughters make warm breakfast for their families, and join processions of moon-girls and star-boys, lighting up the streets. Her Italian form, Juno, is goddess of childbirth, bringing babes into the light; and throughout Christian countries, she is the kind-hearted patron of the blind. Wherever she goes, Lucy brings joy and light.”

There was great applause from the ladies in the audience. Cernunnos made obscene gestures and leered, before beginning his Argument.

He said, “Cernunnos is a mysterious god. He moves in dark ways. His name comes from kornan, the Gaulish word for horn. His having horns or antlers shows his kinship with beasts, of whom he is Lord, and he sits cross-legged, surrounded by stags, bulls, serpents, dogs, and rats. His horn is both a ceremonial trumpet and military horn. He loves all kind of adventures, and the wealth they lead to – both as tribute and as experience. But most of all, he is horny, period. His horn shows his love of life – symbolizing its cycles of birth, death, and rebirth. So good people, be horny and vote for me!”

Every man present cheered. St. Lucy averted her eyes.

Dimpy said “Now the Bare Knuckles round,” This became pretty heated, with Cernunnos calling St. Lucy a prude, and her calling him a pervert. He didn’t seem to mind this moniker and made further obscene gestures. The Firing Line round involved questions about Lucerne Village. St. Lucy fared better on social issues and family affairs; Cernunnos performed well on leisure and economic matters. Then their final Summations: St. Lucy spoke of brightness, faith, and culture. Cernunnos extolled self-expression, darkness, and nature.

When Dimpy asked the audience to vote, there were big cheers for both sides. She requested a re-cheer. Again it was impossible to decide. A third and final round of cheering caused her water to break and her labour to start early. Fortunately Dr. Bungawalla was in the audience and took charge. It all happened in a flash, and a babe emerged before them.

St. Lucy said that as goddess of childbirth, this miracle was hers. Cernunnos said that as a fertility god, the credit was all his. Dimpy ruled that the baby was crying out for them both. Lucerne Village was a place of light and dark. They were both her newborn’s guardians.

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Lightcone

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 2, 2012 by javedbabar

Albert worked in the Lightcone. It was all he’d ever known. The hard whiteness of the Highest Light broke into fragments far above, and bounced off crystal walls. It created a spectrum of infinitely clear hues, which filled the cone with endless brightness, like the heart of a jewel. Everything was illuminated everywhere, and shadows were simply not possible. The Highest Light seemed a vast jewel itself, so intense was its fire.

“Howdy, brother,” Albert said to his fellow worker.

“Howdy, brother,” the worker replied, and bumped Albert’s right fist, then his left fist. This was the only interaction encouraged between workers. It was a hard job seeking the perfect jewel; casual distractions and unnecessary affiliations were forbidden. The penalties for disturbance were not harsh, but the shame was strong, and the knowledge that you had lost a week of searching; a week in which another worker could have found your jewel.

Albert’s job was seeking, selecting, and grading the finest jewels. They had flaked off the crystal walls for millennia, and lay scattered in patches around the cone. Access to these areas was restricted to Jewellers; strong men like him whose fathers had done likewise, and their forefathers, back to the beginning of the Lightcone.

Each Jeweller had a general purpose and also a specific one. His general purpose was to serve society by offering it the finest jewels, used in factories for cutting weapons, traded for spices and metals, and used to decorate holy temples and shrines. His specific purpose was to search ceaselessly for his personal jewel. Some jewels – not necessarily the biggest or brightest – held the same vibrations as people, the same awareness as their soul. Albert’s life would be complete once he found his jewel. He would take it to the Temple to be tested and approved, and then begin the great journey to the top of the Lightcone, the journey that was the highest honour and greatest ordeal.

He recalled the pride he’d felt when his father had found his own jewel. “Son, I have completed my life’s purpose,” he had said to twelve-year-old Albert. “The priestess has confirmed its vibrational match and blessed my life force. Now I will climb to the light, as my father once did, and all of our forefathers.”

Albert recalled the dark, muscular figure, clad in short white tunic, begin to climb the rock-cut steps around the Lightcone’s rim. For three days, they saw this white speck rising higher, reflected as multiple specks in the crystal walls. It was as if his father had become many fathers. The higher he climbed, the more he multiplied, till it seemed to Albert that the cone was filled with fathers, all looking down. When he drew near the Highest Light, he diffused; he lost all separation and definition; he merged.

Albert’s mother had comforted him, saying, “Come son, let’s go to the Transparent Temple. There we will look into the Great Jewel. Maybe your father will send us a message.”

“I don’t want to go to the Temple,” Albert had said. “I want to go home.” In truth he wanted to run up the rock-cut steps after his father, and join him in the Highest Light. But it was a dangerous way on slim paths, along loose cliffs, through jungles, past waterfalls, along rope bridges, and where they were broken, crawling and grasping across gaps. Only a man who had found his jewel – and within it, seen his holy vision, and heard his holy vibration – was ready to go. Not boys like him.

Albert knew that it would be unforgivable of him to not attend his father’s rites. He went to the Temple with his mother. His extended family sat around the Great Jewel; the younger members an even mixture of boys and girls, but the older ones mainly women whose husbands had already undertaken their holy journeys. They looked into the Great Jewel together. Maybe they imagined it, but as the Highest Light poured onto the Great Jewel, they witnessed Albert’s father lighting the heart of the gem.

