The Stone Seeker: A Myth of the Wandering Soul

October 2, 2025

A departure from my usual posts — this one takes the form of myth, an inner journey written as an allegory. I offer it as a companion to my ongoing stories.

He was called Stavros, which means Cross, and that was his burden — and his path.

One day, in a time that was no time, he heard the silent summons. Not from the sky, but from the pulse within the earth. He set out, carrying nothing but his breath and the ache of questions. He climbed the ancient spine of Sinai without sleep, ascending stone upon stone, as if walking up the ribs of a forgotten god. At the summit, the sun did not answer him — but it showed him he was not alone.

The descent was harder. That is the truth of all peaks. He reached the foot of the mountain and sat by the monastery of Katherine, where silence grows like lichen on old stone. There he met the Gatekeeper — a monk whose heart had fossilised into ritual. Stavros spoke the sacred tongue, but the Gatekeeper did not recognise him. He uttered the Word — “Yunan” — and dismissed him like a leaf blown against the stone walls.

So the Seeker left the sacred walls and returned to the road. It was on this road that he met the Trickster Guide — a Bedouin named Mohamed, who spoke through music and mischief. He offered herbs not for healing but for vision. He rolled a joint while guiding the chariot at great speed. Smoke curled like a serpent toward the heavens, and the desert began to shimmer.

Mohamed showed him the living map: dunes that were coastlines, mountains that were camels in repose. “This is Sinai,” he said, “and there is the Red Sea.” In that moment, the Seeker saw geography become prophecy. The land was not just land — it was a scroll unrolling.

Mohamed led him to a mosque, a café, a grove of planted trees. “We are of the 15 tribes,” the Guide said. “We plant what will shade the unborn.” The Seeker ate with him, drank the dark tea of mystery, and vanished into moonlit streets.

Then came the Labyrinth.

In the night city, he was lost among alleyways, where cats whispered secrets and doors led nowhere. He emerged by chance, or fate, and met the Scribe, who wrote his name in the language of the ancestors. “All men have three names,” said the Scribe, “but only one is true.”

The Seeker travelled again — across waters, under stars, on feluccas that rocked like cradles of time. He met companions with names like runes: Linda, Olga, Shayari. Together they smoked, drank rakii, and watched angels dissolve into the air like incense.

He arrived at a threshold: the City of Columns. There, under a sky bleached of memory, he sat on sand and turned a plastic bottle into a shrine. He waited for a chariot to carry him across the Nile of forgetting. Someone called him “the Greek with eight children,” and he laughed. He had none — and yet carried thousands within him.

Then came the Two Georges.

One was a Potter. One was a Priest of the Inner Fire. They saw in Stavros something he had hidden from himself. “You evoke the honour of Christ in others,” they said. “You wear innocence like armour.” They fed him macaroni and truth. In return, they asked for stories.

And so he spoke.

And in speaking, he remembered.

Dialogue became divination. Each question was a key. Each story a lost scroll. “In dialogue,” said George, “there is living transmission. The book you write is not of ink. It is breath, shared.”

They spoke of the monk on Athos who gave him a stone. “Leave this on the mountain,” he had said. And so Stavros carried it until the burden became a prayer. They spoke of karma, of grace, of gifts that are given but never earned.

Then came the desecration.

He passed through Luxor and saw the sign — McDonald’s, Temple of Luxor Street. The Golden Arches beside eternal stone. He took a photo, not to remember, but to mourn. Some desecrations are not loud. Some come wrapped in convenience.

And still, a stranger in Cairo whispered: “Welcome.” One word, like a flame in the dust.

The Seeker came to understand: giving and receiving were not separate acts. He had received shelter, food, names, music, silence. He had given stories, listening, laughter, witness. There was no accounting. Only flow.

He saw now that the journey had not been from place to place, but from self to soul. He gave before he received. He received before he gave. It was not barter. It was the hidden law.

And then — the Word.

“Sorry,” they said, “is just a word.” But he knew better. The Word began the world. Words held power, memory, vibration. Words could curse. Words could carry. Words could redeem.

He left the stone on the mountain.

He returned carrying only light.

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The Shirt That Waited

May 10, 2025

A quiet moment in a thrift shop became a luminous sign—folded in cotton, stitched with meaning. A forgotten shirt reminded me that even in doubt, the path whispers back: keep going.

Today, a whisper found its way to me in cotton.

I took a turn I hadn’t planned. Missed another I thought I meant to take. My car drifted like a leaf on invisible currents, nudging me gently toward a thrift shop I’d never noticed before. I wasn’t looking for anything. Just drifting.

Inside, beneath the soft hum of fluorescent light and the faint scent of other people’s lives, I browsed without seeing—until I did.

A shirt.

Ordinary, almost.

Except for the words:

Found in a $10 bin. Delivered like a prophecy.

