Archive for the World Myths Category

Newer Entries »

Inner Warrior

Posted in Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on January 11, 2012 by javedbabar

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

The music was compelling. It was strangely exciting. It was somehow right at the heart of things, but also at their borders. And what about the spaces between hearts and borders – did the music also fill that gap?

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

It was an unexpected mixture of cymbals and drums, with electric whine backing. None of the sounds seemed to go together – especially the Zamb! This was percussion; background music; without lead guitars, just a relentless beat, charging forwards, towards where? Ba-Bamb! was like a snare drum, echoing softly onward. But Ba-Zamb! was the smash of a cymbal, stilled at its crescendo, so it suddenly died.

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

Stuart was still but also mobile. He was caught in the music, following its lead like a bit part player. He knew he had come to this place for something. This music hall. No, it was more like a smoky nightclub. But smoking was no longer allowed in nightclubs – except outside. Would he hear the music there?

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

His heartbeat had always been strange. Arrhythmia they called it. He never understood what the problem was. He was right-handed; he was right-footed; his right eye was dominant; his right arm stronger; so it seemed reasonable that his right ventricle pumped a little harder, and occasionally decided not to. This shouldn’t cause any issues.

There was the strange situation in fights where he was facing off someone, and would feel a sudden weakness. He would have to back down. The other kid would just laugh at him, or take the opportunity to punch him in the head. But he knew that he wasn’t a coward, just unbalanced momentarily.

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

Why did it feel like a fight right now? He wasn’t even standing. He realized he was lying down. Had he been in a fight? Had he become unbalanced momentarily, and someone punched him in the head? It felt as if he were in his real body but in a dream also. It reminded him of Tae-Kwon-Do training, which remedied the fight situation. He was able to calm both his body and mind. Be fluid but still. His teacher described it as “moving unmoving”.

Had he been in a fight? Was he in a fight? Moving unmoving?

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

The rhythm became physical. He felt his bones vibrating, blood pulsing, and heart pumping. It sounded like battle drums! His family drums! Stuart drums! The smoke about him cleared, and he saw a Highland vista. Black lakes slipped between lilac hills, and bands of brown forest in  mist swirling. There were also swathes of other colours. Red lines advanced, and white clouds danced around them.

Whose side was he on – reds or whites? He recalled from history class that red was often the colour of invaders; the uniform of colonists and enforcers. It was the colour of anger, and of danger. Hadn’t red forces started wars worldwide; conquered half the earth, and laid it under their yoke; promoted slavery and occasional genocide? It was unlikely that he would be on the red side.

Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Bamb! Ba-Zamb!

White was the sign of good guys, especially in stories – Luke Skywalker wore white, Saruman performed white magic, and Jesus wore white robes; public saviours were called “white knights”; angels wore white; and surely it was a nobler choice on the chessboard. There were exceptions – the Snow Queen in Narnia, asylum inmates, and ghosts – but these proved the rule. The norm was clear: that white was good. And they were fighting warlike reds. So he would support the whites in their holy battle.

But Stuart did not realize the differences of the inner and outer worlds. In his inner world – that of a patient undergoing a heart procedure – the reality was opposite. The reds were his blood cells, fighting for his life. The whites were his overactive immune cells, trying to kill them off. It was a pretty fierce battle. His life hung in the balance.

Their dispute had begun during the Lymphic Games. The reds and the whites were mighty rivals, and each had turned out in force. Their squads were tense, tuned, toned – ready to engage fully; to give their all. But somewhere within the competitive events, the mood had soured. They had become mock-battles, and spilled over into real ones. It was no longer a game of give and take, of second-guessing, of slight reversals, and temporary triumphs. It was a great war, once-and-for-all.

Stuart willed the whites to win. It was the extra boost they needed. They made a mighty push and routed the reds. At that moment he realized his mistake. Both the inner one, and the outer one. The reds were the bearers of life, both of his body and of this land.

There was no more Ba-Bamb!

Just one weak, final Ba-Zamb!

Leave a comment »

Golden Apple

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

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

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

“That includes veggies too though, mom.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave a comment »

Eve

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , on January 5, 2012 by javedbabar

Foolish kids, thought Dave. What were they doing out on Christmas Eve? They must feel like iceblocks, standing there at the side of the road with their thumbs up. At least he had a reason to be out – he was a washed up guy going home from his shift. He passed the kids without really looking.

But then in his mirror, he saw how their shoulders fell as he passed them, and how they hugged closely. Goddam it! Something about those gestures touched him. He turned the truck and went back for them, and told them to jump in the back seat.

“Oy, tank you,” said the boy. “Ve ver cold dere.” The boy’s accent was unfamiliar, maybe Eastern European?