“He’s made it,” said a Great Aunty, hugging Albert’s mother. Other Great Aunties did the same.

Twelve years later, still a young man, Albert found his jewel. It was a fist-sized, grainy gem, with clear streaks running through its core. It seemed to throb with the same vibration as his heart. When he looked deeply into its clear channels, he saw his father walking and himself as a child crawling behind him, rising within the Lightcone together, towards the Highest Light.

“Don’t tell anyone,” his mother said. “You’re too young to go.”

“But mother, I have had my calling,” he said.

“But you haven’t found a wife or had children yet. It’s too early. I won’t tell anyone. Just put it back somewhere. No one will know.”

“Mother I will know. It must be so.”

After bumping fists with his fellow workers, Albert said farewell to his family and began to climb the rock-cut steps. He rode the slim paths on loose cliffs, went through jungles, past waterfalls, along rope bridges, and crawled and grasped across gaps.

When he reached the Highest Light, he realized that there was no light there. It was the Lightcone itself that was the source of light, reflecting itself endlessly. He had emerged from the Lightcone, which was now a glowing well beneath him. The realm outside was one of darkness, where the only light present came from his glowing hand. Holding his jewel before him, Albert wandered into this strange gloomy landscape. He now understood the higher purpose of his people. It was to spread their light here.

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Always Sunshine

Posted in Alternative Energy, World Myths with tags , , , , on February 26, 2012 by javedbabar

Safra preferred the children’s sections of waiting rooms. They were often orange or yellow, had funny seating, and a range of wooden and cuddly toys. The adult sections were always so boring – full of old chairs, old magazines, and old people – and if you were visiting a medical professional, they generally made you feel worse. It had been a year since he’d last visited a doctor, and it was never something he looked forward to. But at least he was seeing Dr. Bungawalla – healer of his family for fifty years. Safra sat in the adult section, enviously watching the children playing.

As a boy he’d loved the sun and wished that there was “always sunshine”. You should be careful what you wish for! The world was now four degrees warmer, and there was lots more sunshine – most would say too much. Climate change had caused global upheavals, but for the owner of GPS: Gaia Power Systems, that hadn’t been a bad thing.

“Mr Safra?” the fake blonde receptionist called out. He walked over to the desk. “Would you please complete this form before seeing the doctor? It’s just lifestyle information for our metrics.”

“Is that you?” he said. “On the poster behind? What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s a sponsored walk I do every year. We raise money for children’s charities, mainly for skin cancer.”

“That’s very good of you,” said Safra. “When’s the next one?”

“Next month we’re walking from Mt. Alba to Mt. Negra; that’s 100 km.”

“Wow! Put me down for a dollar-a-kilometre. Make sure you’re wearing plenty of sunscreen though. That will be a pretty hot haul.”

“Thank you Mr. Safra. That’s very kind of you. Now, if you wouldn’t mind completing the form, the doctor will see you shortly.”

Safra filled in the personal data and then began the travel section. There was never enough space. His work as an alternative energy specialist took him all over the world. He spent weeks on end in deserts during installation, and his larger projects required annual checks. This year he had already visited solar farms in Texas, Morocco, Arabia, and Tibet; places where there was “always sunshine”.

Someday he’d like to visit the Southern Wind Belt – joints like Congo, Brazil, and Indonesia – but with all their crazy storms – a hurricane here and tornado there – you were putting your life at risk. Those were adventures for men younger and braver than he.

There was always the option to explore the Northern Wind Belt – American East Coast, Central Europe, and Upper China – but what would he do there? Their populations had shifted, their monuments were crumbling, and infrastructure destroyed.

There were no opportunities in the Wind Belts for energy production; the elements were just too fierce. Maybe there would be stronger materials soon, and more robust systems, but for now GPS would stick with solar power in central deserts, and wind power in polar seas. Leave the hair-raising stuff to the kids, he thought.

He returned the completed form to the receptionist. “My, we are a world traveller,” she said. “We’re lucky to have you in Lucerne.”

“Well, even a salmon returns to its river once in its lifetime,” he said. “This is home.”

“I’ve been here for two years, Mr. Safra. I’ve never seen you before. You must be an extraordinarily healthy man. Good for you!”

“If I had seen you before,” he said. “I would also have remembered.” She blushed as he said this. “Miss…?”

“Mrs.” She emphasized, and looked at him in a mock-stern manner. “Mrs. Bungawalla.”

“Mrs. Bungawalla! So Dr. Bungawalla is your…?”

`           “Dr. Bungawalla is my husband.”

Boy he’d kept that quiet, the old rascal. He was in his seventies, and she was in her – forties? Fifty, tops. Wasn’t this the fifth wife in as many decades? What was his secret? “How is the good Doctor?” he said to fill the silence.

“You can ask him yourself. He’s expecting you now.”

Safra felt foolish hitting on the doctor’s wife/receptionist. He wondered if she would tell her husband. He knocked on the door marked “Dr. A.K. Bungawalla” and entered upon hearing a muffled hailing. Dr. Bungawalla was a small, dark man with luminous skin, which absorbed and reflected all light in the room. Despite having treated Safra since boyhood, he maintained his professional air. “How can I help you, Mr. Safra?”

“I’ve got these strange blotches on my skin. I’m concerned it could be skin cancer. Can you please take a look at them?”

