Gaia: MFA: Marvelous FREE Art! - Writing

Re: BEFORE GOD WAS, I AM

http://iloveyou.gaia.com — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 20:09:09 GMT

Most of the time, I only write when I am inspired, and yet, I have also noticed, like Diana, that inspiration can be called forth sometimes, and no matter what, it almost always feels like the poem is written through me rather than by me, and the poem writes me rather than me writing the poem, and whenever it is too hard for me to write, then it is because I am not inspired, I am forcing it.

Re: Hope Is The Answer

http://organics.gaia.com — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 14:08:34 GMT

Thanks for the reads.

Re: Hope Is The Answer

http://mrprophet.gaia.com — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 04:06:48 GMT

By the way Warrior,
Thank you for responding.

Colombian Coffee

http://lukesoloman.gaia.com — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 20:29:05 GMT

"Journey through the mind of the ultimate iconoclast" (Apex Reviews). Download your FREE copies of Books I-III of the Beginner's Luke Series today!

(from Portraits of an Imaginary Young Man)

December came and went. It usually does. It was dark and snowed a lot. Go figure. Technically, for the five minutes it was light enough out to appreciate it, we had a white Christmas. I still hated Christmas. Malcolm and I stocked up on the essentials—beer, wine, liquor, cigarettes, TV dinners, playing cards, toilet paper—and settled in like bears intent on hibernating through the creative death of the holiday season. Neither of us got a damn thing done, which I submit was for the best. December makes for sentimental, and usually just plain shitty, art.

Meanwhile, Psycho Bitch was whisked away never to be seen or heard from again, the Trust Fund Kid flew back to Spain for two months, and Slug Jerky took a well-deserved break from rehearsing, leaving only the Korean counterfeiters (who never skipped a beat) down on the second floor as the Funhouse acquired an uncharacteristic air of genteel, soporific monotony broken only by the occasional debauch when Malcolm and I, bursting at the seams with unchanneled energy, tied one on and took turns leaping naked and giggling into the waist-high snowdrifts in the parking lot, then rushing back upstairs and leaping into the claw-footed tub full of scalding bubble bath. After all, we drunkenly reminded ourselves, 1992 was Leap Year.

Things didn’t return to normal (the wrong word, admittedly) until mid-January, when I got back into a writing rhythm with the closing of the book on Christmas and Malcolm, in addition to resuming his word paintings, started making regular trips down to Baltimore every other week, staying four or five days at a stretch with his old RICA pals while working on an Anglican church mural commissioned by some snooty arts council associated with Johns Hopkins. Apparently, it was a big deal as he’d been selected from hundreds of applicants worldwide, and it brought him considerable notoriety, which for an artist is infinitely better than garden variety fame.

The mural depicted a classical religious motif: Saint George slaying the dragon. I should say it was supposed to depict Saint George and the dragon. I never saw the finished product because Malcolm never got to finish it, but he described it privately as a satirical homage to Picasso’s Don Quixote and the Windmill, one that playfully deconstructed the latter’s image by fragmenting it into a highly abstract formalist mosaic, a kind of neo-Byzantine hypercubism that began, disconcertingly, to resemble swollen female genitalia—but only if you stared long enough.

“That should give those WASP fuckers something to chew on,” he said with a touch of Navajo pride.

It so happened while Malcolm was away in Baltimore and I was alone in the Funhouse, during the first week of February, that my imaginary life went to pieces. A whole series of more or less serious catastrophes waited until that exact window of time to rear their ugly heads, setting the stage for the “Colombian coffee incident,” as it has since become immortalized in these pages.

Anything I write about that week is likely to be imbued with bitterness, begging the question: “Why write about it at all?” To which I respond: to detach myself utterly from it ... To see my misery as purely textual ... To view the person who went down like the Hindenburg, who twice burst into tears and wept, realizing in his initial agony he’d never cried before while wearing contacts (a present from Malcolm when my jumper started rimming out) and wondering whether they’d float out of my eyes and stick like cellophane to my cheeks—I say, to view this person as in no way connected to myself, as merely a fictional character with but vague similarities to the unmediated me, to deconstruct Derrida and create a metaphysics of absence, of myself, which might sufficiently distance all traces of my pain ...

That Thursday my afternoon basketball was cut short by a flagrant elbow that opened up the skin above my left eye like a stiletto. I bled my way back to the men’s locker room, where I frightened myself in the mirror.

Oddly enough, it didn’t hurt at all. What stung was the fact I’d been scorching, red-hot, knocking down Houdini shots you typically only make in dreams: Jordanesque fade-aways falling out of bounds, Larry Bird rainbows over the backboard, Magic Johnson reverse lay-ups in lane traffic thicker than thieves.

I spent the next several hours with a bag of ice on my eye waiting to be stitched back together at Maroon University Health Services. But it was late in the day, they were short-staffed, and officially I wasn’t even a student, so I ended up being transferred a few blocks over to a downtown hospital that catered primarily to crack addicts. I finally left that scary place around 7:30, exhausted but not altogether dispirited—yet—with eight stitches camouflaged in the brownish fur of my eyebrow.

The next morning I woke up with the flu: nausea, sweats, pins, needles, nose running like a stripped faucet, throat wrapped with rubber bands, brain foggier than London. For most of the day all I could do was lie there like an ailing odalisque, blowing my nose, coughing up phlegm, floating deliriously on fever waves.

I couldn’t recall ever having the flu before and made a mental note never to have it again. I’d been spoiled by good health, no doubt about it. I wanted to feel better so I could again enjoy the mornings after when I felt like crap. I honestly didn’t know what I’d do when I recovered. I’d probably end up killing myself, I’d be so happy not to be dying.

Then nature called and I staggered up off my futon to find a Chiquita banana sticker stuck to my foot. How it got there was a mystery. Brain on the fritz, I momentarily hallucinated I’d broken my ankle—a thought that vanished into the fog as I lunged for the piss bucket I kept in the corner of my nook that this time served as a #2 chamber pot. I must have sat there an hour, maybe longer, shitting out everything: the previous night’s minestrone, the gyro I’d had for lunch, a bag of Bugles, my large intestine, my ileocecal valve, a rusty Altoids tin, a pair of black fishnet stockings, The Wings of the Dove, a KISS live album I’d been looking for ...

But that was just the beginning. No sooner had I wiped than I started throwing up, then I started shitting again, then I was vomiting fountains and pissing out the ass at the same time—a wicked combination—then I had the dry heaves at both ends—more devastating still—and when there finally wasn’t a single cell left inside me, when I was just an empty shell of a human being, a dry husk of my former robust self, I passed out in my own mess and slept like a fetus in amniotic fluid.

My recovery was glacial in its slowness. Virtually every part of my body ached. I coughed and sneezed so much I felt like an allergic reaction waiting to happen. I kept telling myself, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll feel better.” But every morning it was still today.

I managed to decontaminate my nook and, whenever absolutely necessary, stagger around the Funhouse, a more-vertiginous-than-usual enterprise that gave me a bizarre sensation of speedy lightness as if at any minute I might levitate. But mostly, I just lay on the couch with Dayquil headswimmy eyes watching MTV and the Playboy Channel. At last, on the third day, I rose again. I felt like a river slowly cleansing itself after a flood has washed it full of silt.

On the subject of storms: the next morning, as a prelude to the Colombian coffee incident, we got blasted by a winter hurricane. It started with snow. Imagine that: snow in Endurance. Almost as weird a concept as sand in the desert, fish in the ocean. The sun didn’t even come up. I mean, yes, it came up. You just couldn’t see it with snow funneling in white tornadoes in the wind.

Under ideal circumstances snowstorms inspire a cozy, complacent feeling in me—as if the world and its cares have up and vanished, as if I’ve just been relieved of all responsibility, suddenly reverted to a fairytale childhood. But that morning in my tiny world of illness, I felt like a squirming caterpillar in the toxic cocoon of a nuclear winter.

I made the mistake of venturing outdoors for two reasons: 1) I was starving with no food left in the Funhouse and 2) the grad seminar I’d been auditing at Maroon University was scheduled to meet. Comparative Literature 287, “Hallucinatory Journeys,” a course for which, despite lacking an undergraduate degree, I felt uniquely qualified.

Cherry (from Halloween) had suggested I audit it and personally recommended me to the professor, who happened to be her thesis advisor, an aging firebrand named Ancy Stromboli regarded in circles who cared as the reigning postneoanti-something maven, who agreed to let me sit in on condition I complete all the written assignments. The previous week I’d turned in my first essay, a ten-page writerly reading of Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell I’d enjoyed working on immensely, and was looking forward to getting my grade. So even though I still felt under the weather, so to speak, I bundled up in my best Eskimo gear and trundled out into the day.

