fiction | Journeys and Star Gazing

The Quest for Inspiration

April 18, 2024

The oppressive Australian heat bore down as I trudged along the endless road to the small Queensland town where my friends had once lived. Car after car whizzed past without stopping for the wayward traveler. After hours of walking under the relentless sun, I finally reached my destination only to find their house abandoned – they had moved on.

Feeling lost and alone, I sank onto the front step, uncertain of my next move. That’s when the wizened old man appeared, his weathered face seeming to defy the laws of age itself. He fixed me with an inscrutable stare for a long moment before speaking.

“Your mates are gone. But you’re in luck I’m still around.”

His humble shack was a one-room timber structure that emanated an odd warmth, the air carrying the scent of freshly-hewn wood. We sat on tree stump stools as he poured our drinks. I explained that I had come to Queensland seeking inspiration to work on my thesis about the mystical poetry of William Blake. His response took me by surprise.

“Ah, Blake could perceive the hidden truths, my friend. The rest of us are blind to such mysteries.”

This peculiar old man had me rapt as he delved into the sacred geometries, the mystic language of numbers, and how words and logic obscure the greater realities. His words wove together theosophical concepts and Pythagorean numerology.

“Within these corporeal shells, we are mere observers,” he proclaimed. “Catching fleeting glimpses of the vastness through sensory keyholes.”

I could only listen in silence as he added with a sage nod, “Having nothing to say may be your salvation.”

As I bid farewell to the enigmatic stranger, stepping out into the crisp air, the world itself seemed transformed around me. The return journey, hitching rides and passing through landscapes both familiar and foreign, carried an ineffable sense that I had been granted a glimpse into something far greater than myself.

With each passing car and transient vista, I felt I was traversing the synapses of some vast cosmic mind, every experience and perception flickering like synaptic connections within the neural network of a greater consciousness. Finally arriving home, I marveled at the profound interconnectedness of it all. I could taste the words Blake had penned in “Auguries of Innocence“:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour

What once seemed an impossible task no longer felt so hopeless. The thesis that had tormented me for so long now carried the promise of insight and meaning.

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The above event demonstrates for me the ideas of synchronicity and hyparxis. Below is a schematic diagram of a “MOMENT”. It shows 3 dimensions of the ‘moment in time’ – Serial Time, Spatial Time and Timeless Time. This diagram is based on J G Bennett’s ‘Dramatic Universe‘ where he explores these issues of Time. Yes, it’s my hand drawn version!

2 Comments | consciousness, fiction, numerology, philosophy, poetry, Pythagoras, symbolism, William Blake, writing | Tagged: consciousness, meditation, philosophy, poetry, William Blake | Permalink
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Some Secrets Are Best Left Undisturbed.

April 8, 2024

There were no rainbow hues crowning the dilapidated house across the asphalt. A lone weed struggled through the crack in the cement to greet the constant passersby. She could empathize with the weed, “What’s a weed but a plant discarded from the mob?” she thought.

Her hair, from a distance, looked like a lion’s mane. Up close, what you thought was hair was clusters of thin lines of flame with light blue ends. Was she an angel? A messenger of fire descended into this neighborhood? Just an illusion to occupy a mind that’s locked into a cube space? Could she be both? Like a profile that is a vase from one view or two faces turned inwards from another. How long she has been watching is anyone’s guess.

Detective Claire Harper parked her car across the street from the dilapidated house. She had been assigned to investigate a series of mysterious fires that had plagued the neighborhood in recent weeks. Each blaze seemed to erupt without warning, leaving behind a trail of destruction and confusion.

As she stepped out of her car, Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She scanned the area but saw no one except for a woman standing near the weed-infested sidewalk. The woman’s fiery hair caught her attention, and Claire approached cautiously.

“Excuse me, miss,” Claire called out, “I’m Detective Harper. I’m here to investigate the fires in the area. Have you seen anything unusual?”

The woman turned to face Claire, her eyes burning with intensity. “I’ve seen everything,” she replied cryptically.

Claire raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the woman’s response. “Can you tell me what you’ve seen?” she asked, taking out her notebook.

The woman hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’ve seen flames dancing in the night, consuming everything in their path. But I’ve also seen something else, something darker lurking in the shadows.”

Claire furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of the woman’s words. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible for these fires?” she pressed.

The woman shook her head. “I cannot say for certain,” she replied, her voice trailing off. “But beware, Detective Harper. Not everything is as it seems.”

With that cryptic warning, the woman turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Claire standing alone on the sidewalk.

As Claire continued her investigation, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the mysterious fires than met the eye. And as she delved deeper into the case, she would soon discover that some secrets were best left undisturbed.

4 Comments | fiction, Uncategorized, writing | Tagged: book-review, book-reviews, books, fiction, romance, short story | Permalink
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The Word Becomes a Sliver

February 2, 2024

In the realm of writing, a mere word holds extraordinary power. Picture a daring adventure, where the word becomes a sliver teetering on the edge of a cliff. As it takes the plunge, penguins hurriedly scuttle to the beach below, creating a lively spectacle. Amidst this scene, a lighthouse casts its beams, revealing a sea monster whose eye glistens with the reflection of light. Adorned with a black eye patch, loose curls framing its face, and a glimmering earring, the sea monster raises a glass in a toast.