Dr. Bungawalla examined the blotches and said, “Nothing of concern.”

“My eyes have been hurting on the insides. I wonder if my retinas are burned.”

Dr. Bungawalla pulled Safra’s eyelids and peered in with a small torch. He said, “All quite normal.”

“Also I’m feeling feverish. Do men have menopause? I didn’t think so.”

Dr. Bungawalla said, “Well not quite, but tell me more.”

Safra told him about the hot flushes and panic attacks; the temper tantrums; the insomnia and self-loathing.

“Mr. Safra, it’s good that you came to see me about this. I am not able to help you personally, but can recommend a good psychotherapist. It’s a common complaint these days called “Oedipal Overheating”. As the world’s temperature continues to rise, people feel guilty about humanity’s part in climate change. They feel that they have caused their Mother, Earth, so much pain that they must punish themselves continuously. A few sessions of Alternative Therapy – to match your Alternative Energy; how’s that going by the way? – should do the trick.”

Safra told Dr. Bungawalla about GPS, then prepared to go.

“Wait! I have some good advice for you,” said Dr. Bungawalla. “Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and shadows will fall behind you.”

“That’s very good. Is it yours?”

“If you were a lady, Mr. Safra, I’d say yes. But I will admit to you that those words are Mr. Whitman’s.”

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Leaving Party

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

“Hey, I’m glad you could make it!” said Anna. “You’re just in time!”

“It was nice to be invited,” said Max, stepping into the third-floor apartment. “I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving. We’ve only just met really.”

“Never mind, I’m sure there will be other occasions. Just come in and make yourself at home. What can I get you?” Max saw a well-stocked bar behind her – there was beer and wine; whisky, vodka, rum, and gin; ports and sherries; some mysterious bright bottles of Mexican liquor. He also noticed many different smiling photos, likely friends.

“Just a beer to warm up, thank you,” he said. “I’ll pace myself.”

“Hey man, don’t be shy. Me casa es su casa! Here’s a cinnamon whisky – cheers!”

Max became conscious that he was the only guest present. “Am I too early?” he said. “You did say around nine didn’t you?”

“No, you’re right on time,” said Anna. “I’m not sure who else is coming tonight. I have a leaving party every week, so people don’t come every time.”

“You have a leaving party every week?” said Max. “Where do you go?”

“Well I don’t go anywhere really. But I could go. That’s the point.”

“Huh?” said Max. He wondered now if coming here was such a good idea.

Anna looked at him closely and said, “I have a medical condition. My kidney – I only have one – has reverse functionality. Instead of cleaning my body, it makes toxins which seep into all of my organs. So every week I am full of poison, and on Mondays I go to the health centre; they hook me up to their computers for checks.”

“Whoa, babe!” said Max. “That’s pretty heavy stuff.” She smiled at him broadly. “Well, I guess you’re right to celebrate… I think.” He scanned the bar again. “But what’s with all the booze? Wouldn’t it be better to cut back on that a bit?”

“I’m just like most people,” said Anna. “I do my drinking at weekends. But the difference is that I have a check up every Monday morning. Pretty responsible of me really, wouldn’t you say?” Max could only nod. “Hey, wanna help me with a jigsaw? I need to get it done by tomorrow.” He nodded again, and thought, what a strange girl I’ve met. She seemed so normal when we chatted in the library, and now its reverse-kidneys, full-bars, and urgent jigsaws.

Anna handed him a banana-rum, and led him to the dining table. Upon it was a giant goddess jigsaw, mainly completed, whose capacity was difficult to gauge. The image was of a starry woman floating in the heavens; so it had cosmic scale. However its physical size was the same as the dining table – so about human-size. The starry borders had been completed first, and pieces worked inwards from there. The outline of the goddess was finished, as were her limbs. The space within her however required completion.

“So what do you think?” said Anna. “Pretty neat puzzle, huh?” Max raised his eyebrows. “Well, shall we start?”

“Looks like you’ve done most of the hard work already,” he said. She looked at him strangely – nervously, he felt – and handed him pieces from the remaining pile. He spread them out; they all seemed approximately the same shape, and somewhat pinky-blue. Was there any real difference between them, he wondered? Were they interchangeable? He noticed the pieces’ strange texture – they were slippery to the touch, maybe waxed.

He hadn’t completed a jigsaw in years. It was a good test of patience, and exercised your peripheral vision, he knew. But it seemed pretty pointless. Instead of re-making something that existed already, why not make something new and better?

Max knew that the shapes were formed of rigid cardboard, but they also seemed malleable. He squashed them between his fingers. Anna was perspiring and looking dazed. “Are you ok?” he said.

“Actually, I’m feeling a little dizzy,” she said, “and a little silly. Maybe you were right about the booze. Do you mind if I go and lie down for a while?”

“Er, sure. Do you want me to go home?”

“No, please don’t,” she said. “Can you help me to finish the jigsaw?”

“I think I’m getting a feel for it now. I’ll do my best.”

Anna poured him a cherry gin, then went into her bedroom and closed the door. Max continued toying with the waxy, squashy pieces. There seemed to be too many to fit into the space remaining, and their shapes were strangely ill-defined. They sort of fitted together, but they also didn’t. The more he tried to squeeze them together, the more rebellious they became. Some popped out again after he’d fitted them; some slid into new arrangements; some were just plain impossible to fit. After an hour – maybe – he’d managed – amazingly – to squeeze them all in, though he was not sure how. Well he’d done as requested, and had better go home. He finished the lemon-flavoured firewater he’d poured himself, and put on his coat and shoes.