After approximately a hundred hours quarantined in the Funhouse, I was beginning to suspect—erroneously—I was the only person left alive on the planet. Forty-five minutes from setting out, I managed to reach campus through two feet of snow and gale-force winds, but at least it wasn’t as cold as I’d expected. It was barely below freezing, in fact, and seemed to be getting warmer. The snowflakes had that furry unfocused quality they get just before they turn to rain and I could taste the salty humidity in the air streaming in from the Atlantic.

I stopped at the cafeteria and ate an overpriced Philly cheesesteak before tromping down to Marshin Hall—where I discovered my class had been canceled. A hunchbacked custodian with a speech impediment named Bernard told me. I think that was what he told me. I thought I heard him say all classes had been canceled. In any case they certainly had been. I mean Maroon University never canceled classes—but it did that day.

With nothing else to do, I swung by Professor Stromboli’s office on the odd chance she was in. She wasn’t but the seminar papers were in a cardboard box beside her door. I eagerly thumbed through the stack, suppressing the temptation to peek at other people’s grades, until I found my essay. I’d put the better part of a week into it and felt pretty confident, but was still a little nervous.

For good reason. My essay was so red it looked lacerated. There wasn’t a single sentence without corrections. The grade was an ugly C-, but Professor Stromboli’s comments were infinitely more withering. “I understand that you’ve taken considerable creative—to say nothing of interpretive—liberties and that you probably enjoyed indulging yourself,” she wrote, “but I must inform you that enjoying oneself is not the point of serious scholarship.” I guess deep down I always knew that was the mentality, but to see it actually in writing—well, what could you say?

I left Marshin Hall in the foulest of moods, my self-esteem the size of a poppy seed. By this time the snow had become rain. In the wind it sprayed sideways into my face, subsided, sprayed sideways into my face, subsided. Dejected, disheartened, with the creeping sensation of turning into the buffoon hero of a modern Canterbury tale, I sloshed back across town through the always already wetness as the bone-cold drizzle soaked me down to the stitches above my slightly swollen—and still rather sore—eye.

Why’s all this absurd shit happening to me? I wondered aloud as I trudged along. If I can just roll the absurdity over, underneath I should find profundity, right?

Anticipating a hot bath, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered the Funhouse. The rapidly melting snow on the roof must have overloaded the building’s gutters and seeped through the worn shingles, because it was literally raining inside.

Raindrops were splattering on the Ping-Pong table, the Harley-Davidsons, the Box People, Bach’s Organ, Tina Turner, Malcolm’s paintings, my desk, the kitchen stove, the couch, the TV, the stereo. The floor had transformed into a lake three or four inches deep. You could have sailed toy boats on it like the old Italian men did on Sundays in the fountain up at DiMaggio Square. That awful scene of the Funhouse-lake has remained like a bloodstain in my memory. Whenever I think of Rhode Island now, regardless of any other images that come to mind, I immediately picture Atlantis.

That was when I cried first. I sat down in the water and wept like a new widow. I lay down in the middle of the lake and squeezed out a torrent of self-conscious tears, feeling the universe closing in, tightening around me like a boa constrictor, sawing me in two with iron scales. If I’d let myself I probably could have cried all afternoon. The situation was so far beyond my control I was at a total loss, but eventually I mustered the strength to get up and go into the kitchen to wash the dishes in the rain.

Washing dishes has always been my principal form of meditation. I’ve tried guided meditation, transcendental meditation, primordial sound meditation, zazen, qigong, yoga—but nothing has ever given me the clarity and peace of mind washing a stack of filthy dishes does. Something about the warm soapy water, the circular motion of the sponge, the little squirts and whooshes, the release of impurities followed by a cold, cleansing rinse ...

But that day I should have had a dishwasher. I was down to just a few cups and some silverware, when the ceramic mug I was washing suddenly broke and nearly sliced off my pinky. Blood erupted from the wound and the sink turned instantly crimson.

This time it hurt like hell, but the real pity was it was my favorite mug, the one with the cross-eyed cows that reminded me of the salad days with Dante et al in Lipton Hill. That mug had come to symbolize a time when the spell of youth wasn’t yet broken, and now that it was in pieces, the mug, my loss—after five years—finally hit home.

I stood there at the sink bleeding with tears streaming down my face again, not so much from physical pain but because of a sudden flashback to our last summer together at the fishpond, a time swaddled in love and laughter, and I suddenly felt extremely old at twenty-three as I watched my carefree youth recede and disappear like a spaghetti noodle sucked down the drain.

I was in the bathroom having just finished bandaging my pinky, which really needed half a dozen stitches it never got as evidenced by a scar I have to this day, when the phone rang. With a vague foreboding, a leaden throbbing in my gut, I walked across the lake under the rain and picked up the receiver ...

(I should explain that, at long last, in order to pull my own weight around the Funhouse and take some of the financial pressure off Malcolm, I’d found a steady source of income: credit cards. Even though, technically speaking, I didn’t exist, I’d been issued several with extremely generous limits and was using one to pay off another. The interest was outrageous, I admit, but that was okay since I didn’t plan to pay it.)

My intuition was justified. A metallic, scarcely human voice representing some first national bank or other verified my identity and proceeded to inform me I was three months behind in my Gold Card payments.

“Three months!” I exclaimed.

Metallic Voice: “That is correct. Just what have you been thinking, Mr. Soloman?”

“Well, you see, I really haven’t been thinking—”

Metallic Voice: “It is my duty to inform you that you are in default. Can you understand the severity of this? You owe six billion, four hundred million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand, seven hundred and eighteen—”

“Come on, be serious!”

Metallic Voice: “Okay, you owe four hundred and twenty dollars.”

“But I never received a bill! I certainly never opened one!”

Metallic Voice: “Failure to receive billing statement does not relieve you of the responsibility of paying your bill on time.”

“Isn’t that a Catch-22?”

Metallic Voice: “Of course. Repayment of past due amount is due immediately. Late charges will continue to accrue until full payment is received. Did you notice how I rhymed?”

“Yes.”

Metallic Voice: “Hold just one hour, please.”

“What!”

Metallic Voice: “Sorry. Have a nice day.”

I replaced the receiver and stood perfectly still a very long time, maybe an hour. I was still standing in the rain feeling debt’s cold finger, feeling my own finger throb hotly, contemplating various methods of suicide, wishing I had one of Ben Vautier’s little Fluxus kits for just that purpose—when Malcolm walked in the door.

His train had just arrived after several hours of snow delay. He looked around the Funhouse with an utterly blank expression. I was reminded of those pictures of disaster victims you see in the news, the ones who have lost everything. Walking slowly over to the south wall, he touched one of his drenched paintings as if he expected it was all just an illusion.

On the verge of a third round of tears, I told him everything that had happened in his absence: my basketball injury, the downtown hospital, my stitches, my flu, the winter hurricane, Professor Stromboli’s comments, the breaking of the mug, my pinky, my default.

Malcolm was, as usual, magnanimous. Putting aside his own not inconsiderable concerns, he poured two glasses of Cutty Sark and handed me one. I drank it. He poured me another. I drank it as well. Slowly, things were coming back into perspective. After a third Cutty Sark, I was able to get a grip.

“It’s simple,” I said. “If I just ignore my problems long enough, they’ll disappear.”

I drank a fourth Cutty Sark, soothed by this knowledge.

“You’ve been through hell,” said Malcolm.

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I guess. What time is it?”

“Two-thirty. Let’s go up to Arnolfini’s and have some baked ziti.”

Needless to say but I’ll say it anyway, the mention of Arnolfini’s hit me like a ray of sunshine. Just minutes before I’d hoped it would keep raining and wash me away, but now I had a reason to go on living.

“But what about the Funhouse? What about your paintings?”

“What about them? They can’t get any wetter. And we still have to eat. Some hot food will do us both good. Let’s go.”

Before really getting to know Malcolm, I suspected that, being an artist, he was more self-consumed than his outwardly altruistic behavior would indicate—but he never proved otherwise. We left the Funhouse to rain on itself and headed for Liberty Hill. In normal conditions it was only a ten-minute walk, but with two feet of melting snow to negotiate under that shotgunned wineskin of a sky, it took us twenty.

In that time we heard three different sirens go off. Sirens were always going off in Endurance. Things were always being stolen in Endurance—especially, as previously noted, cars. Virtually everyone I knew had had at least one vehicle stolen. But what could you expect from a state run by the mob?