“Here’s to all those who have fallen and who are lost,” it declares. The gathered group responds with cheers, recognizing that this celebration is a reflection of their own journeys. Each word present has traversed a significant path, and the acknowledgment of this shared experience binds them together. It’s not about solitude but rather the realization that, like stars in a constellation, they are connected. Words in a sentence, in a paragraph, in a chapter, in a book, in a library.

Amidst the festivities, a crab scuttles beyond the tabletop, making a daring descent to the awaiting floor. However, this creature is not a Cancer; it’s a Leo on a quest for its crown.

In contemplating the act of writing, one discovers the challenge of doing so without deliberate thought. Yet, beneath the surface of these randomly chosen words, there lies an unspoken voice, ready to articulate the depths of the human experience.

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Caught Between Two Worlds

January 17, 2024

The men in suits came first, followed by the bulldozers and trucks, their mechanical growls drowning out any protest from the condemned structures. Porta loos and cranes joined the procession, marking the relentless advance of progress. Each dawn witnessed the sacrificial dismantling of houses, shops, trees, and the remnants of a child’s forgotten doll. Important things reduced to scrap and dust.

Bulldozers, with their steel jaws and insatiable hunger, scraped the remains into chaotic piles of broken bricks, concrete slabs, shattered glass, and discarded newspapers. Dust, stirred by the relentless machines, ascended in a frenzied dance with the breeze. In that corner of Redfern, the air was thick with the debris of destruction, making every breath a challenge for those traversing Young Street.

For over three months, the denizens of Athena’s street side waged a daily war against the invading sand and dust, a ceaseless barrage from across the street onto their doorsteps. Wind, an uninvited guest, carried the sandy particles into homes, infiltrating narrow hallways. Improvised defenses, from old towels to tied-together clothes, lined the door cracks in a futile attempt to ward off the invading onslaught.

“Kosta, close it quickly. We don’t want a desert in our house,” Athena commanded as she opened the door, her voice a blend of resignation and defiance. Kosta, facing the growing rock piles, felt the wind blown sand’s prickling embrace against his face and arms. The hallway, a sanctuary turned battleground, resonated with the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of sand grains striking the closed door.

Further down the corridor, George, squatting before the Kriesler radio, issued a hushed command. “Ssshh! I’m looking for Greece.” The radio, a capricious oracle, emitted static, distant voices in tongues unknown. Amid the interference, a muffled sound emerged, giving way to the resonant chimes of a bouzouki. “Oppa! Ellada – Greece!” George stood, his silhouette adorned by speckled gray and black hair, tapping into the heartbeat of his homeland transmitted through the airwaves.

“Even in his singlet, without a shirt, he looks fully dressed,” Athena mused, watching George’s impromptu dance. His arms stretched wide, a silent celebration in the midst of upheaval. A brief exchange of glances, a touch of the moustache, and a nod to the music—communication beyond words.

“I fixed the antennae,” George declared, interrupting the radio’s melodic voyage. Kosta, near the mirrored cupboard, observed the curated collection of cups, saucers, and memories. Framed photographs adorned the top, capturing familial ties spanning continents.

Athena, clutching a photo, ventured into the past. “Do you know what today is, George?” she asked. “Good Friday,” he responded. Tears welled in her eyes as she crossed herself, the photo a bridge to a painful memory. “Today, three years ago, Aliki died.” The room echoed with her grief, and she pointed to a baby in Kosta’s arms, frozen in time. “Three years ago, today, my baby girl died.”

George, now facing the dual challenges of past and present, sought answers. “What did the doctor say?”

“Xenitia – home sickness, that is all,” Athena confessed, her vulnerability laid bare. “I want to go home. I want to be with my family, be able to walk the streets and breathe Greek air!”

Before George could respond, Athena’s anguish erupted in a torrent of words. “VROOM! VROOM! all day, 12 hours a day VROOM! VROOM! The machine pricking my fingers and the boss yelling – FASTER! FASTER! VROOM! VROOM! – I want to go home. I don’t want to sew Akubra hats anymore!”

The room hung heavy with the weight of unspoken dreams and shattered illusions. Athena’s plea lingered in the air, a plea not just for herself but for a family caught between two worlds.

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Portal of Enigmatic Shapes

December 29, 2023

The room was dimly lit, the only source of illumination being the soft glow of the street lights filtering through the half-closed blinds. A man sat at a cluttered desk, his fingers dancing with a pen over a blank page. At first, the shapes that came from his fingers were geometrical doodles, spirals that began anticlockwise but ended up snaking clockwise. Now a triangle that grew into a star. The shapes flowed from his pen as if the pen itself inscribed the signs. Still, the scribble continued, now over half the page from the center was filled with shapes and lines.

The stars on the page weren’t even noticeable, only the light blue of the sky ran down the page making a huge teardrop. As he picked up the page with the letterhead, he noticed that the stars had grown a little brighter. He held the piece of paper up to face the window, as he did light streamed through the stars as if they were holes. He touched the spot where a star was, and he knew that it wasn’t a hole. The star, in fact, seemed to radiate more heat. Leaving it on the desk, he picks up the phone and calls Tony. No answer.