As he was about to go, the bedroom door opened, and out came beaming Anna. “Boy, I feel good again!” she said. “Thank you!”

“Me?” said Max. “What did I do?”

She said, “Please don’t be scared; it’s called sympathetic magic, used for thousands of years. What you did to the goddess, she did to me. You helped me to rebuild myself, piece by piece. Those clinic people can never believe that I’m still alive. I have my friends to thank for that. For me every leaving party is a living party; the day that no-one comes to my party is the day that I die.”

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Sitara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready for what?” said Alison.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you mean, ‘slept all night’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Great Equation

Posted in Conceptual Art, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on February 14, 2012 by javedbabar

“Is there a solution to everything?” asked Daniel.

Mr. Thompson said, “There may be, Daniel. They may be. But we can’t be sure of it. What we can do is to try to find it. And if we try hard enough, maybe we’ll succeed.”

“Are there solutions to war, or hunger, or hatred, or death?”

“These are unusual questions for a Grade 12 Mathematics class, Daniel. But Maths is a broad subject. I would be happy for the class to consider them. However, we must first complete today’s exercise in Algebra.” Mr Thompson wrote an X in the middle of the board, and then in his characteristic, ambidextrous way, spread his arms wide, and began writing a’s, b’s, and c’s on both ends of the board, the strings of letters converging towards the centre, marching towards the unknown X.

Mr. Thompson had entertained Daniel’s question, but it had not been answered, and it remained on Daniel’s mind for the rest of the day. He decided to pose that question to other teachers too. “Not to everything,” his science teacher said. “But we can use scientific methodology such as induction and deduction to explore the question.”

His English teacher said, “There is no solution to anything. There are only the words describing that thing, which are constantly changing their cultural semantics.”

His Religious Studies teacher said, “Yes, there is. For most people in the world the solution is God.” Daniel was not convinced by this. If God was the solution, then what was the question? “Please can we have war? And hunger? And hatred? And death?”

Daniel asked his parents the same question that night; “Is there a solution to everything?”

“Of course there is, Daniel,” they said. “The solution is love – like parents have for their children. Selfless love.” Daniel wondered how this differed from selfish love – where your love for a particular person, nation, tribe, or race leads to war, hunger, hatred, and death.

Of all the answers he’d heard, Daniel liked Mr. Thompson’s best – that there may be an answer, and we had to look for it. No wonder Math was his favourite class. Did the “we” include himself, he wondered? Or should such questions be left to professionals – professors at universities, and politicians in governments. But weren’t their solutions – theories and policies – just as flawed as everyone else’s?

Daniel recalled his mother’s book called The Power of Now. It said that the past was a memory, and the future a fantasy; the only thing that truly existed was Now. So if he wanted to find a solution to anything, he’d better start now. Daniel pulled out a large sheet of cardboard that he was saving for art class, uncapped a sharpie, and locked his bedroom door. He wondered how to begin finding a solution to everything.

Maybe he should start with the Known. This was usually represented by letters at the beginning of the alphabet – so he wrote down a smattering of a’s, b’s, and c’s. Next were the Unknowns, shown by letters at the end of the alphabet. He wrote a scattering of x’s, y’s, and z’s. He would have to get somehow from the Knowns to the Unknowns, so better throw in some Operations. He liberally spread +’s, –‘s, ×’s, and ÷’s.

Daniel stared at the cardboard sheet glumly. It was just a mess of letters and signs. What was the next step? Maybe Calculus? He slotted in a bunch of Integration and Differentiation symbols – long s’s and f (symbols). He added Real and Imaginary numbers – “A little imagination never hurts,” his Art teacher had told him – by throwing a heavy dusting of integers and i’s across the page. Then some Irrational numbers, like π and e. He didn’t have room to write them out – for they continued infinitely.

It was starting to look more like a galaxy than an equation. Clusters appeared here and there, like solar systems. What was still missing, he wondered? He stared deeply into the heart of the mess, and spun it around. He realized that the 3 looked like an unformed Om; the 8 was an infinity symbol rotated; + signs were crosses; 0 was the pagan symbol of nature’s cycles, and π looked like a torii shrine.

Yes! Holy symbols! They weren’t that different from mathematical symbols. Daniel added the symbols he had learnt in Religious Studies – Crosses, Crescent Moons, Stars of David, Wheels of Life, Khandas, Om’s, Yin-Yangs, Chinese water symbols, Torii shrines, and Circles. This universe was really taking shape! But as a solution to everything, it still had some way to go.

Then it struck him. It wasn’t a single Unknown that he was trying to uncover. His second question about war, hunger, hatred, and death had recognized this fact. This was a set of Simultaneous Equations – there was no simple solution, though maybe a very complex one. A grade 12 boy after the ultimate truth; how foolish indeed. He had been kidding himself.

He sat for a while sadly, and then beheld a spark of hope. What if the solution wasn’t logical or mathematical? What if there was no proof? What if he looked at things in a way that was irrational? What then?