“Yoy, tank you, Sir,” said the girl. Was she Middle Eastern?

“No problem,” said Dave. “Are you heading to Lucerne?”

Neither of them spoke immediately. In his mirror, he saw them exchange quizzical looks, and then the boy said, “Oy, tat’s great. Lucerne.”

“How long you been on the road there?” said Dave.

Again the silence and quizzical looks. “Oy, ve say half-hour.”

“Well, it looks like there’s a blizzard coming. Let’s see if we can get you safely home before that.” Dave threw on a dance playlist from his glory days: Heaven 17, The Orb, Faithless. The blizzard hit hard, as if summoned by these rousing tunes. They pushed on through swirls of snowflakes.

When they reached Lucerne, Dave said, “Ok, where shall I drop you off?”

There was hesitation, before the boy said, “Oy, just here is fines.”

As the girl got out, Dave noticed her heavy shape beneath the layers. She was pregnant! That explained their strange behaviour. But it wasn’t for him to pry. He wished them well and drove off. But in the mirror, he saw it again. Their forlorn postures, and close hug. Goddam it! He turned and went back. He said, “You haven’t got anywhere to stay, have you?”

“Ve vill find where,” said the boy. “Tank you.”

“Look, with her condition, I’m not leaving you out in the cold. It isn’t much, but why don’t you stay at my place? There’s just me there.”

The boy hesitated, but the girl spoke up. “Yoy, tank you, Sir.”

They only made it half way up the Meadows. Dave had never seen snow come down so hard and fast. There was no way the ploughs could keep up. Rather than getting stuck further up, he stopped at Martin’s farm. Even there, the driveway was impassable. He tried to call Martin, but service was down. He pulled up at a barn. “Look, I’ll walk up to the farmhouse. You two stay in the truck. I’ll be back soon.”

Dave returned with Martin. But as they approached the truck, Dave exclaimed, “Goddam it! They’ve gone!”

Martin saw the barn door was ajar. “Ah, there they are.”

They went inside. The girl was lying on hay bales, panting.

“My God!” said Martin. “The baby’s coming. Look, you keep an eye on them here. I’ll call for help on the landline.”

Dave watched as the girl gave birth naturally, assisted by the boy. It was intense. He’d never seen a newborn before. Golden and shining. Maybe every birth was holy like this. It was just the labels we put on it that made it seem foolish, unwanted, or a burden somehow.

But he also knew that this birth was special. There was sudden flashing everywhere – like a rave in his glory days – as three huge snowploughs appeared. All the cows in the field gathered around the barn. The horses snorted and donkey brayed. Mt. Negra rumbled.

What all of this meant, Dave didn’t know. Nothing was certain in his life these days – he had recently lost his wife, his health, and his home. He was living on the edge of the world. But of one thing he was sure. That this morning, he had witnessed the birth of someone he had long been waiting for.

“Can I hold the baby?” he said.

“Yoy, of course, Sir,” said the glowing mother.

It was impossible, he knew, but it felt like the child spoke to him somehow. She said, “I am here for you.”

4 Comments »

Secret Buyers

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on January 3, 2012 by javedbabar

Every spring their shacks went up. What they did all winter was anyone’s guess. But they returned with the bright buds and birds, sitting in an assortment of trailers, tents, and shanties, each with a sign saying “Secret Buyer”.

Some of them were third, even fourth, generation buyers. The old families were well established. They bought only secrets that were ripe and ready to be told. Many new buyers, who came from the City chasing a quick buck, bought their secrets early. The people who sold them never reached the end of their thoughts.

Suzi had a secret that she’d kept for years. Ever since she could remember. It’s not that she didn’t want to sell it – it’s just that she didn’t fully know it yet. It was developing.

Her brother had sold some secrets last year, and got enough cash for a new skateboard. He hadn’t told their parents because they were religious. They didn’t believe in selling secrets. Her brother was going again today.

Suzi went with her brother to the buyer. He sat in a white tent with a heater on high, surrounded by steel boxes. “What’s in the boxes?” asked Suzi.

“That’s where I keep the secrets,” said the buyer. He had a bushy brown beard and yellow teeth shining somewhere within it. “It’s a long journey from here to Holland. They have to be well protected.”

“Why do you send them to Holland?” she asked. “Don’t people there have their own secrets?”

“Yes they do. But they are not very good secrets. You see Holland is flat. There’s less excitement, and nowhere to hide. Here there are mountains to play on, and valleys to sneak into, so there’s lots of great secrets.”

“And how much do people pay for secrets?”

“Well Suzi, that depends.”

Suzi froze. How did he know her name?

“Don’t be shocked,” said the dirty banana shape moving within the beard. “I bought your brother’s secrets last year, so I know your name.”