Naturally, Arnolfini’s was closed because of the weather. My spirits sank back into my soaked boots and I started swearing. I was pretty drunk. Malcolm had to calm me down. We tried several other restaurants, all closed. I was teetering within inches of a nervous, hypoglycemic breakdown—when we finally found a restaurant serving lunch!

I’d walked by the place dozens of times but had never eaten there. Neither had Malcolm. There was some scaffolding outside and a sign: PLEASE BEAR WITH US—WE’RE REDOING OUR FAÇADE. The place was practically empty. I’d heard they had good coffee. We decided to give it a shot.

The dining room was nice enough: white linen tablecloths, real flowers in vases on the tables, Vivaldi over hidden speakers, large color photographs of Palermo and Agrigento adorning the walls. Our waiter was rather handsome in a vaguely sleazy way and spoke with a fresh-off-the-boat accent.

Something about him gave me the creeps, but as a waiter he was extremely proficient. Malcolm and I sat by the window discussing Jackson Pollock and stuffing ourselves with focaccia and penne pasta in a pink vodka sauce (the waiter’s suggestion) washed down by several glasses of decent Chianti. It wasn’t Arnolfini’s, but it wasn’t bad.

I had a level-three buzz going and was feeling quite excellent about my imaginary life again. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but wasn’t Jackson Pollock the leader of the Diarrheal Movement?”

Malcolm didn’t bat an eye. I realized he wasn’t exactly sober himself.

“I believe you’re thinking of de Kooning.”

“Maybe.”

“That reminds me. I once had diarrhea for a solid month.”

“A solid month?”

“A solid month.”

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Worse. It hurt. I’d just turned eighteen and was spending the summer hiking by myself in the Rockies before starting art school. I got giardia and then got stuck under my tarp in the rain for a week. I was so sick all I could do was roll over and shit as far as I could out into the rain.”

“That’s adulthood for you. Isn’t it a bitch?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m trying to hurry up and get through with it.”

“What do you think about dessert?”

“In general or right now?”

“Right now.”

“I think I’d explode. That focaccia seems to be expanding.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Some coffee would be nice, though.”

“Yes. I’ve heard they have very good coffee. Where’s our greasy waiter anyway?”

“I haven’t seen him lately. He slipped into the back.”

“How’s that for service? It’s barbaric, in my opinion, to force people who have a genuine medical need for coffee to wait.”

Just as I finished speaking, our waiter reappeared and rattled off the desserts of the day. The tiramisu was tempting, despite my full belly, but I decided against it. “What I’d really enjoy,” I said, “is some of your wonderful coffee I hear so much about.”

The waiter cocked an eye and examined me with an intrigued expression. “Do you really like coffee?” he asked.

“Like? I love coffee. I admit I once preferred the smell. But now I couldn’t survive without three cups a day. It’s one of my principal food groups.”

Without responding, and without bothering to ask Malcolm whether he wanted coffee, the waiter turned on a dime and walked quickly back into the kitchen. Malcolm and I looked at each other and shrugged. “It’s got to be better than that antifreeze from Dunkin’ Donuts,” he said. Several minutes passed before the kitchen door reopened. Along with our empty-handed waiter, the maître d’ appeared, also empty-handed but wearing an unctuous smile.

“Giuseppe tells me you like coffee,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “I do.”

“I see. If I may be so bold, what type of coffee do you like really?”

At three-thirty on a snowy Tuesday afternoon in a restaurant where by now we were the only customers, this question made absolutely no sense. Then again, maybe I was just too frazzled to understand it. The past few days had been pretty trying. Maybe the maître’s question was altogether profound. For one reason or another, I decided to go along as if I knew what he was talking about.

“Well,” I said, “I appreciate many kinds of coffee. But my favorite is Colombian.”

“Why you don’t tell me you’re a connoisseur! And so young! How long have you known coffee this way?”

How long had I known coffee? What kind of question was that? Nothing—I mean nothing—about this conversation was adding up. I glanced at Malcolm for guidance, but he simply shrugged again as if to say, “You’re on your own, kid.” I looked back at the maître, who was sort of talking to Giuseppe with his eyes, with the panicky sensation I was on the wrong end of Candid Camera.

“Actually,” I persevered, “I’ve known coffee a long time. I started drinking it when I was in high school. I was just thinking about getting my own espresso maker—”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how many kilos do you purchase at a time?”

I was accustomed to buying my coffee, when I bought it in bulk, in pounds—so the kilos bit threw me for a second. But then I figured the guy was European.

“Oh, one or two,” I said.

The maître beamed. “Would you please be so kind as to accompany me to a more suitable room?” he asked with a sweeping gesture. “I’m sure the manager would like to meet personally with a client as special as yourself.”

In retrospect, maybe I should have been able to figure out what was going down. But at the time, I was totally clueless. Fear and curiosity waged a brief little war inside me. Curiosity won.

“Wait here,” I told Malcolm as I stood and followed the maître into the kitchen. He ushered me through a small door leading down a dark winding corridor that eventually opened up into a banquet hall complete with red carpet, crystal chandelier and grand piano.

In the center of the room, behind a massive mahogany desk that resembled a coffin on legs, sat an imposing square-faced man dressed in a tailored blue suit playing with an enormous gold ring on one of his fingers. I turned to ask the maître if this was the right room, thinking maybe we’d taken a wrong turn, only to discover he’d disappeared.

“So you like coffee?” the square-faced man asked in a deep Sicilian voice.

I was starting to sweat ... bullets. The man had to see I was nervous.

“I’m sure you know how it is,” I said, stepping forward in an attempt at nonchalance. “A cup or two now and then—”

“Do you prefer your coffee mixed or pure?”

“Pure. I never take cream or sugar.”

“Certainly not. Sugar is a terrible mix for coffee.” While speaking the man regarded me intensely, practically mowing me down with his sinister black eyes. Then, after an excruciating silence in which I could have heard my own heart beating from across the room, his face twisted into an ironic grin. “Look, kid. Tell me if I’m wrong. But I believe you’re only interested in coffee. I mean just plain coffee. Am I wrong?”

“Yes—I mean no! I mean you’re right. All I wanted was some coffee. You know, a cup of Joe. Java. What’s all this about?”

“Calm yourself. Relax. It’s not about anything.”

With cold deliberation he opened a desk drawer, a gesture that sent shivers from my cranium to my tailbone, but instead of a .38 he produced a thick wad of bills. He thumbed out five one-hundred-dollar notes and handed them to me between his fingers. “Take this as a little present. Between friends. Just be sure to forget you ever laid eyes on me.”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

“Good. Then we have an understanding.”

As I was stuffing the money in my pocket, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find the maître motioning for me to follow. I did—on legs wobblier than piano wires. He escorted me back into the dining room where Malcolm was waiting. I didn’t even bother to ask if he’d taken care of the bill. I knew it was on the house.

“Tell me what happened, Luke. You look like you’ve just seen a UFO.”

I was in no mood for small talk. I was stone-cold sober now. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

Only later, when we got back to the Funhouse, did I lighten up. I still didn’t feel great physically—“marginally functional” would be a better description—but at least I was gaining ground. I brewed a pot of coffee and sat down in the rain in the middle of the lake at the kitchen table to tell Malcolm the whole story, thrilled at the realization I’d made enough money to pay, should I have chosen to, which I didn’t, what I owed on my credit card—and then some.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Sol Luckman. All rights reserved.

C.G. Walters featured on Gaia Networking Group

http://ADLIAC.gaia.com — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 07:24:22 GMT

MFA-er author C.G. Walters, whose work is talked about here and here and here (and other spots) in MFA Group, is January's Featured Member in the Gaia Networking Group!!

We would love to have you drop in to the discussion and add a welcome, share an insight or story or your thoughts/feelings about C.G., or just respond to whatever is being talked about when you arrive !!

Best wishes to you for a wonderful 2009!!

OM Bastet, Moderator of Gaia Networking Group

Re: BEFORE GOD WAS, I AM

http://ddensmor.gaia.com — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 22:54:42 GMT

I feel the same as Denice, when I am writing it doesn't feel as though it comes out of me, but more through me.

As far as inspiration, there are times when an idea strikes and I have to write it down. but mostly I think inspiration comes when you call it. Through practice, patience and sitting down to write. There is some source that is taped into and then like a keg it flows.

of course editing is like skimming of the foam and getting to the good stuff.