He treated the mathematical cloud before him as a 3-D picture, and relaxed his eyes and mind. Things looked very different when he did this, but however hard he tried, no hidden pattern emerged. It did, however, start to look like something from science class – a map of Cosmic Microwave Background radiation; shock wave remnants of Big Bang. Then he saw something else – the empty spaces between numbers, symbols, and signs. Was this like Dark Energy: the universe’s hidden constituent?

There was a knocking somewhere, which broke his concentration. It was his bedroom door. “Daniel,” called his mother.

“Ok, hang on a minute,” he called out. He felt that he had been getting somewhere on his journey of deepest truth, and was annoyed at being disturbed. He couldn’t be bothered to get up so called out, “Come in, mum.”

“I can’t love.” Daniel had forgotten he’d locked the door.

He said, “Oh sorry, let me open it.”

As he opened the door, he realized his mistake. If the door was locked on the outside, what he had to do was open it from within. The answer did not lie in the Known, Unknown, Operations, Calculus, Real or Imaginary or Irrational numbers, nor in Holy Symbols, 3-D pictures, CMB or Dark Energy. The answer for him was the door he chose to open. He was the solution to everything.

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Divine

Posted in Organic Farming, World Myths with tags , , on February 8, 2012 by javedbabar

“I’m going to make you look divine,” said the beautician. “Just you wait and see. I’m not saying that you’re not a looker already; you are, babe. But today is your special day. Don’t you worry about a thing, girl. You just relax and enjoy yourself. Leave all the work to Aunty Marge.”

Simone sat in the purple-padded salon chair quietly. She had no choice; this woman never stopped talking. “Now just lean back a little, sweetheart; a little more; that’s it. Relax your neck. There’s no need to get stiff now is there, on your special day? Close your eyes if you want. Dream of beautiful things.”

Marge turned the cold knob, then the hot knob, testing the water. “Ooh! Aah! Ooh! Aah!” she said, and pulled her hand back. “Excuse the monkey noises, dear.” She turned the cold a little more, and tested again. “Just right now.” She pulled Simone’s hair together and ran it through the water. There was a citrus scent; lemony-grapefruity.

“They’re looking over at you. Ooh, they are – the other girls and the customers. Everyone knows, at least around here they do. They’re proud that one of our local girls was chosen. You did real good, darling.” Simone opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Marge continued. “Now don’t speak, honey. Don’t you say anything at all. You save your breath for later. You’ll need it to climb all those steps – how many are there, 108? – so people can see you properly.”

Marge washed and conditioned Simone’s hair. Then she asked her to sit in another chair which was also purple-padded. “Ooh, you’re sitting rather high in this one, aren’t you, love? I didn’t realize you were so tall. I mean, I knew that you were a tall girl; they always are; but not that tall. What are you, six-feet?”

Simone opened her mouth to tell her, but was again interrupted. “Ok, I’ll do your hair real nice, now. You’ve got beautiful hair; I hardly need to touch it. I’ll just give it a little brush up. Some spot relaxer, and a bit of fire. Maybe a touch of hydrogel. And protein coating. And my secret ingredient; I’m sure you won’t tell anyone – black olive oil. How does that sound?” Simone nodded. “Perfect. You just relax there, honey. Aunty Marge is looking after you.”

There was almost a minute of silence, and then Marge said, “I don’t really know your mother, but I see her in town shopping sometimes. What a beautiful lady. I can see where you get your looks from. I’m surprised she didn’t get chosen herself when she was your age. Good job she didn’t, eh?” Marge winked and laughed.

“Ok, your hair’s all done; let’s start on that lovely face of yours. I hardly need to touch it. Let’s start with some cleanser and foundation. Some shading here and there. Maybe a bit more here. And here. And here. And there. Some blush – I’ll just brush it over – there you go. How’s it looking so far?”

Marge continued. “Business is bad this year. We’re barely getting half the customers. These days you need to look better than ever to even stand a chance of getting a job. These women don’t understand the value of investing in themselves. But you do, don’t you love? You’re making the ultimate investment.”

Simone didn’t get the chance to agree with Marge. “I’ll finish up your face now, babe. We’ll go with something classy. How about purple? That’s a regal colour, seems appropriate, doesn’t it? Oh, that looks so good on your eyes! I knew it! I knew it! It looks fabulous! Just hold them still while I do your eyeliner. I’ll bring it out a little at the sides, like Cleopatra, it’ll look dramatic. Oh, the purple looks good on your lips too! So good! Don’t you look beautiful?

“If only our brave boys could see you now. Wouldn’t they march into battle with a spring in their step? Thank God for this holy war, I say. How bad would the recession be otherwise? Providing no tribute – who do they think they are! Our economy is sinking, and theirs is booming, and they say we couldn’t have any! Where’s the sense in that?

Simone wasn’t in the mood for this discussion, and was about to change the topic, when Marge said, “I’ll touch up your fingers and toes, my love, and you’ll be ready. What do you say, purple varnish? With some silver sparkles?” Simone nodded. “The moment I heard the news I knew what to do with you. Make you into a proper princess. Sorry, should I say goddess? You know what I mean, love. The girls here are so jealous. They wanted to help me, but I said no; you’re not a doll being made in a factory by dollar-a-piece workers. You need the hand of a master craftswoman. And who better than your Aunty Marge?” She held up a mirror at various angles for Simone to peer into.