Never underestimate an old man who graduated from the Univeristy of Sydney.

I stood still.

The sentence blinked softly, like an old friend in disguise.

I’m an old man.

I’m a Sydney Uni graduate.

And lately… I’ve been adrift. Writing, yes—but shadowed by that quiet ache of doubt, that question: Who do you think you are?

The shirt didn’t answer. It just waited. As if it had been waiting a long time.

I’ve never seen such a message on any piece of clothing. Not in a shop. Not in a dream. Not in a life filled with signs and silences.

And where did I find it? Among a rack of forgotten clothes, a sale bin really—three garments for ten dollars. Almost thrown away, as if its worth were negligible. But value has its own strange gravity.

So I listened.

I bought the shirt, not to wear, but to honour the moment. Folded it like a relic. A thread in the quiet tapestry that tells me: Keep going. Your words matter. You are not to be underestimated—even by yourself.

Sometimes the universe speaks in lightning.

Sometimes, in shirts.

And no, this wasn’t random.

Not this precise. Not this poetic. Not on a day when I needed it most. There is a language beneath the visible, and sometimes it breaks the surface. This message wasn’t waiting in the shop. It was waiting for me. A quiet benediction disguised as cloth, gently reminding me that my path still holds light—and voice—and that even the doubting steps are part of the dance.

I didn’t expect to write this. I just followed a feeling, like I did that day in the shop. If it resonated with you, I’m glad. Sometimes the smallest signs are the ones we carry the longest.

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The Fractured Cosmos: Crime and Capitalism Unveiled

December 10, 2024

The monster lives—a being of primal, vestigial flesh, ancient yet evolving. It is our charge to nurture it, to coax its grotesque beauty into full bloom. This is no ordinary monster, for it is not of the material world alone. It embodies all that is untamed within us: the rage, the lust, the fleeting glimpses of transcendence. Our task is not to suppress it but to help it grow, for only through its growth can we understand the fractures within ourselves and the universe we inhabit.

We do not dwell on the petty crimes of the cradle—the foolish missteps of a fledgling species. Such crimes are symbols of a planet still finding its place in the greater cosmic order. They are phases, reflections of a culture struggling to reconcile its roots in the soil with its dreams of the stars. The criminal mind, at its core, is narcissistic—a mirror too focused on itself to see the vastness beyond.

But even as we wrestle with our own shadows, the angelic influence stirs the heavens. It is said that once, in an act of rebellion or grace, an angel threw the moon toward the Earth, setting it into motion. The tides rose, the rhythms of life were born, and yet, with this gift came the seeds of discord. Every cycle of creation invites a counterforce, and we now stand at the precipice of The Last Days, where the battle lines are drawn between mammals and machines.

The Pole Shift looms on the horizon, a magnetic upheaval echoing the chaos within. It is not just a geophysical event but a metaphor for the inversion of values, the tilting of the moral axis. What was once revered is now reviled, and what was once reviled is now celebrated. This shift connects to the crimes of our age, each a wound inflicted upon the fabric of existence.

Crime and Capitalism: are they one and the same? The boy who stole from the computer hackers their gift of hacking—was he a criminal, or was he simply redistributing stolen fire? Capitalism, with its rising tide of insecurity, extracts not just the essence of labour but the very essence of the sea, of the Earth, of the soul.

The Flower-Telepathic Computer: a marvel of sentience and sensitivity, it blooms in the minds of those who dare to connect. Yet, its very existence exposes a cascade of crimes—against family, against nature, against space and time. What is the theft of a wallet compared to the theft of an epoch? What is a lie told to a friend compared to the lies encoded into the nervous system of our galaxy?

Holo-Crime: crimes against the holographic unity of the one. These are the incursions into the sacred matter of space, the violations of the thin, shimmering membrane that separates what is from what could be. The maniac who murdered—did he act alone, or was his hand guided by the collective desperation of a species that has forgotten how to dream without violence?

The Essence of the Sea: shell extraction, the taking of the ocean’s soul. As we strip the Earth of its treasures, we strip ourselves of meaning. What rises in its place is a tide not of water but of fear, insecurity, and longing.

The crimes mount, layer upon layer, until they form a tower that scrapes the edge of understanding:

The crime against the family, for it severs the roots.

The crime against nature, for it poisons the soil.

The crime against angels, for it mocks their grace.

The crime against demons, for it denies their necessity.

The crime against the planet, the sun, the nervous system of the galaxy.

Each crime is a fracture, yet within each fracture lies a seed of potential—a lesson, a call to reconciliation. If the monster within us is to grow, if we are to nurture it into something more than the sum of its appetites, we must confront these crimes not as judges but as witnesses. We must see them for what they are: the echoes of a species learning how to wield its power.

And what of Capitalism?