Folly

Fri, 05 Dec 2008 10:35:17 GMT

Folly

Mine eyes
Awed wide
At fledgling sun
And overcome
By you
I thought it shone.

For fire
I thought
No spark asides
Those nestled
In your heart
Did flame arise.

From you I thought the rivers sprang forth
That no precip’ cloud or ocean throng
Laid claim to waters worth

And plunged into the twilight of your earth
That no plate shifted or shelf subside
Did I, for you, let mine self die.

Re: BEFORE GOD WAS, I AM

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 01:12:17 GMT

Thank you Denise.

Are you often surprised by your results? As in, looking back over your work to you think you yourself Wow, did I really write that?

An eccentric Aussie (or village idiot)

Re: BEFORE GOD WAS, I AM

http://denicelewis.gaia.com — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 17:41:34 GMT

As a poet myself I find that I am always inspired. Many times it is as if I am channeling a higher power and I am the instrument being used to express such thoughts, feelings and emotions. Have a beautiful and blessed day!

BEFORE GOD WAS, I AM

Sun, 16 Nov 2008 11:12:31 GMT

Question I would like to ask all poets...

I have recently started studying mystical poetry. The above line is taken from the third verse of "Hertha" by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

I am that which began;
Out of me the years roll;
Out of me God and man;
I am equal and whole;
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily;
I am soul.

Before ever land was,
Before ever the sea,
Or soft hair of the grass,
Or fair limbs of the tree,
Or the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was,
and thy soul was in me.

First life on my sources
First drifted and swam;
Out of me are the forces
That save it or damn;
Out of me man and woman, and wild beast and bird:
before God was, I am.

The poem goes on for an interminably long time.

What I would like to ask is, when you are composing poetry, are you 'inspired', does it sort of write itself or are you drawing from the depths of your being? Or both?

And as you are writing, and when you are finished, are you amazed at what you have written?

LUKE IN EXILE (viewable ebook)

http://lukesoloman.gaia.com — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 18:00:23 GMT

What happens when you forget who you really are, and begin the bittersweet process of awakening? If you're drawn to LUKE IN EXILE, the ultimate Wanderer novel, then, having forgotten, you probably ARE in the process of awakening. Join Luke Soloman in Book IV of the BEGINNER'S LUKE Series ("a mind-bending journey through the mind of the ultimate iconoclast"--Apex Reviews) for an unforgettable, laugh-and-cry-out-loud journey to the heart of loss and recovery--a riveting Adventure you may ultimately recognize as your own!

Luke in Exile (Book IV of the Beginner's Luke Series) - Upload a Document to Scribd

Re: Home

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 02:10:04 GMT

I was recently surprised to learn that a quote from this chapter of Beginner's Luke was included in the "Sunbeams" section of the popular The Sun magazine devoted to arts and culture--under a quote by a literary hero of mine, Jack Kerouac, no less! Check it out at http://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/393/sunbeams.

PORTRAITS (viewable ebook)

http://lukesoloman.gaia.com — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 18:35:08 GMT

Portraits of an Imaginary Young Man (Book III of the Beginner's Luke Series) - Upload a Document to Scribd

Serialization of Sacred Vow: Katerina

http://dragonsbeard.gaia.com — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 10:12:34 GMT

Sacred Vow is a unique, ingeniously written visionary/metaphysical novel about one true love and its infinite expressions. It asks the reader to consider an experience where our interconnectedness and ‘self' definition might extend far beyond the segmented (individualistic) awareness previously held by so many. It takes us on a journey deep within, exploring and discovering one's own mystical longings and a wealth of endless knowledge. Be prepared for some surprises.-Spirit in the Smokies Magazine of Living NEWStories

Installment 5 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon's Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

Katerina

Ian and his new friend had quite a few pleasurable visits over the six weeks that followed. With the exception of a couple of short periods when she did not show at all, he saw her one to several times every week. Her visits lasted only seconds on his watch, yet the activity that he could recall made Ian feel that they had been together upwards of several hours at a time.

He came to call the woman Katerina sometime after her second visit. Absentmindedly interrogating himself after he returned from their time together, trying to get some better idea about what exactly he was experiencing, Ian realized that at some point he had begun referring to her by that name. The certainty and familiarity with which he used the name amused him.

Ian started to search for the justification of this inadvertent christening. Surely, he had picked up something in the vision without realizing it, something that suggested her name. After considerable deliberation, he found no such clue. And yet he experienced discomfort when he did not refer to her as Katerina. He was certain that he somehow knew her name. And even if it was not her name, what would it hurt to call her Katerina until he knew her name for sure? Using this name was much more soothing to him.

Ian next encountered Katerina as she was sitting in the grass under a tree of beautiful purple flowers. Comforting a dear, little girl, perhaps three years old, on her lap, Katerina acknowledged Ian's presence at about the moment he became aware of her.

When Katerina spoke to him, the child looked about as if she had no idea whom Katerina was addressing. But, the little girl did not seem disturbed by Katerina's response. Once the youth decided there was no one else with them, she laid her head back onto Katerina's breast and closed her eyes.

"You have a lovely daughter," Ian said.

Katerina shook her head, very slowly, in order not to disturb the child's rest. The caring look for him on Katerina's face gave comfort to the depth of Ian's soul. He had never imagined that there could be so much connection between two people merely through visual communication. No wonder the child was so contented in the company of such an empathic woman.

"She's not your daughter?" he asked.

Again, another slow denial, and then Katerina stroked the child's hair.

He looked about at the surroundings. They were in a sculptured garden, spanning in all directions as far as he could see. True, he could not see much more than fifty yards in any direction, but the paths that disappeared in every direction implied there was much more beyond.

When Ian's attention returned to her, Katerina was gazing intently at him. At first he was a little embarrassed with the attentiveness of her focus.

"You know. I suppose I should start by introducing myself, though it seems we are rather familiar already." He was starting to ramble, so he calmed himself before continuing, "My name is Ian Sarin. It has been a joy to meet you, dear lady." He bowed his head.

She nodded in acknowledgement, placed a hand on her chest opposite the head of the sleeping child, and spoke. It was obvious that she had introduced herself, but Ian did not catch her name.

"I am so sorry," he responded. "I have always been inept at lip-reading."

Then Ian started nervously rambling again, "You know, after we met the second time, I got the most assured idea that I already knew your name. I had no reason for it, but I just couldn't help believing that your name was Katerina. In fact, having become so certain of it, I was afraid that I would just call you . . ."

Noticing her smiling and nodding, Ian regained his focus, thinking he had missed something she was trying to convey.

"I am sorry. What did you say?"

Again, she placed a hand on her chest, but spoke with slow, exaggerated movements, slightly pausing between each syllable. She appeared to say I . . . am . . . Kat . . . er . . . ina.

What she said seemed obvious, but Ian distrusted his eyes. Surely, his own preconception of her name was making him imagine that he understood what she said. Still, he had to check.

"Katerina? Your name is Katerina?"

She nodded with enough enthusiasm that the little girl stirred to see what was happening.

"That's amazing," he said. "How could I have possibly guessed that?"

Katerina kissed the little girl's cheek, and tried to coax her head back to rest. Apparently, the little one had received all the comfort she required and was fully revitalized. Without any further indication of intent, the child jumped to her feet, looked quickly to one side, and started to talk excitedly.

Katerina nodded, and the girl rushed toward one of the many paths radiating from the clearing. Waving back to Katerina, the child barely missed running into Ian. She seemed no more aware of his presence than she had earlier.

He laughed at the transformation and watched the child disappear around a flowerbed. When he turned to look back at Katerina, Ian was surprised that she was now standing right in front of him, gazing into his eyes.

Katerina reached to touch him, but her hand remained barely suspended in front of the upper right side of his chest. "Hello," she mouthed. He was sure of that.

Reflexively, Ian reached to touch her face.

He was so engrossed in her eyes, that he did not really pay any attention to his hand. Anticipating the touch, his senses informed him that his hand had moved enough that it should now be reporting the feel of Katerina's skin.

Ian pulled his attention from her eyes and looked to where he expected himself to be touching her face, along her jaw line. The translucent distortion that he saw instead of his hand caused him to jerk backwards. He pulled his hand back, bringing it right in front of his eyes for a better look. Still Ian saw nothing but a fuzzy impression of a hand.

"What the . . . ?" he said, stepping back again.

Noticing that Katerina was waving her hand in front of his face, Ian let his attention follow her hand. She drew a single finger to her lips, gently suggesting quiet, calm. From her lips, his attention went back to her eyes; in the process he became as subdued as the child had been a moment before.

