Archive for black light

Black Light

Posted in Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2012 by javedbabar

The city had got too hot for Shama. Things seemed hopeless, like a blackout blind pulled over his life.  The landlord would keep his damage deposit, but he hadn’t paid last month’s rent anyway, so all’s fair-square. Not that he had any wish to please that asshole, but it was the easiest way out. He threw what he had into his backpack, took the bus to the edge of town, and stood beside the Sea to Sky Highway.

It wasn’t long before he caught a ride to Strattus, and on to Lucerne. Shama didn’t want to go way into the bush, what would he do there? He could barely manage urban survival; forget wilderness survival. Being in the bush may also attract attention. Fewer people but more bears.

He pitched his tent at the base of a mountain near a natural spring. The one thing he couldn’t do without was water. The river was nearby, good for washing. He walked into Lucerne Village daily, which took an hour each way. A few people started saying hello to him. He wasn’t rude, just unresponsive. He said hello back and moved on.

A weird-looking old guy became familiar, over six feet tall, unshrunken with age. His beard was a strange golden white. He walked around in monk-like black robes, and was clearly ethnic, though from where was hard to say. People seemed to treat him as special, but he remained always alone. His only activity seemed to be walking along the Lucerne Valley Road, at a steady speed, to God knows where. Shama had only been here two weeks, but couldn’t recall an occasion when he hadn’t passed him on the road when going in or out of the village.

One day at dusk, Shama spied the old man ahead. He gritted his teeth and prepared to speed past him. A car went by and the old man’s robes caught its headlights; it seemed as if their black glowed.

Shama wondered if the man had any money. If he robbed, or even killed him, who would know? He could wash his knife in the river. This was the thought going through his head as he approached the old man.

“Don’t even think about it.” Shama heard a soft voice inside his head. “Your weapon is useless against me. My mind is greater than your weapon.” He looked at the old man, but he couldn’t have spoken these words; he was too far away. Shama stopped and turned around, and then started walking again, faster. The voice continued, “One truth we know is that you can’t get away from yourself. Wherever you go, there you are.”

“Who’s saying that?” Shama shouted. “Who are you?”

“I am Guru Baba,” said the old man. “Walk with me awhile. Let’s talk.”

“But you’re talking to me inside my head already! Get out! Get out!” Shama moved threateningly towards the old man but knew that it was a useless gesture. From his days of street crime, you know when someone’s untouchable.

“I have a proposal for you. You see me walking every day. Despite the power of my soul, my mind is deteriorating. So many people still need so much from me. I need an assistant. Will you help me?”

Shama was surprised. “Me, help you? How?”

“We’d be helping each other. You can help me with administrative tasks, and I will gift you my lifetime’s knowledge and experience. I will help you imagine better, and become your best self.”

Only at that moment did Shama know that this was the goal he had sought in this and many previous lifetimes. To find his true master and fulfil his true potential. To turn internal conflict into external co-operation, and become part of the cosmic dance.

The next driver on the Lucerne Valley Road was surprised to see a scruffy vagrant and one of the world greatest holy men dancing together. The holy man’s robes gleamed black, showing the truth of illuminated darkness.

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Steamed Peacocks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Black Spot

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

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

“What has happened, Gemma?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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