What had her brother said about her, she wondered?

“Children’s secrets are always the most valuable, because they’re true. Adults lie about theirs, to make themselves look better.”

Her brother wrote his secrets on a piece of yellow paper. The buyer read them slowly, nodding, did a quick calculation, and wrote $160 at the bottom of the page. Her brother nodded enthusiastically. The buyer folded the paper and enclosed it in a steel box. He counted out the cash.

“Do you have a secret for me, Suzi?” he said.

The way he said her name again – hissing. His yellow banana-teeth. His birds nest beard. She wasn’t sure why, but she turned and ran. She knew that she wasn’t yet ready to sell.

There were so many rumours about secrets. Some people said that you should never tell them, because the moment you did, they were gone. Others said that it was your duty to share what you knew with others. She’d heard there was a factory making secrets in the Industrial Park without zoning. That the village was trying to introduce a Pay & Tell scheme. And the rumour that intrigued her most was that there was one secret, so secret, that if it was told then there would be no more secrets. This made her both want to tell her secret, and also not to. For what would life be like without secrets to tell to your friends?

Suzi told her mother that her secret was bothering her. Her mother suggested that she go to church and tell it to Father Joseph. He was surprised to see her, for she usually only came in with her family on Sundays.

“Yes, child, how can I help you?” he said.

“Father, I have a secret. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Do you feel like telling me?” he said. He could see she was nervous.

“I’m not sure I can say it.

“Well why don’t you write it down?”

Suzi wrote down her secret.

Father Joseph read it and went pale. He sent Suzi straight home. He put her secret in a metal box and booked an urgent courier to Rome. He knew this was going to happen one day, for it was written in Holy Scripture. He thanked God Almighty that the secret had come to him before it went to the other side. For he knew that “Secret Buyers” really worked for someone else, whose price was your soul.

1 Comment »

Yam Men

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, World Myths with tags , , on January 2, 2012 by javedbabar

Michael saw the rise of the Yam Men from the beginning. But there was nothing he could do. He was just a kid – a naughty kid who didn’t like Math much – who was offered a new cookery programme. “A man should know how to cook,” his father said. “You never know what kind of trouble you might get into. At least you can eat.”

The classes took place in the school’s commercial kitchen. Michael spent the first ten minutes looking at people’s distorted reflections in gleaming steel units. Mr. May said, “We are going to chop and mash today, so everyone, please wash your hands.” He showed them the proper way to do this – you run hot water at full blast, reciting “O Canada, We stand on guard for thee,” twice while rubbing and rinsing.

He handed out large knives, and told them to each take a yam from a cardboard box. It was a simple instruction, but for some reason Michael didn’t want to do it. He held back his hand. “Can I use an ordinary potato, Sir” he said, forcing a cheerful tone. “After all this is Spud Valley.” Mr. May’s eyes seemed to flash lilac as he said, “This recipe requires these special purple yams, Michael.”

So Michael put his hand into the box without looking. He felt for a lumpy tuber. At first there seemed to be nothing there, but then he grasped one. It seemed to jump right into his hand.

Michael placed the purple leather-coloured, torpedo-shaped lump on the cutting board. It had little growths, like tiny limbs. The Yam rocked and settled itself into place. He put both hands together on the large knife and pushed down hard. He wasn’t sure what happened next. There were squeals all around the kitchen. It seemed that everyone had cut themselves. But when they looked at each other’s hands, there were no injuries or blood. Just cleanly chopped yams, shining purple inside.

They finished the job, boiled them for ten minutes, mashed them with salt, pepper, and butter, and took them home. They were delicious. “Almost like eating meat,” said his father.

The rest of the cookery course was less eventful. Mr. May never again mentioned yams. But he encouraged their consumption of ordinary potatoes, which he said were a different species. He promoted the MAC diet: MACaroni cheese, MACkeral, MACDonalds – with roasted, boiled, and fried potatoes respectively – and he suggested that they visit Scotland to eat MacMACaroons.

Other classes also got weirder. In music they tried a new instrument the school had just purchased – the tuba (pronounced tuber said their music teacher). In English class they played word games. “If someone threw a root vegetable at you?” said their teacher. “Would you yammer?” In Religious Studies, they discussed the Jewish yamulka. In Chemistry it was polyamides.

And the strangeness spread further. Instead of going to garage sales at weekends, Michael’s dad said that he was rooting around. The Mayor, who was also a farmer, began to campaign as the Y’amor (to appeal to both youth and Quebecois, he said). People asked for their sandwiches with Yamonnaise. When friends asked about his birthday, even Michael couldn’t help saying, “The second of Yam”. There was pressure everywhere, on everyone, to use the Y-word. And the streetlights were changed to produce a purple glow.