What difference does it make that my hand is not solid? he thought. Ian looked around himself and back to Katerina. It was an odd feeling to perceive himself as the only intangibility in the environment.

"Look where I am, what I am doing," he said out loud. "Why should I be so surprised just because I see something else unexpected?"

Though still not completely comfortable with the appearance of his hand, he was calmed. Being careful not to point with his finger, Ian asked for a tour. "Let's take a walk. Please tell me about this gorgeous garden."

They wandered about for quite a while, winding through path after path. It was all much manicured, more like an arboretum or a study of wild flora than the garden of even a lavish estate. He didn't see any indication of a dwelling of any kind. Of course, since Ian could not hear anything during the visitations he could not rely on sound to tell him if they were close to any houses.

With the sights and the company, it did not take Ian long to completely forget about the distortion he saw instead of his hand. The couple talked like long-lost, dear friends, spending most of the time looking into each other's eyes as they talked and walked. He was surprised that neither of them stumbled, he especially, since he had no idea where they were going.

Though he did not ever feel the contact, Katerina reached out to touch or stroke Ian-or more precisely, his location-frequently. He was amazed how much intimacy could be conferred by the implication of such a motion. The gentleness with which Katerina carried out those gestures, the look in her eyes, almost satisfied any need for touch, to a degree that he had never known before.

When she was close enough, Ian "touched" Katerina. He had no physical sensation as a result of the effort, and he did not look for confirmation of that touch. He did not want the pleasure of his experience interrupted by what he suspected he would or would not see.

As Katerina continued with the tour of the endless garden, Ian's conscious mind started to push for answers to questions. Was he only a matter of his consciousness projecting to a location near Katerina when he was in her world? If so, what were the perceived sensations of his body in this place? He experienced fragrances, experienced movement as he walked.

And there was one odd sensation that was starting to disturb him. Ian's movement had a vague hint of being guided, as if he was in some confined space. He walked along with Katerina, but it didn't fully feel as if he was moving as a result of his own physical effort. The idea made no sense to him. Yet, it did explain why he never stumbled as he kept his eyes only on Katerina during their tour of the garden.

Two little children came barreling down the path. Their little faces lit up when they saw Katerina. They began chattering and waving, without slowing their pace. She replied with similar enthusiasm. Off they disappeared in the opposite direction, without any indication that they had seen Katerina's guest.

The interruption was good for Ian. It brought him back to the joy of his moment. He returned to the steady exchanges with Katerina, rather than dwelling on the pointless concerns of his conscious mind.

Shortly afterward, he and Katerina stepped into a clearing and the sky opened up over them. The flood of sunlight drew Ian's attention ahead and then upward, where he noticed a magnificent old-world building.

"What a remarkable place, Katerina! What is that?" Ian said, looking back and forth between Katerina and the structure, which stood about fifty feet away.

Moving in front of him, Katerina lifted her left hand toward the structure, as if to introduce it to him.

Overwhelmed by its unique beauty, Ian repeated, "What is it?"

She looked him right in the face and began to slowly pronounce something. Ian hated trying to lip-read. He found the slow, labored pronunciations to be more distracting than helpful. For all he knew, Ian caught nothing of what Katerina said, despite her efforts.

"Do you live here?" he guessed.

Yes, she nodded. Motioning for him to move forward, they headed for a large, ornate entrance. Katerina began telling him about it, at normal speed.

Her home was the archetypal French country cottage. It was neither small, nor very big. The exterior was extremely well crafted with stone, stucco, and heavy timbers. Quite a bit of the stone and exposed wood was carved, apparently by various craftspeople on different themes, at different times since the styles were so different. The cottage had to have been ancient. Unless her world was much different from his, he thought, not even the wealthy built homes of this size with such detail and artistry anymore.

Ian realized that he was acting as excitedly as one of Katerina's young friends. Moving this way and that, he tried to take in all the rich detail. Katerina moved toward whatever he showed an interest in and tried to tell him about what he was seeing. Nearer the main door, off to one side of the building, there was a sculpture that fascinated him. Katerina stopped to see what he was looking at.

A path led directly to the intriguing sculpture. She waited to see if he wished a closer look. Ian turned toward the house, concluding that he could see the statue well enough from where he was, and he did not want to delay their entry into the house. Katerina followed suit and turned to continue toward the door.

An instant later Ian changed his mind. "I'll be right back, Katerina. I am going to run over there for a quick look at the statue."

As he was behind her, Katerina did not see his change of direction. A few steps into his jog, a sense of internal strain, a visceral pull, started to get Ian's attention. Another couple of steps and he experienced a rush of faintness. Before he could take another step, Ian lunged back-against his recliner.

The return to his study was abrupt, but he recovered without complication. His little stroll toward the statue alone let him know he was correct in supposing he could not move far from Katerina when in her reality. Based on that experience and the children's unawareness of him, Ian concluded that in that place he was an apparition honed in on, and seen only by Katerina.

(Katerina to be continued next week))

C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

In celebration of CG's upcoming non-fiction book, Strike a Chord of Silence, for a limited time autographed/signed copies of Sacred Vow are available for $4.00US plus shipping!- or purchase as ebook or the Amazon Kindle version

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.

Serialization of Sacred Vow: Tea Ceremony (continued)

http://dragonsbeard.gaia.com — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 10:09:22 GMT

The most significant event of your life calls to you, from barely beyond your perception...both imminent and impossible... a call of the heart, of the spirit, and of yourself to which you have not yet been introduced.

Sacred Vow is visionary fiction of a journey toward our one true love...in its infinite expressions...bringing together two individuals from disparate realities-but one spirit-to heal the rift in the Collective Consciousness...a breach that threatens us all.

Installment 4 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon's Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

Tea Ceremony (continued)

About a month later, Ian had convinced himself that he was in charge of his own choices. Despite not feeling in control of every emotion, he let down his rational guard and began pursuing another experience with the woman of that unforgettable night. Speculating that the image had been a product of a combination of environmental factors in his study, Ian decided to duplicate the circumstances to the best of his memory.

His efforts did not produce a vision the next few times he had tea in the study. Perhaps, Ian thought, he was trying too hard. In time, however, the woman did reappear. This time they did not meet in the forest, but in his study.

The progression of her appearance was precisely the same as before. The items in his focus began to blur. Then a transparent outline of her figure emerged. As she began to take form, Ian noticed a growing tension within himself. He speculated it was the conflict between what he perceived and what his logical mind could accept. Forcing himself to relax, the queasiness he was feeling disappeared quickly.

She was wearing a much more formal-looking garment with a cowl, embroidered with many of the same symbols as the tunic she had worn before. When she fully materialized at the other end of the study, she raised both hands and gracefully pushed the hood back from her face, and down onto her shoulders. A feeling of joy swept over Ian as he saw her smiling face unveiled.

His pretense of scientific research fled the moment she arrived. In the brief instant before total abandonment into the moment, Ian took mental note of the genuineness that denied what he perceived as merely visual. Nor was Ian stirred to know why he felt what he did, but allowed himself to revel in it.

Ian was disappointed that the woman did not offer a kiss on this visit . . . and a visit was what it felt like to him. Instead, she slowly raised a palm in salutation. He got up from his chair and welcomed her to his home.

"It's so good to see you again, my friend," he said. "Come and have a seat with me."

She shook her head and pointed to her ear. Ian understood that she could hear no more of what he said than he had heard from her during their last visit. Turning to his recliner, he motioned to it with his hand. She declined, pressed her hands together as if in reverent thanks, and lowered her head slightly.

They stood, smiling and staring at each other. Ian did not know what she was feeling, but he was certain that their lack of dialogue did not limit their interaction. For his own part, Ian felt much communication was taking place, without the need of a single sound.

She glanced about the room, eventually gesturing as if to ask if it would be all right for her to have a look at a pottery piece that displayed stamped Celtic symbols.

"Sure," he said. "Make yourself at home." He rushed over to join her. "It's made by a potter who lives in the mountains where I go sometimes. I love the symbols that the artist has used."

His visitor stooped to look closely at the miniature monolith. She pointed to a symbol, a triskele, looked up at him, and made a comment he could not hear. Ian raised his hands to either side of his chest, palms upward, and shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he did not understand what she meant. Standing upright again, she pointed to a triskele on her garment.

"They are the same!" he said. Ian wondered if she was from a Celtic culture. He knew, however, that the triskele was not unique to the Celts.

Wishing to present the woman with a gift, Ian picked up a small candleholder that also bore the triskele design and offered it to her.

"Please, let me give you this."

