Archive for sexy

Samhala

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , on August 6, 2012 by javedbabar

I spent a week at the steel cabin reading the pioneers diary, which had an unnerving parallel to my own story. The author had woken mysteriously on top of a white mountain – which he called Mt Alba – and crossed swamps to reach the valley’s town; it was then no more than a hotel, shop, sheriff’s office and church. He had been welcomed at the hotel, but then chased out of town by holy zealots who feared and hated strangers. He had braved wild beasts, forests and rivers, to reach the place where he had either built or furnished this strange steel structure.

I made myself quite comfortable there. There was a stock of food – dried beans, garlic braids, and canned tomatoes, plus a mini root house with multicoloured potatoes. There were red, white, and blue ones; he must have been a monarchist. I also managed to catch some grouse, those most stupid of birds. Two flew into the structure and stunned themselves, becoming ready meals.

One night I heard a steady rhythm. At first I thought it was a bear bashing a tree trunk or the echoes of a woodpecker’s drilling. Then I thought noise could be the black river slapping a log, but it was too precise and steady.

It sounded like drums coming from further up the valley, on this side of the river, maybe slightly uphill. Enclosed echoes are deceptive though. It could be coming from anywhere.

I walked slowly through the forest. The bush was thick and ground unsteady.

The sound always seemed far away but suddenly was close; just as I realized this, I saw movement ahead. A shadowed clearing was filled with busy people, a hundred at least, of all ages, building something of wood. The object lay on the floor amid tall grass. What was it, I wondered – a giant boat? Could they read the weather of this flood plain? Was a deluge coming?

“Ouch!” I cried, and jumped up. “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Stop that! Who is it?” A boy turned and ran, clutching a reed, through which he’d been blowing beans, each of which had stung me like a wasp.

People in the clearing stopped working. Some shouted to others. Men advanced towards me clutching hammers and bars. A bearded elder called out, “What are you doing? Is this any way to treat a stranger? Welcome him! Invite him to our village!”

Some men’s snarls transformed into smiles. Others found the change too hard to master, and looked like jittery mimes. However they all made friendly gestures, encouraging me to come forward.

I stepped out of the forest into the clearing, and the elder came forward, huffing, and said, “You are not the first stranger. Others have come before and sheltered here with us. But you are the first to come on Samhala. We welcome you, stranger. It is a good day for us. It was foretold.”

I was taken to a house with thatched roof and squared plaster walls, and given warm water to bathe, and a soft bed to rest. At dusk someone entered. I was ready to jump up and fight for my life, but saw that it was a beautiful woman with full breasts, red hair and blue eyes.

She held no shyness, for her visit had holy purpose. It was to strengthen the Upper Valley’s gene pool.

Cosmic Pillar

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , on April 4, 2012 by javedbabar

I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar. It was more a shape than an object, with dimensions that were incomprehensible. It was both see-through and substantial, though how that could be I can’t say. It arose from somewhere beneath me to somewhere high above, the space around it filled with fireworks exploding with brilliance of every kind. There were crimson flowers, old gold whirls, and neon green stars, set with bright blue puffs and lilac trails, plus tangerine flashes and clouds of silver sparkles. The darkness was forgotten, overwhelmed by teeming lights.

The pillar seemed a luminous tree trunk, rising out of some unknown earth, and into a boundless sky; the fireworks great bunches of bright foliage, filling the heavens. This tree of light shone in the night, with my soul set as a lamp upon it. It was the Tree of Life in the midst of all three worlds – memory, presence, and fantasy – making communication between them possible. It was nourishing and sheltering, inexhaustibly fertilizing, representing both evergreen, everlasting life, and deciduous regeneration. All roots fused and rose through the trunk, their journey ending as fat fruits with a mystical seeds of potential.

This ethereal vision also had a physical manifestation. My huge erection wouldn’t go down. It was a sign of a potent year to come. Full of potential.