In spring, people removed their winter gear and revealed more skin. Everybody was sunburnt and more leathery than before. And despite no longer wearing clunky boots, or carrying skis, their gait remained the same. They walked around stiffly, as if they had no joints. Lumpy masses of purple-browned flesh roamed the streets.

There were peaceful protests from the yoga crowd, who occupied the supermarket car park. Then they chanted together at the Farmer’s Market. It was unnatural to be that stiff, they said.  People were meant to be flexible, and fluidity was a sign of good health. They were supported by members of the Tai Chi, Karate, and gymnastics communities.

Their campaign had some early success in the village, but soon their battle was lost. For all along the Valley, farmers were building special hothouses, amending their soils, and making egg-sized holes. Michael got a farm job that summer, working with his friends on a planting crew. Their bodies became stiff from bending over, and their skins burnt purple from sun exposure. As they dropped seed yams into holes and covered them over with dirt, they heard small cheers.

1 Comment »

White Rock

Posted in Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , on January 1, 2012 by javedbabar

Zanu fell into the forest clearing. At its centre was a giant white rock, which glowed in the sunshine, like a turnip at night. It didn’t seem real for a moment – more a ghost stone, or a movie prop, but as he drew closer, he saw crags and shadows. When he touched the rock, his hand went straight through the surface, and he was unable to pull it back. His groping fingers felt nothing. He tried for an hour to extract himself, and screamed and shouted, but no one came. Eventually he fell forward in exhaustion, and was enclosed by the rock.

Everything was white within. There was no ground or sky, or trees around him, just blankness. His body adjusted to the cool, but his legs began trembling, unsure what they were standing on. It wasn’t a surface. It was like a thickness, somehow heavy enough to support him. But where did it stop?

There was a flash of golden. Where had it come from? Maybe he wasn’t inside a rock after all. It could be a thick mist, with yellow leaves falling around him. There were balls and fragments of lustrous light. Brightness in this blankness made him cheerful.

But immediately he felt a sharp blow to his ribs, and was shoved from the back. He fell forward, but onto what? Zanu’s smile became a grimace. People kicked him, and he heard their muffled voices, but couldn’t make out any words. He rolled into a ball, and stayed there, floating in nothing. More than anything he needed to be brave right now. But there was nothing he could do. His bawling filled the blankness and hurt his own ears. Maybe he passed out.

Then a person appeared – literally appeared – as if the mist changed form into a golden being. And this was no ordinary person. Zanu knew an angel when he saw one. She was twelve feet tall with golden skin and hair, and transparent wings. She said something unintelligible, then lifted him, held him close for a moment, kissed his forehead, and placed him back in the blankness, except this time on his feet.

His eyes adjusted. There was a mango tree with one ripe mango dangling high up. This was the source of the golden light, as if that mango were reflected in misty mirrors all around. And then he saw translucent forms of people crowding around the tree, grasping for its fruit. Some people fell and got trampled, like Zanu had earlier.

“What are they doing?” he said to himself, but his voice was transformed and boomed out everywhere. People stopped and stared at him. Uh-oh.

A fat boy said, “We’re trying to get the mango. Can’t you see?”

“Well why are you all jostling each other?” said Zanu. “Why don’t you try together?”

“You must be joking! With them? I don’t trust them.”

“How do you know they won’t help you?”

The fat boy stopped to consider this, as if he had never thought of it before. He said, “They won’t. We all want the same thing. There’s only one mango. And I’m called Adam, I was the first one here. I deserve it.” He looked smug, but then worried. “Look, if you help me get it, I’ll give you half. How about that?”

Zanu agreed, but said that they would need to include the other people too. The more players on their team, the better. And that’s how Adam, Brent, Christi, Deva, Ethella, Fong, Giovanni, Harriet, Indi, Javek, Klim, Luqman, Moldy, Nilesh, Ooty, Patsy, Quru, Rachel, Selim, Tanya, Uriko, Victor, Wilhelmina, Xipe, Yosy and Zanu each got a slice of golden mango. They swore that it was the sweetest thing they had ever eaten. Each slice was a smile. And the next thing they knew, they were all lying in the forest clearing beside the giant white rock.

For thirty years, Zanu dreamed constantly of his experience in the White Rock. He had turned it round and around in his head, but it was still mindboggling. How had it happened to him? And why?

One day, he woke a little later than usual, brushed his teeth, had a glass of water, and opened the door to get some air. As he stepped outside, everything disappeared. He turned back but the door, and the whole house, was gone. He was floating in blankness. He had the feeling of being in the White Rock once again, but this time there was total darkness. The words of the angel came back to him now, intelligibly: “Next time, you’re on your own.”

3 Comments »

Newer Entries »