She appeared grateful of his offer, but shook her head, declining politely.

"Please," he insisted.

After pausing for a moment-that Ian took to be considering how to respond-she slowly reached out a hand as if to touch the pot. Excited that she was accepting the gift, he further extended his arm. Without ever touching the pottery, her hand jerked away and her face took on a look of fright.

This movement caused Ian to quickly withdraw his outstretched hand and almost drop the candleholder. After recovering his composure, he noticed she was smiling again, but she had both hands up in front of her, palms out, signaling that he should not bring the pottery to her. She slowly pointed one hand to the place from where he had taken the pot. So, he put it back on the shelf.

With that bit of awkwardness, their visit began. Ian's visitor relaxed and returned her attention to his offered token, gracefully nodded in thanks again, and mouthed something, about the pottery-he assumed.

Ian silently watched her and his embarrassment evaporated. The gentle woman looked up and gave him another of her enchanting smiles. Showing her about the room, he talked and laughed as if she could hear him. She responded in kind. Happily, they carried on their silent exchange.

It became apparent to Ian that she did not want to touch anything in the room, or else could not. Several times she motioned to Ian to turn an item around, so she could see its backside.

At some point, Ian's new friend moved to have a look at a book in the bookcase. She took a couple of steps toward it-and then vanished into thin air. Ian was seized with a momentary distress, and then he was startled to find that he was again sitting in the recliner, teacup in hand. He could not understand how it was possible, but evidence suggested that he had never moved from the chair. From all appearances, Ian had been the only one in the room the whole time. But he felt certain that he knew otherwise.

Now that Ian had experienced another visit-or visions, because he interchangeably referred to the experiences by both terms, unable to conclude which they really were-he looked forward to enjoying another one. Ian planned not only to enjoy them but also to find some answers. Crafted after his experiences in computer testing, he would use a base environment of everything just like it had been the first (and second) teatime. He made the same type of tea, used the same teapot, and sat in the same chair. Everything was just the same as it had been previously.

After a couple of successful visits, he started to change one thing at a time. If changing something kept her away, Ian would return things to the way they had last been for the next tea, verify another success, and then see if he could cause a repeat failure. The first conclusion he drew was that even with the absolute replication of the first visit setup, success was not always guaranteed.

Continued next week, Katerina

copyright 2006 CG Walters

C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.

THE TOY BUDDHA (viewable ebook)

http://lukesoloman.gaia.com — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 22:48:58 GMT

The Toy Buddha (Book II of the Beginner's Luke Series) - Upload a Document to Scribd

Serialization of Sacred Vow: Tea Ceremony

http://dragonsbeard.gaia.com — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 23:45:51 GMT

Sacred Vow is a metaphysical novel about a man who responds to the mysterious call of a woman, opening the way to redefinition of both himself and his understanding of the world around him. He takes his first steps on a journey to accept the world around him as a place to live, not simply a place to survive day-to-day. Sacred Vow is both a narrative and the means for the author to communicate a positive message about life and fully integrating the most into each moment. Highly Recommended-Midwest Book Review

Installment 3 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon's Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

Tea Ceremony

In all of his fifty-three years, few pleasures consistently satisfied Ian Sarin like fully focusing on a hot cup of tea, especially in the familiar comfort of his home on a New England winter evening. At the end of workdays in the frighteningly specious world of logic-computer logic-Ian loved reentering this personal sanctuary, and making a ceremony out of preparing his tea. The simple motions brought Ian a serenity he couldn't explain. Of course, he occasionally made changes in the ritual. There were always new teas to try, and he periodically used a different teapot, cup, or other trimming. But the unhurried, predictable routine invariably took him from the intensity of his toil to the calmness of his center.

Ian would lean back in his favorite old chair, placing the hot teacup on the wide wooden armrest. The antique recliner had cracked red leather cushions. A dear couple in their nineties had given him the chair, for some reason unknown to him. It had belonged to the woman's grandfather. Like its former owners, that old chair was ever welcoming. Without fail, it soothed Ian to sit in it.

Whether it came immediately after work or followed drinks and dinner with friends, separation from his labor was never complete until Ian had the day's closing cup of tea. The rising steam from the cup celebrated a shift into the more genuine side of his life, of himself. Single, living alone, quietude was his guidepost.

Withdrawn from the activities of the day, Ian would focus on a favorite teapot or some other object within the room, absorbed in aimless wonder until he achieved something he called a sense of "presence" or expanded awareness. The tea's warmth and flavor never failed to lull him into the anticipated meditation. With palm and fingers wrapped around his cup, Ian would take his time and lingered over every sip, staring blankly, unintentionally, into the room before him . . . looking outward, peering inward.

One winter evening, while in this unmindful passage, Ian slipped into a path that he could not have previously imagined. At first, the experience appeared to be no more than some mild visual distortion, not unlike the onset of one of his occasional migraines. In this hyper-relaxed state, Ian ignored the blurring edges of the images. He knew that the best way to avoid the onslaught of the potential headache was to relax more deeply and allow the storm to flow through.

Without becoming attached to or analyzing the experience, Ian allowed the sensations to draw him where they would. A ghost image of an outdoor scene began to display itself before him. Surprised by the specificity of the evolving scene, Ian tensed up, straining to resist the unexplainable sensory imposition. This caused a mild nausea. Ian took the nausea to be added evidence that he was developing a migraine. So he again focused on relaxation.

He could not completely convince himself that the relaxation that ensued was solely due to the conscious effort he made, rather than the mere seduction of the experience. The infrequent migraines had never before provoked anything remotely suggestive of a hallucination.

With a distinct sense of motion, Ian felt himself transported from his New England home, winter outside, to the edge of a forest in spring-who knew where? The shift from ordinary consciousness to the extraordinary state of deep meditation was stronger and quicker than any previously experienced. It was so exhilarating it almost caused him to faint. As the two contrasting scenes before him continued to transpose, Ian's familiar room became the more ethereal of the two.

Then he felt an abrupt snap to his nervous system. Both the nausea and psychological elation disappeared. The result was even harder for Ian to remain detached from.

Ian became enchanted by what his senses were reporting, and even more so by the novelty of the transformation. His room had been redefined to a path within an evergreen forest. Yet he knew he was still sitting in his recliner. The smell of evergreen needles and pungent wild plants overwhelmed that of his ginger pu-erh tea. It was all so real that he could even feel the moisture of the lush forest environment. Odd, however, was the utter silence of the place.

Then Ian realized there was another person in this woodland scene. The woman seemed a little more imaginary than her surroundings and she had the radiance and movement usually reserved for dreams and fantasy. Rather than something separate, moving across the landscape, she flowed as part of the scene, from point to point. She made no abrupt movements or gestures. Ian wondered why she seemed so familiar, though he was certain that he had never seen her before.

Her hair was a deep, rich auburn, very long and braided into a single strand. The style of her clothes was unusual. She wore a long-sleeved, full-length gown. Over the dress was an open-sided tunic, not quite as long as the gown, loosely tied at the waist with a woven belt. Both garments appeared to be handmade from a thick but loosely woven natural fiber. The gown was off-white, probably the natural color of the fabric. The tunic was light green, heavily embroidered with symbols that Ian did not recognize. The ordered placement of the symbols, however, gave him the impression that her attire was a uniform of some sort. One thing he could not help but notice: the soft cloth of her clothing flowed as smoothly over her form as she moved through her environment.

Fully focused on the wildflowers that she was collecting and adding to her basket, the woman walked to Ian's right, completely unaware of him. She moved her lips as if talking to herself, or to the birds that flew about and perched near the ground on the lower branches of the trees. Then the woman finally noticed Ian. She stopped in surprise, but only for a second. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open . . . just before she gave him a full, welcoming smile.

It was as if she knew who he was but had not expected to see him just then or there. She spread her arms and moved quickly toward him, laughing and talking as she came. To his dismay, Ian could hear nothing of what she said to him.

Ian had initially taken this lissome woman to be much younger than he. But as she drew nearer, he saw that she was about his age. She seemed much fuller of life than Ian had been in years, even though he considered himself quite youthful for his age. Her skin was smooth and fair in color, and it had a healthy, even glow. Equally beautiful to him were the soft lines around her eyes.

Ian was drawn to the woman; he sensed that some kind of intimacy existed between them. She apparently felt the same way, for she leaned over to kiss him without hesitation. Her scent was of delicate flowers over an exotic wood. Ian felt anticipation of her touch-much more than just a mere physical response of an unattached man being kissed by a lovely woman.