I may as well make use of what I’ve got, so called my occasional girlfriend Kitty, who was always in the mood for some action. Afterwards she said, “Wow, what’s come over you babe? I won’t be able to sit down for a week. Everyone will think I’ve been herding cattle. Have you been eating Superfoods? Or taking Superpills? Does it ever go down?”

I told her I didn’t know, but wanted to make good use of my blessing. “Well I’m out for the rest of this week, babe. You better find yourself another willing volunteer.” This was easier said than done. Who do you call on such an occasion? Then came divine inspiration. I called “Hot Rod” Escort Agency, who asked me what I’d be willing to do, and I said, “Everything”. I quickly became their most popular escort – always available, and never disappointing.

One of the ladies I serviced took me on as her gardener. She claimed it was a way of keeping me busy between our sessions, and had nothing to do with Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I grew to like my second profession involving fertility and planting seed. She had a “big job” for me, she said: planting a white oak tree in her rear garden. Using a buddy’s excavator I dug a hole and placed the tree in the ground carefully. At night it held a ghostly glow, with a million stars shining through its yet-bare branches, as if related to the heavenly tree of my vision.

My employer recommended my services to her friends. One was a very adventurous lady, especially in the area of landscaping. She wanted her garden to have the feel of an English village, so I suggested installing a maypole in the centre of her lawn. We celebrated Mayday with twenty handsome youths and twenty fair maidens drinking country cider, and clutching bright ribbons, weaved in between each other, losing our grips and our inhibitions, right there and then, not even making it to the woods.

My English village design was noticed by a City firm. They called me in for a meeting. “We love the thrusting nature of your work,” said the lead architect, licking her lips. “Its raw energy. We would like you to help us design a skyscraper.”

“But I don’t know anything about designing buildings,” I said.

“You’re a versatile guy, I’ve heard,” she said, winking. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You start Saturday at my home office.”

I told her that a building should really mean something. Imagine it as the Centre of the World. Show everything whirling around it. When Thrust Tower was completed, its metallic swirling design of caused a sensation. “This represents our new nation,” said the President on his visit. “Something to which we can all aspire.” He was photographed with me so many times that people began to associate my name with the highest public office. I thought why not aspire to that? A photograph of my pointing skyward became iconic. I used it on my campaign poster, and won the election.

One of my main achievements in office was doubling funding for scientific research, much of which went to our under-resourced military. It was a proud day indeed watching the Thrust One missile shoot out of its silo into the sky, blazing fire behind.

What should be my next achievement? To boldly go? Yes of course! I doubled funding for the space program. Within three months we had developed the world’s most powerful rocket, ready for launch. My announcement on launch day stunned the nation – that I would lead by example. I would head the mission, and be the only one in the shuttle entering the Black Hole. The first man ever to do so.

Via the external monitors I saw my slim silver pillar arise into the sky, surrounded by clouds of glowing fire. And some days after, I left the main craft and went beyond the Event Horizon, and as predicted by Dr. Einstein, entered the realm of curved time-space. In the Dreamtime I entered, each day lived is the First Day, a world of pure imagination. I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar.

Upstairs / Downstairs

Posted in Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 18, 2012 by javedbabar

They should be called bi-laws rather than bylaws, thought Forbes. It seemed ridiculous to have an Upstairs and a Downstairs, but he had no choice. The Village had divided his shop into two parts.

“Good morning!” he said to a new customer. The man was stocky, about fifty, with curly grey hair. He nodded to Forbes and turned away. Forbes wondered if this customer was an Upstairs or a Downstairs person – it was impossible to say when they first came in. There were people who rushed in and headed Downstairs before anyone could see them. Others rushed in and bought a book or gift from Upstairs, then headed right out again. People who sauntered in were also of two types. Those who browsed Upstairs books, feeling inspired and delighted, found a work they resonated with, purchased it and left. Yet there were also those who walked around Upstairs like bored children, picking at different sections, summoning courage to head to the darkened windowless room downstairs.