“I’m all for the war, darling. It brings more prisoners for sacrifice, it expands our influence, and brings in wealth. But killing people always makes me sad. That’s why events like this are so important to cheer us all up. I mean, seeing you tonight climbing up to the top of the temple, wearing your golden jewellery and crown, the Goddess Incarnate! And the knowledge that you will happily give your life for us, as part of the ongoing sacrifice that sustains our world. Your body will nourish the soils, and plants, and animals, and birds; and your beating heart will liberate all of our spirits, and reunite them with the sun.

“Oh, I hope I get to consume even a tiny shred of your holy body tonight. But even if I don’t, at least I know I’ve played my humble part.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Forgive me love, I’m getting emotional. Do you want a final blow-dry?”

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Counting

Posted in Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on February 7, 2012 by javedbabar

The brothers were told to count the Dal. Rav counted Red Dal, Gav counted Green Dal, and Baz counted Black Dal. Each large jar had to be counted daily. They were never told why they had to do this, but if they didn’t, they would be beaten severely.

The Dal jars were of ancient glass with tiny cracks all around them, and golden lids encrusted with gems of appropriate colours. The rubies sparkled, the emeralds were majestic, and the agate mysterious, though their father reminded them constantly, “Don’t be jazzled by the jewels; be dazzled by the Dal.” The jars were arranged on a table, spread with a golden cloth, creating a shrine. Their mother decorated it daily with incense sticks and fresh flowers.

It took the boys from dawn to dusk to count the Dal. Rav was the quickest; his Red Dal was usually done by teatime, and then he coasted. He didn’t tell his father he’d finished because he would only be assigned additional tasks. Gav took longer to count the Green Dal; he usually finished bang on time, and went straight to Dal Dinner. Baz counted Black Dal slowly, and often hadn’t finished by dusk. Their father didn’t allow him to come to dinner till his Black Dal was counted. His mother quietly chopped some fruit to keep him going till then.

Tonight their father said, “It’s a fasting day tomorrow, so eat well tonight. Mother, make them extra Dal Dinner.” How he remained so cheerful was a mystery. Their lives were dull, endless toil. There were no days off, ever! Dawn to dusk was counting Dal.

“You better have done a good job this month,” said Gav to Rav. They all switched jars on fasting days, and checked each other’s calculations. “I didn’t eat for two days last month, trying to tally our totals. Why don’t you just count a bit slower? Take your time like I do, and get things right?”

“I do the best I can, my brother,” said Rav. “If I go any slower I’ll fall asleep, and I’ll end up like Baz – counting in the dark.”

Gav was quiet for a while, and then said, “How does Baz do it? I mean, all he does is count and sleep. At least we get a few hours off in the evenings. But he finishes so late that he never does. Do you think that’s what he’s doing – sort of sleeping on the job?”

The Fasting Days were bad enough, but the Feast of Pulsar was harder. This was when their father tipped all their jars out together at dawn, and they had to have them sorted and counted again by dusk – minus a small batch that was cooked that night for Mixed-Dal Dinner. It was the only day of the year they were allowed to mix Dals. Separating the mixed-up tiny grains represented a difficult task performed diligently, and the breakdown of order and joy at its reformation. Mixed-Dal Dinner was boiled extra-long for extra-mushiness, symbolizing the chaos out of which all things emerged. The boys called it “baby-food”. Their father heard them once and beat them severely. Their mother tended their wounds.

A sort of opposite of this was the Game of Doubling. You started off with a single Red Dal grain on the first square of a chess board. Then you put two green grains on the second square, four black grains on the third, eight red on the fourth, sixteen green on the fifth, thirty-two black on the sixth, and so on. There came a point, usually around the 21st square, when the amounts were too large to continue with, even on the open air, field-sized board they used. Each round grain represented the cycle of life, and the shape of coins, and ever-increasing prosperity. The brothers called it “The Game of Troubling”. Their father heard them once and beat them severely. Their bruises contained all three Dal colours. Their mother healed them quickly with turmeric.

The morning after this year’s Game of Doubling, their father said, “I must leave you for a week on an important errand that cannot be avoided. I trust that you will perform your Dal duties diligently in my absence. I have asked your mother to watch over you carefully. In my absence she is the head of the family.” He looked over to her and she nodded slowly. “My sons, don’t let me down.” He left immediately for the City.

Two days later, Baz said that he had something important to tell his brothers. The Black Dal had become wet.

“What!” shouted Gav. “You let it get wet! How could that happen? These jars have been used to store Dal for hundreds of years, since the ancestors’ first filled them. They’ve never, ever been wet!”

“Calm down,” said Rav. “It was an accident, our brother didn’t…”

“I am sorry, brothers,” said Baz. “It wasn’t an accident. I did it deliberately.”  His brothers were struck dumb. Gav moved forward threateningly; Rav held him back.

“What the hell for?” said Gav.

“You wonder why I take so long counting. It’s not that I’m lazy, or slower than you are. I think carefully about what I’m doing, and I have reached a conclusion.” He stopped and closed his eyes.

“Well, go on then. Tell us. We’re going to get a beating for this, so we may as well know the reason.”