He sat down and began to scribble on a piece of paper he found on the shelf. It’s not as if he had a message for anyone in particular. In fact, he didn’t even know how he came to be in this room. The scribbles continued, forming a maze of lines and shapes that seemed to have a life of their own. The room, now filled with a quiet tension, held the secrets of the man at the desk and the enigmatic symbols he was creating. Tony walked in, the door creaking slightly as it opened.

“What’s going on, Joe?” Tony asked, eyeing the chaotic patterns on the paper.

“I don’t know, Tony. It just started. The shapes, the symbols. They won’t stop,” Joe replied, his eyes fixed on the mesmerizing dance of ink on paper.

Tony took a moment to study the page, then looked around the room. “It’s like you’ve opened a portal to another world in here.”

“Yeah, a world of shapes and lines,” Joe mumbled, almost to himself.

The two men sat in silence, watching as the scribbles unfolded. Joe pulled the blinds open. The stars outside the window seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, casting an ethereal glow on the room. The air was charged with mystery, and the wall between reality and imagination blurred.

As the night deepened, Joe continued to sketch, and Tony remained, captivated by the unfolding spectacle. The shapes on the paper seemed to tell a story, a story that transcended the boundaries of ordinary existence. The room became a sanctuary of creativity, a realm where the ordinary transformed into the extraordinary.

And so, in the dimly lit room, surrounded by the enigmatic symbols and the soft hum of the city outside, Joe and Tony witnessed the birth of something beyond comprehension, that defied the constraints of the mundane.

Leave a Comment » | consciousness, fiction, Uncategorized | Tagged: consciousness, consensus reality, enigma, fiction, handwriting, invisible forces, journaling, life, poetry, writing | Permalink
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A Cosmic Ballet

November 28, 2023

In the labyrinth of cosmic intricacies,
an inner design defies the logic of minds,
attempting to stroll upon the ethereal fabric
of black holes, where reason stumbles in awe.

Rebellion emerges as the cosmic key,
unveiling truths hidden in the shadows
of received opinions, a door swinging wide
to truths whispered by the cosmic winds.

A mysterious “something” wields a wand,
spinning tales within the tapestry of constellations,
an eternal presence observing the cosmic ballet,
the rise and fall of beings, mountains, and lands.

Matter transforms into the frozen music of stones,
Pythagoras’ ancient melody echoing through time,
each stone a note in the grand symphony,
resonating through the cosmos in silent cadence.

Art becomes the footprint of a soul’s journey,
imprinting the cosmic canvas with hues
of emotions and thoughts, a dance
that loses its rhythm without the soul’s touch.

No soul, no footprint, only shifting sands,
where glitterati and flash light grains
replace the vibrant imprints of creative expression,
a desolate landscape devoid of artistic echoes.

In the topsy-turvy world of this surreal realm,
inside-out policemen, dogs, cats, and cars
create a whimsical ballet of absurdity,
three-dimensional topology reduced to a mere doorknob.

Poetics unveils itself as the study of soul graphics,
a journey of the scribble that transcends meaning,
exploring the intricate patterns woven
by the whims of imagination and cosmic whimsy.

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Mona Lisa’s Smile Endures

September 28, 2023

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A Domesticated Haunting

September 11, 2023

In the heart of the city, nestled between towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, there was a tumbledown building that looked like it had been swept off the floor above. The stairway leading to the basement creaked with every step, and the dim light barely illuminated the old bench and the many different shaped and sized bottles that sat on top of it. As I walked further down the stairs, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of longing in the house, as if the space had been abandoned and forgotten.

What was stranger still was the different hues that were projected on the walls. Clouds don’t hang around here, yet the colours that danced on the walls looked like a sunset over the ocean. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt drawn to the strange and haunting beauty of the space.

As I explored the basement, I stumbled upon an old newspaper with a date that was a couple of days ahead of the actual date. The eerie feeling in the air grew stronger as I read the headlines. It was as if I had entered a zone of causes, a space where past and present collided.

Suddenly, a snowflake of coincidence fell upon me. I heard the floor creak again, and my heart skipped a beat. But there were no people, just the occasional pigeon cooing in the distance. As I turned to leave, I noticed a pair of owl’s eyes staring back at me between the limbs of a tree outside the window.

On my way out, I passed a group of kids gathered under the great concrete anchor statue just across the street from Circular Quay. They were blowing bubbles, their rhythm setting up the pulse of activity. I couldn’t help but wonder about the mysteries of this midnight age and the secrets that candle makers hold about souls.

Perhaps it was just my imagination, but as I left the tumbledown building and walked down the street, I felt like I was being watched. I remembered the warning to beware the exhibitionist and the guru, for they speak with tongues of fire. But as I looked around, there were no gurus or exhibitionists to be found, just the bustling city and the occasional rumbling bus.

The haunting that I had experienced in the basement had been domesticated, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps these problems of vision had to do with something greater than myself. Something precariously balanced, like ash from an overladen cigarette.

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