Forbes didn’t bother his customers, only when it seemed like they needed help, or when there was a hot girl, or when he was bored. The stocky man worked quickly through the Sacred Texts section, New Age sages, spoken word audio, international and domestic music CD’s, meditation DVD’s, tarot and oracle sets, musical instruments – touching a crystal bowl and gong, making them sing and shimmer, and spiritual fiction. He seemed particularly drawn to colourful, repackaged series – Conversations with God and its sequels, Paulo Coelho’s works, and the many editions of Deepak Chopra. He spent time flicking through an Eckhart Tolle, but was facing away, and Forbes couldn’t see which one it was. Now the stocky man was hovering as if caught between two worlds. He could be making a purchase decision, but Forbes knew much better than that. He said, “Are you doing ok there, Sir? May I help you in any way?”

“Em, yes,” said the man. He was still handsome and quite well groomed, but maybe not getting the attention he needed. “Can I go Downstairs? I mean, can I just go down there, or do I need to ask first, like I’m doing?”

“Please go straight down,” said Forbes. “But thank you for asking. I’ll be down in a moment.”

The man’s eyes widened. He said, “Why are you coming down?” Forbes opened his mouth but was interrupted. “I thought this was just a store. I don’t want any funny business.” He had the look of a haunted child.

“It’s bylaws, Sir. Because of the nature of materials Downstairs, and also because it is subterranean retail space, there must be a staff member present. And I am the sole staff member.”

“But then who will look after the Upstairs section?”

“The Upstairs will take care of itself, Sir. Thank you for your concern.” He couldn’t resist winking and adding, “Maybe you could stay up here while I’m down there, Sir? I like it down there too.”

The customer nodded initially, and then said in a quiet voice, “I think you’re making fun of me.”

“Just bantering with my customer, Sir. Trying to make you feel comfortable. People are nervous when entering this shop. Isn’t it strange that with all the things you see daily on TV – drought, famine, poverty and disease – rather than being ashamed by their huge houses, big cars, fat salaries, and expensive clothes, people are embarrassed by the materials Downstairs, dealing with the most natural activity in the world; the ultimate recreation. It’s as invigorating as an aerobics class, and on par with yoga for flexibility. I know our materials depict mostly couples, but there are also plenty of items for people to use themselves, in different sizes, shapes, scents, and colours.”

The customer looked haunted again. “Hey, what do you mean by that? I don’t want to use anything on myself. This was my wife’s idea. She’s scared to come in here herself.” The customer was shocked by what he’d said. He hadn’t planned to bring his wife into this.

Forbes said, “I’m sorry Sir. Sometimes I talk too much. I get excited whenever a customer comes in. Please feel free to stay Upstairs or go Downstairs as you please. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me, pal. I’m just nervous, as you said. Thanks for chatting. I think I’ll head down there now. I promise to behave myself. See you when you come down.”

Forbes smiled and nodded. He always preferred Downstairs people. They came via Upstairs – so had seen all the spiritual stuff, and were humble and somewhat ashamed. They were often gentle. The Upstairs people – who never went down – focussed on elevated realms, and could be judgemental. Some were cruel and repulsive. Downstairs people could be cruel too, but at least they weren’t repressed. Upstairs people spent their lives pondering, whereas Downstairs people preferred action. They explored and celebrated the living body, in all its glorious man- and woman-ifestations. Maybe a few too many ways – especially those dirty Europeans; was there a shortage of public toilets there – but who’s to judge? Forbes prided himself on the choice he offered Downstairs.

“Bloody Hell!” he heard the customer exclaim as he reached the floor below. This was a common reaction. Forbes had better head down there now. Don’t want to transgress the bi-law. Maybe he would even stay there this afternoon. Let the Upstairs people come Downstairs.

Jazzy Friction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cracked Light

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , on January 15, 2012 by javedbabar

Andrea bought an antique lamp with rich green glass and brass fittings. It was covered in hairline cracks, but not bad for five bucks, and she had the perfect place to put it.

It was the fourth garage sale she’d visited that morning. It seemed that everyone was giving up, splitting up, selling up, or moving up. Maybe the people buying the stuff would soon be following them. She knew how hard it was to make your life work in this crazy modern world. With so many pressures, cracks were sure to show. The question was how to fix them – if that was possible – otherwise – as was generally the case – how to ignore them, until everything fell apart.