“I think that we’ve counted enough Dal in our lifetimes. Yes it is important to honour our sustenance – to praise and cherish it. But to count it out daily is foolish and slavish. I added water, not to rot it, but to sprout it.” His brothers stared at him, amazed. “Sprouting changes the nutritional profile of the Dal. It becomes more easily digestible; its complex compounds break down into simpler forms; transformed to their essential components. This is what we should be celebrating brothers – the miracle of transformation. Not gloating over huge numbers, or performing pointless tasks. Brothers, will you join me in this revolution of…”

His words were cut short as he crumpled to the ground. Behind him appeared the face of their mother, filled with violence, and also with pain. “How could I have raised such a shameless son?” she said, “A spoilt grain rotting others, who dishonours Dal.” Her blade, so often smeared with juices of onions and apples; was today smeared with her own flesh and blood. She stood there for a moment, and then crumpled herself, crying, “What have I done?”

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Freezer

Posted in Organic Farming, Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on February 4, 2012 by javedbabar

Frank had always wanted to be a butcher. He was an embarrassment to his parents at parties during the inevitable round of, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” Good children said doctor, lawyer or banker, and there was always a nerd wanting to be Prime Minister. Frank was honest and always said, “A butcher”. When asked why, he replied, “Because I want to kill and eat animals”. His parents tried to train him to say something else, but he wouldn’t lie. That’s what he wanted to do, truly.

Franks inspiration was the local butcher’s shop. His visits there with his father were highlights of his childhood. The tinny smell and glistening haunches; the sounds of sharpening, chopping and grinding; slabs of meat slapped onto blocks; paper rustling and wrapping up; the grass – fake he knew – but making it seem like a natural place, where animals were born and died; pink tongues poking out; red livers slipping; trails of white intestines, and black-tipped hooves. The Master Butcher was pleased when little Frank said he would like to join their trade. He wiped his hands, removed his apron, and said, “Would you like to see the freezer?”

He led Frank to a room at the back with a big steel door. Inside was really chilly. Frank shuddered as he entered, and his breath created a small cloud. There was strong humming and whirring. The room was filled with slabs of red flesh hung from steel hooks – fat strips dangling, thick legs, and whole sides; white ribs shone within red bodies, like long teeth smiling. There were trays of round chickens, bowling-ball turkeys, and curled strings of sausages. The Master Butcher held up a huge ox heart, and said, “This is what you need for this job.”

A lot had happened since then. Frank was now dating a Vegan; Linda was a beautiful girl with dark glossy hair. Despite their differences, they got on well. Their ethical disputes sometimes got out of hand, but were mostly good-natured. He played up his carnivorous credentials, and she called him a “depraved killer by proxy with ambitions to descend lower”. He didn’t often remind Linda that her father owned the grocery store, and that she had at least partly been raised on blood-money. He only did that during serious arguments, like the one they were about to have.

“Linda, what on earth are you doing?” he said.

“Teaching you a lesson, my love.”

“Come on, don’t be silly. It’s late. Let’s get out of here.” As much as he’d loved the butcher’s freezer as a child, he had no wish to spend the night in this one.

“We can’t, my love.” Her eyes shone strangely.

“Yes we can, watch this,” Frank walked over to the door and pushed the safety latch. Nothing happened. He looked at her, confused.

“I disabled it this morning. I’m sorry, my love, but this is necessary.”

“How long must we spend in here?” He was getting annoyed now.

“Let’s put it this way, my love; our last moments will be spent together.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We could survive all night here if we cuddled up…” He stopped as he sensed something. “What’s the temperature in here? It seems colder than usual.”

“Yes it is, my love. I turned it down to minus forty.”

“Centigrade or Fahrenheit?” Now he started to panic.

“They’re both the same, my love. Minus forty is the same on both scales.”

He had a rush of thoughts. They’d had some colourful arguments, and Linda was the queen of dramatic gestures. She’d worn a meat dress to a fancy ball as a way to promote her views and shock his friends. She’d somehow sourced a piece of in vitro meat, grown in a lab from animal cells, but “without consciousness or the need for murder”. After serving him dinner one day she’d revealed a bandage beneath her blouse and asked how she tasted, for the stir-fry contained a little piece of her flesh. When her mother’s dog had died, Linda used its meat to make him a curry. She said it was a guilt free offering from Scruffy. One morning he awoke to find the bedroom transformed; it held a terrible installation of animal skulls. How she hadn’t woken him, he didn’t know. It had to be Rohypnol. All of these things he’d found exciting; and the sex that resulted was awesome. It was animalistic, complete with roaring sounds. But he should have seen these as warnings, and now she was trying to kill him. But wait a minute; wouldn’t she also be killing herself?

“Yes, I will, my love. You are a murderer by proxy and deserve to die. But I am killing you directly, so deserve at least the same fate.”

What should he do? He tried the door a few more times, but found it was locked firmly. He bashed the insulated steel walls, which didn’t budge. He tried the many controls in the freezer but none were operational. The only thing left was to force Linda to release him somehow. But it seemed that she was very serious, and had thought things through. He would only be hurting a person he loved, and really achieve nothing. He said, “Let’s talk, my love.”

He told her about his childhood dreams of being a butcher. How he had the greatest love and respect for animals which had given their bodies to nourish him. The more he learnt about butchery, the more he saw it as a spiritual exercise. Like native cultures, he honoured his brother cow and sister sheep. He said prayers before each meal, ate consciously, and never wasted meat knowingly. Butchery was a noble profession, he said, a metaphor for the disassembly of self, and a giving of that self to others. The primal cut at the slaughterhouse separated the ego from the self, and secondary butchery destroyed it. He was really angry at her for wasting his life like this, but he wouldn’t hurt her. She was his love. These were the things he said as he became tired and confused. His breathing and speech slowed. He saw her lying beside him senseless. He lost movement in his arms and feet. He dreamt that he fell and shattered.