Ian's anticipation was denied. He never felt the touch of her lips. As she stood upright, returning slowly into focus, Ian could not take in enough of her striking face. Now he wondered why she wore that quizzical expression, head tilted and brow knitted. Perhaps she, too, could not understand what had happened to the sensation of the kiss.

Ian was even more overcome by the rapidly expanding emotion that he felt for this woman, from deep within-and, somehow, being near her gave him an almost exaggerated sense of satisfaction with himself. Ian was totally absorbed in his passionate response to her. I am truly blessed, he thought in almost perfect contentment.

It was about then that Ian's logical mind regained its ability for rationalizing and seized full control. I am sitting in my study, it proclaimed forcefully. This is an illusion!

Abruptly, the woman and her surroundings dematerialized, going from tangible form to ghost image to her absence, merely a blurred perception of Ian's study. His body and mind convulsed when the last traces of the illusion retreated into the precise forms of the study. A rush of confusing emotions was forcibly fused into his conscious perception of himself and his reality.

Gripping the arms of the recliner, Ian sat rigidly upright, distraught. As unnerving as the physical stimulation had been, the emotions that churned within him now were worse. For a brief moment during the woman's visit, he had possessed an incontestable sense of purpose and wholeness. Now he felt devoid. The sharp contrast wounded him deeply.

Had something precious slipped away? More than that, why did he feel so certain that this woman's departure meant a loss of more than he'd known he was missing from life? In his many years of meditation, guided imagery, and similar experiences, Ian had never felt such stirring sensations.

Now that the brunt of the experience had passed, his mind rapidly alternated between supreme elation at "meeting" this remarkable woman and a full rational denial of this little vision, or whatever one might call it. What had just transpired? For all the world, it had felt that in a matter of seconds the tangible world before Ian had completely redefined itself as he remained the only constant. But he was not ready to accept an explanation quite that extreme.

"What a powerful vision," Ian said to himself, confining the account to something within the comfort zone of his conscious mind.

Step by step, Ian retraced the experience. He had been enjoying the fragrant aroma of his ginger pu-erh tea while his eyes ran over the bamboo-like designs on his recently acquired, handmade ceramic teapot. Obviously, he had finished the tea and set the cup in his lap . . .

Perhaps," Ian thought, "I suddenly lost consciousness." No, he knew he had not slept or blacked out!

In fact, Ian reminded himself, the change started as he was looking at the teapot, just finishing his cup of tea. He had been thinking of nothing in particular, allowing himself to drift free from any thoughts. The next thing he knew, the relaxation was moving quickly into a mysterious domain.

The loss of that enchanting woman called Ian back. Despite the evidence to the contrary, he knew she was somehow real. And the emotions she had provoked in him were certainly so.

Quickly getting up from the chair, he walked across the room.

After taking a few steps, Ian turned and stared at the recliner as if it were some unknown object. Then, as if to reassure himself that he was indeed in his study, he slowly let his attention drift around the room. There was the makeshift stereo cabinet, a faux antique armoire-on which an untalented amateur had sought to express an imagined skill. His eyes fell to the worn pine floor and traced a path back to the side table, on which sat the muted green teapot with its bamboo design. Each familiar item was a comfort.

What had the woman in the forest been? He was certain it was not a dream! The experience had been far too lifelike.

Ian felt compelled to classify the experience as some sort of visual aberration, like a mirage. A mirage, however, is something caused by the environment external to the seer. But, what were the conditions that caused this aberration?

In the case of a vision, the controlling conditions are more defined within the seer, within his or her mind . . . or life. That put the weight of the explanation of this occurrence on him. What about Ian or his life had recently changed, allowing this peculiar experience to take place?

Ian consoled himself with the conclusion that if he had had some sort of vision, at least it was pleasant and non-threatening. Or rather, it had been pleasant until he "awoke" and found that his visitor was chimerical.

Continuing to tell himself that he was distressed over nothing, a mere reverie-though elaborate-Ian sat back down in the recliner. Could he recreate the experience at will?

Trying to relax, he reached over to touch the teapot. Such a short time had passed since Ian poured his first cup of tea that the pot was still hot.

He picked the teapot up and tilted the spout over his cup. Steam rose as the stream of hot tea fell into the cup. Ian half expected that something else might escape from the teapot. When the cup was full, he set the teapot down and settled back into his chair. For a short while, he tried to think of nothing, just stare without purpose at the teapot and cup.

Ian made every effort not to think of the woman in the forest and his experience with her, but he failed. He had no better success for the next couple of weeks. Almost all he could think about was related to his encounter with the woman in the forest. Over and over, Ian tried to determine exactly what had happened that night. He considered how it had happened, analyzed why it had happened, and how it was different from any vaguely similar experiences he had had previously.

Despite the fact that his visit that night was always on his mind, he spoke to no one about it. He didn't need anyone else questioning his mental stability.

During that time of assessment, Ian did not have tea in his study, or go through his tea ritual at all. Once in a while, he would sit in the study-but not in the recliner-and consider the scene of the event that occurred that night. He convinced himself that the vision was more interesting than disturbing. His response was to study it as an "experiential aberration," some anomaly of perception.

Such things as visions or visitations were not completely incomprehensible to him-in concept, anyway. Ian had done a little reading concerning metaphysical, indigenous, and East Asian beliefs, though he did not consider himself knowledgeable, not by any means. Now and again, he had attended a spiritual workshop or a retreat. Such diversions were interesting, and occasionally vital-along with art, music, and poetry-to balance out his left-brain-centric career. Before the woman's arrival, Ian had never experienced anything that threatened to cross the threshold between the expanded perception of deep meditation and the preternatural. Even though he had come to believe such things were possible, he had always been comfortable that there was generally a wide margin of safety between the possible and the probable.

All this analysis did little to placate Ian's ruffled logical mind, and offered absolutely no comfortable answers. The least of the rationally objectionable labels considered during his scrutinization was "vision"-"dream" remained utterly insufficient for what he had experienced-Trying to define the encounter as a mere hallucination, however, caused an upwelling of resistance within his depths. Though he struggled to avoid giving credence to the idea, Ian knew that he was not completely convinced that the experience had been merely visual.

From the moment he had first experienced the woman with the auburn hair, Ian had felt something new evolving in him. It seemed that much about him was transforming.

The change was physical. Certain parts of his body, internal and external, seemed to vibrate in response to some unexplainable stimuli outside the range of his conscious perceptions. The change was spiritual. He had acquired some deep undeniable connection to this woman that he could not rationally understand. The change was psychological, some kind of redefinition of self that he could not grasp consciously, as if his mind and feelings were opening or expanding. The redefinition included expanding his identity as a segmented awareness and bonding with something larger than himself . . .

None of this evolution greatly disturbed Ian. He did not personally know anyone knowledgeable about such things as visions. But from what he had read, he knew he was displaying normal symptoms after a numinous experience, which he also reminded himself was defined as any experience that defies explanation within the scope of one's current view of reality. For Ian, a personally experienced vision, as opposed to theoretical visions, qualified as such an experience.

Ian tried to respond to the sensory aspects of the vision as an adventure, a particular bit of good fortune. He hoped to repeat the experience once he understood more about what was going on. There was just one remnant of that evening that Ian was not comfortable with. In fact, he would have sought another vision the following day if not for the residual emotions he possessed . . . or that possessed him. Ian was compelled to understand these emotions before allowing the chance of another vision.

He could accept the possibility of a lingering emotional ecstasy resulting from any strong supersensual experience such as his vision . . . similar to a religious rapture. But the emotion that Ian was feeling was directly associated with a single element of the vision, with the woman in the forest. The total intimacy he felt with her was more than Ian had ever known with any person. And he could not believe such an impassioned connection could be instantaneous. Yet, he had to believe . . . or accept that the bond had existed even before he had the vision.

That unguarded assessment troubled Ian. His yearning to return to the woman of his vision had the remarkable force of an addiction. For that reason most of all, Ian resisted the urge to pursue another encounter. He was not willing to let anyone or anything have such power over his destiny.

(Tea Ceremony continued next week)

C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.

Re: Haiku Fairy Tales

http://anandaarts.gaia.com — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 15:53:49 GMT

Holding him gently
Lips pucker expectantly
Love and magic fill the air

Re: Haiku Fairy Tales

Mon, 28 Jul 2008 03:17:35 GMT

Tapping my toes impatiently, lol.

Who's up for Part 3.???