Andrea was very happy with her lamp, but the bargain price began to bother her. Surely it was worth more than that? I guess it didn’t fit someone’s new home, she thought. Or maybe it didn’t fit into someone’s new home – if their place was a microloft. A once proud ornament was now excess baggage.

The lamp looked perfect on the dark polished dresser, adjacent to the end of her bed. The green glass wasn’t too flashy, and the brass cast a tingle across the wood. It would be lovely to look at in the mornings, she thought.

“I don’t like it,” said her boyfriend Brian. He came by twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Today was Saturday.

“Why not?” said Andrea, surprised. She hadn’t wanted his opinion.

“It’s not the lamp itself,” he said, looking at it squarely. “It just shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Don’t start your feng shui, honey. Don’t you know that I’ve got inner feng shui? It’s called a sense of style, and I say that lamp is a doll.”

“I’m not disagreeing. It’s a handsome lamp. My grandmother had a similar one with red glass. But I don’t like it there.”

“Well where should I put it?” said Andrea.

“Downstairs somewhere. It’s not an upstairs lamp.”

“You didn’t like the mirror there either, honey.” She had removed it last week from above the dresser. “You said it was distracting. So I got a lamp. Now you don’t like that…”

“I’m sorry. Just leave it there.”

After making love, she couldn’t sleep. Why didn’t he like the mirror there? He had liked it there before. He said it was fun to catch glimpses of themselves loving; like soft porn; steamy, not kinky. But then suddenly he didn’t like it. And the lamp; she had imagined sleeping together in its ancient glow; it could have been exotic. But he hated it.

She went to the bathroom and on the way back, stopped by the lamp. She switched it on, and stood nearby. The glass was glowing, but also reflecting. The light was brighter at the cracks – almost golden – and beneath the glass, subdued. Andrea left the lamp on and went back to bed. Brian could switch it off.

She had fragments of dreams; numerous snatches; maybe connected.

Andrea saw herself with Brian, the first time they’d stepped out together. She had noticed him shelving books at the library, and had suddenly become the world’s greatest borrower of sci-fi books. After a week of stamping dates, he’d asked her out on one. She had worn a green, raw silk dress with golden shoes, which had taken his breath away. But then she imagined herself many years later, definitely fatter, maybe bitter, and possibly warty; lumpy, Size 20, and childless. It could happen to anyone.

Andrea saw Brian like he was at the library, with that nerdy smile that brightened his eyes, and then his whole face; almost a living emoticon. He liked time to himself, and said they shouldn’t rush things; she guessed that was ok for now. But then she imagined him in the future as a grumpy loner, always on his computer, looking at God knows what, rather than praising and cherishing her. Mostly ignoring her. It could become a horrible relationship.

She saw everyone she knew together – all laughing, jumping, shaking their shoulders, dancing at her parent’s Christmas party. They were celebrating their shared humanity, and eternal brother-and-sisterhood. But she saw herself lost among this hapless crowd, jostled and crushed. Falling faint, and being trampled underfoot.

She had to stop thinking like this – cracking her own cherished memories. She wondered if she would ever find wholeness.

She finally reached for a brighter light. She saw herself serene like she was after yoga. Sitting on a mountaintop, cross-legged, watching the sun rising. A hundred seagulls circling, sun glinting off their feathers, making thick golden. The sun flashed before her, for her. It was the star at the centre of the solar system, the brightest object visible in the sky, earths’ primary source of energy, sending endless streams of charged life outward. Complete and eternal. In comparison, this lamp was old and cracked; faded; looking backward.

Brian was right. It had to go. When he awoke, Andrea had moved the antique lamp downstairs. “Good morning, honey,” she said. “Will you help me move the bed?”

“Huh? Where to?”

“It’s facing the wall. I know it’s a squeeze, but let’s make it face the window. I want to see the sun.”