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Hot Pool

Posted in Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on February 3, 2012 by javedbabar

It’s really nice to have use of a hot tub; to be able to relax daily after work or sport, or just for leisure. But boy those things burn money, especially if they’re outdoors. So Wayne was delighted when he found its natural equivalent: a hot spring bubbling in a mossy pool in the forest. Strangely the hot pool contained a rainbow carp, which swam peaceably among the bubbling waters.

Wayne didn’t know how the fish would react to his presence, so did not enter the water immediately. He dipped in an arm, and waited to see. The fish nibbled a little and then swam around it. Wayne stripped off entirely and jumped right in. Ahhh! It was the perfect temperature – maybe 105.

He soaked in the hot pool every day after work. The fish became friendly and nibbled his cheeks, and swam between his legs. Sometimes it came right up beside him and touched heads, as if trying to send thoughts.

Wayne spent lots of time in the hot pool, and began to experiment with different poses. He stretched out along its rocky side and enjoyed the bubbles tickling his body; the fish swam alongside. He lay diagonally across the pool with arms spread wide, bubbling waters raising him up; the fish swam beneath, and around him. He sank to the bottom and sat like an Indian Yogi, with hands making mudras; the fish settled in his lap.

Beside the hot pool was a tall Norway Spruce. Wayne had noticed its lower branches shaking periodically, but hadn’t paid much attention. Today he saw a ratty face appear for a moment, and large black eyes peer in his direction; whiskers twitched and then disappeared. The next day the face appeared again attached to a slender, silver body and bushy tail. With its strong limbs and sturdy claws the squirrel danced an upside-down jig on the tree, as if trying to attract his attention. Wayne waved at it and submerged. The fish was bothering him excessively today, almost doubling the bubbles in the hot pool.

The next day the squirrel climbed higher in the tree. It crushed some leaves, creating a sweet, citrus-like smell, which made the hot pool intoxicating. Wayne sank to the bottom once more, making mudras. The fish pecked his feet and thighs.

Wayne began to hear squeaking sounds underwater. He wondered if they came from the gap where the water entered, but when he laid his ear against the rocks, realized it wasn’t from there. Could it be the fish scraping something? But it was swimming freely. Oh no, had the squirrel fallen in? He rose quickly as if a sea monster, smashing ships and drowning sailors. The squirrel was high up, staring at him intently. It nodded with ostentation.

After a few days the squeaky sounds began to adhere, and eventually formed words. “Hey, Man! Can you hear me now? Hello? Hello?”

“Who is this?” said Wayne, which was a dumb thing to do underwater, and he came up spluttering. The squirrel was even higher now, staring down. Wayne submerged again.

The squeaking said, “You don’t need to speak, stupid; just think. I thought you were the one who was more evolved. Anyway, it seems that we understand one another now. Raise your hand and say hello.” Wayne lifted an arm above the water. “Yeah, that’s right. Greetings! Now, look, the issue is this. I’m trying to better myself. Every day I rise a little higher. You’ve seen that. I’ve moved from the ground to way up this tree. Heading skywards. But our friend Fish is stuck there in the waters. She’s swimming in circles forever. I’d like to help her rise also, but don’t know how. That’s where you fit in. I’ve seen your kind. You seem to be able to move between realms – yesterday water, today land, tomorrow sky, the day after, who knows?”

Wayne almost opened his mouth again, but remembered, and thought instead. “How are you talking to me?” He thought. “Squirrels don’t speak.”

“Don’t speak! Don’t speak! That’s a good one!” Wayne heard what could only be laughing; the word “chittering” came to mind. “Don’t speak? Of course we speak! All creatures speak in their own way. Anyway, the point is that Fish really wants to join our conversation, but can’t tune in. You know about evolution, don’t you? She is our ancestor. Not the Universal Common Ancestor, but pisces, the same species near enough. Is it fair to leave her out just because she’s less evolved?”

“Of course not,” thought Wayne. “What can I do to help?”

“Now I saw those strange poses you performed. What do you call them?”

“Mudras,” said Wayne. He only knew three from Yoga 101.

“Yes, mudras. Is there one associated with fish?” The squirrel was speaking progressively faster. More like Wayne would expect one to speak.

“Not that I know of,” said Wayne. “But there is the legend of Vishnu taking the form of a fish and saving the first Man.”

“Well, it’s payback time, buddy,” said the squirrel. “Now you save the fish. Why don’t you sit cross-legged in the…”

“Lotus position?” said Wayne.

“Yes, lotus position, and place her on your lap.”

The fish was troublesome, but Wayne held her on his lap, half-in-and-half-out of the water. Wayne closed his eyes, ready to commune with Supersoul.

There was a rushing sound and light touch on his shoulder. Wayne opened his eyes, surprised. There was frothing in his lap. He jumped up, bewildered. The squirrel ran up the tree, grasping the fish. Wayne stared, open mouthed. The squirrel reached mid-way and stopped to look down at him, superciliously. Wayne waited for him to say something, and then remembered that he must to be underwater to hear. There was lots of squeaking-laughing, and then said skiouros, the shadow-tailed, “It’s survival of the fittest, my friend. Survival of the fittest.”

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