Serialization of Sacred Vow—Searching

http://dragonsbeard.gaia.com — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 10:22:03 GMT

Installment 2 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon's Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

Searching

No longer confined to material experience, Katerina crossed into the dimly lit room, invisible to its inhabitants. She had never visited this world before, never laid eyes on this person, yet Katerina's bond to the lean, gray-haired man seated at the wooden table was so intense and immediate that she barely managed to suppress the impulse to reach out and embrace him.

He rested a forearm on either side of the tattered book at which he stared, completely absorbed. In a few moments, he began to read aloud to himself, in a gentle voice.

"So long have we been sharing our experience, our becoming, that it no longer makes sense to imagine such a thing as either of us wholly divisible from the other . . . if it ever did make sense."

Slowly he sat upright, eyes staring in Katerina's direction, though completely unaware of her, staring through her formless presence and beyond her. A smile spread over his weathered face. Mesmerized, Katerina watched the man's bright eyes as he began to move his head to the left. The moment his attention came to rest, an undeniable serenity radiated from his face, drawing Katerina to turn and seek out its inspiration.

He was looking into the face of a woman sitting in a large, upholstered chair, motionless, silent, and eyes closed. Upon first recognition of that face, Katerina's intimacy with it involuntarily pulled her nearer. It was her own face on which Katerina was gazing, many years older, but indisputably her face. Katerina wanted to linger and rest her spirit, weary from all the traveling today, to just take in the simplicity of their life together in this place. But she knew that would be unwise.

Though only an observer, Katerina felt herself beginning to fuse into this life, making it her own. And this reality was progressively laying claim to her. Synthesis into the visited environment was a known problem with this manner of searching. She had been cautioned against becoming too tired and being seduced into idling.

She took one last look at her partner in this alternate life-at the partner of this parallel self. Katerina forced herself to continue the search elsewhere. This man was surely a manifestation of the one she sought, but this was not "him."

Then she released her hold on this life. The tangibility of another facet of reality dissolved around her, as it had so many times before that day.

When letting go of a visited life, Katerina often had a sense of rapid movement-somewhat unnerving. It was similar to the dream sensation of falling when on the brink of sleep. Except this movement went in all directions simultaneously, including inward.

As Katerina removed herself from this life of hers, she retained traces of it. Though she had visited the place for only moments, that reality had been thoroughly integrated into Katerina's definition of self, her emotions, and her mind. The same thing had happened with each parallel life that she had visited today. The resulting assimilation of parallel self-definitions was proving to be the hardest part of this task. Katerina could feel something similar to layers of simultaneous lifetime awarenesses building within her consciousness. With each new layer, Katerina's definition-of-self expanded, but the primary identity receded a little. The more the tether to her prime personality weakened, the more dangerous the next visit became.

These dangers to the visitant were why this ritual was so rarely performed. Only by forcing acknowledgment of her exceptional skills had Katerina been able to persuade The Nine to consent to, and assist in, her searches. With each passing in and out of these parallel lives, Katerina became progressively more understanding of the Crones' concerns.

Good fortune and bad awaited Katerina at the next location she tried to visit. For whatever reason, she was blocked from entering the environment. This meant the spirit of the very person she had come to visit denied her access-so she had been taught. The barrier was good because of the respite it afforded her, even momentarily. It was bad because this failed attempt was an opportunity lost and she had no time to waste. Katerina could feel her subconscious becoming overwhelmed. She would have to abandon the search very soon.

As though she had been slammed into a wall, Katerina rebounded. With no time to prepare, she entered into another parallel life. The quickness of the transfer had a severe impact on her already depleted energies.

Hazy images began to take form before her eyes. As in every other visit today, what Katerina saw and felt was as real to her as the life in the world of her physical form. These people, her lives in parallel realities, always existed right before her eyes. They were as real as any member of her order that she interacted with day in and day out. In this process, Katerina merely opened her awareness to the otherwise unacknowledged doorway between the infinite realities.

Memories that were hidden from her a moment before-memories belonging exclusively to this parallel life-began to introduce themselves into her consciousness. A flood of previously inaccessible senses, personal to this life, began to send their messages to her brain. Emotions without history for the traveling Katerina of a moment before began to structure in her mind the network of associations that gave them consequence. It was becoming almost impossible to fully open herself to yet another mind, another life, and still retain her distinction from them.

"Maintain the focus," she reminded herself. "Where is the Union?"

Psychically, she searched the structure in which she stood for evidence of his presence. She knew he had been in this room only a moment before. Scanning one room after another with her mind, her senses met him returning up the stairs from a lower floor.

Perceptive of subtle energies, he stopped, and turned his head as if trying to catch the sound or sight that had fleetingly stirred his attention. Though her presence was centered in another room, Katerina held her mental focus on him, just outside of his range of perception. There was something very special about this one, and she took time to enjoy that uniqueness.

But he is not the Union, her mind cried out.

"Suen?" he called.

"What is it, Yeetar?" his partner replied from a room at the back of the top floor.

Yeetar looked around, curious. It was obvious that he had perceived an unfamiliar intrusion into his world. He seemed to be reaching out with something more than his five senses, trying to locate her. So Katerina cautiously began to withdraw her presence.

Significant, she thought. But, still not the Union.

Katerina heard Yeetar reply, uncertainly, "Nothing, Suen," as the last of Katerina's foreign essence departed from his world.

Katerina knew she could not attempt another visit. Her need to return to the Motherworld was too great. As soon as she pulled herself back into the mortal form that was her own, every member of The Nine instantaneously received her request for termination of the rite. The gurgling song of streams that surrounded the circle of Crones aided her return. Though Katerina felt her spirit fully identify with the body of her home reality, her mind was overwhelmed with the competing identities she had integrated into her awareness during the searches. Still in the seated meditation posture, Katerina slumped forward, reaching her hands to the ground for reconnection, pressing her palms to the soft, living moss that covered the ground below her. Her breathing was deep and slow. With each inhalation, the scent of the evergreen forest strengthened her connection to this place, her primary home.

Surges of energy began to run through her muscles, making them twitch. Katerina strove to suppress these involuntary movements. Undoubtedly, out of need for its own survival, Katerina's conscious mind was feverishly sweeping through the queue of her recent experiences and vanquishing all contending identities to the subdued recesses of her subconscious.

Katerina had no way of telling how long the hand had been on her shoulder. Still unable to withdraw her concentration from the processes of recovery, she wasn't yet able to perceive whose hand it was. A minute later, unaware of who stood above her, Katerina began to realize that sympathetic energy flowed into her through the supportive hand, assisting Katerina in her efforts to integrate.

She had not wanted anyone to know how much impact the ceremony had had on her. She had been bold in her claims of being able to handle the process.

"You have done well, dear heart, and we are glad you are back with us."

Katerina knew the voice. Head hanging down, eyes still closed, her sensory perception becoming exclusive to the world of her body, she replied, "I could not find him, Holiness. So many manifestations of him, but none of them were the Union."

"That is both auspicious and unfortunate. With so many connections, the bond between you and him is exceptionally strong. It does, however, complicate finding the appropriate manifestation when seeking him without some assistance on his part.

"You have been remarkable in your effort, Katerina. No one would have asked so much of you. Care for yourself now, my child. This is a demanding task that you have undertaken."

"I am certain something is not as we expect this time," Katerina said.

"We may not understand why things are proceeding as they are, Katerina, but the Collective Consciousness cannot be wrong. We must carry out our practice as it has been handed down to us. The method has always served the need, and will again . . . in its own time."

"Yes, Mother. But when I received the visions, it seemed he was not within an order. Is it possible?"

"The images you saw must be coincidental, not indicative of his full person, Katerina."

"How can he refrain from replying?" Katerina asked, finally regaining enough strength to rise to her feet, though slowly. "Perhaps he cannot, or does not understand the Call."

The old Matriarch wrapped an arm around Katerina's back and helped the younger woman to steady her wobbly legs. Katerina looked into the concerned, almost teary eyes of her superior and said, "I truly feel that something is unique to this occurrence of the rift."

"I know you do, and I respect that belief. But you must accept that no matter the situation, it is perfection, as it has always been."

A tear rolled down the wrinkled cheek before the elder continued.

"I would not have had you suffer this burden, Katerina, if I had such power to decide. And I must accept that this charge is yours to bear, in your own way."

Despite the Matriarch's compassionate tone, Katerina took her words as a reprimand.

"I will not fail my duties. Until I find the Union, I will search without cease."

Rubbing Katerina's back, the old woman said, "You have always surpassed your duties, dear girl, and are doing so now. You will not fail, cannot fail. It is we who must not fail you."

Continued next week, Tea Ceremony

C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.