Is it truly the villain or merely the mask we have chosen for our shadow? Like the essence of humanity, the nature of crime is neither fixed nor simple. It is a hologram that reflects the one fractured into infinite pieces. To heal, we must not only piece together what is broken but also embrace the fractures as part of the whole.

In the end, angelic influence will not save us, nor will the machines, nor the rising tide. Only the monster—the raw, unfiltered essence of ourselves—holds the key. To nurture it is to nurture the cosmos, for we and it are not separate. The crimes against the sun, the moon, the Earth, and the stars are crimes against ourselves. And in their reconciliation lies our redemption.

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Carnival Day

November 14, 2024

It’s Carnival Day, and the streets hum with strange music that seems to echo from the cracks in the cobblestones. The sailors sing tunes that rise and fall like waves, their voices rough and gentle, worn by salt and time. Ancient whores lean against faded railings, their sighs heavy with the weight of forgotten desires, watching a day that never ends roll out again like a ragged carpet.

Old men tip their hats to passing dogs and the shrieking children who dart between the stalls. Ladies in feathered boas throw blown kisses from their booths, winking at those who dare catch them. Somewhere in the crowd, a sky pilot—tall and solemn—wraps his arm around his lover’s shoulder, murmuring sweet equations, words of science, as they wander toward the looming shadow of the roller coaster.

“Hey! Hey! Don’t forget your sense of justice!” comes a call from a voice lost in the crowd. It’s Carnival Day, after all, a day for the topsy-turvy, a day where nothing is what it seems.

The ghost train rattles past, its lights flashing garish neon. Round and round, it goes, yet no one can hear the screams of the shadows within. You catch sight of the acrobats now, spinning and turning high in the air, their bodies dangling by invisible threads. You wonder what magic holds them up there—what spell, what curse—yet there’s not even a single hair to show the strain. Your head begins to turn, spinning in rhythm with the world around you, and you wonder what the clown is doing over there, grinning like he knows all the secrets you forgot.

You find yourself seated under the grand old hat, an enormous thing that arches above, draped like a night sky. Its great mast rises from the centre, a pillar of mystery that holds the curtain between this world and the stars. Looking up, you see them—stars peering down with distant curiosity, pinpricks of silver against the carnival’s blaze. Somewhere, you think, there might be a wishing well beneath this hat, deep and endless, catching all the silent hopes thrown up by this crowd.

You wander into the Topsy-Turvy House, tripping over invisible stairs and losing balance in rooms that slope and slide. The electric vibrations of the funhouse hum in your bones, a strange, tingling pulse that you can’t shake. Electronic zombies greet you, their eyes blank but somehow alive, watching you even as you look away.

The laughing clowns are waiting with wide mouths open, eager for you to throw your ball into their gaping grins. You do, and the ball tumbles down, but you lose track of it, forget where it went, though you wish—foolishly, perhaps—for the panda plush on the wall, a silly prize you’re sure will hold you tight.

Nearby, a bearded woman whirls like a storm, her skirts sweeping the air in wide arcs. You see the hammer and bell challenge beside her and step forward, but somehow you miss, though you strike with all your might. Next, a boxer in the ring grabs hold of your toe—he’s a strange one, like a sumo who left his mittens by the dock, his laugh deep and unfathomable. Around you, freaks and fortunes twist and collide, creatures of illusion, like characters from a song half-remembered.

You stumble into the fortune teller’s tent, where the hangman, of all people, sits kissing the feet of an empress. She looks up at you with a knowing smile, and a chill creeps up your spine as the cards—tarot, tarot—whisper among themselves, hinting at secrets you’re almost afraid to hear.

Outside, a clown with a monkey mask offers you flowers, their petals made of bright tinsel and paper. You hand him your last coins, and he smiles, ringing a small bell that echoes through the carnival. “All is well,” it seems to say, though you wouldn’t know why you believe it.

The young man with a tattoo steps forward, gripping knives he throws at the naked girl spinning on the wheel. He calls himself Zorro, but his aim is shaky. If he misses, he wins a prize—perhaps the fighting panda from the loft or a doll that talks in the dark.

The happy families pass by, their children wide-eyed as they glance at the three-headed man and the bearded lady, sharing popcorn and secrets they can’t understand. Parents, lost in the spectacle, miss the glimmer of longing in their children’s eyes—a yearning that no mask, no glittering carnival can truly satisfy.

Later, you drift to the promenade, away from the noise. The seagulls flock close as you toss crumbs into the wind, their feathers flashing white like ghostly signatures across the blue. You look to the horizon, where the sky meets the sea, and the foam spells out words you cannot read. Over there, you think, beyond that edge of the sky, perhaps the carnival drifts, waiting, the astral colours of the day hidden beneath its layers.

And then, a final whisper rises, carried by the salt breeze, as if from an uncharted land: Let the cynics cling to their masks. Let the innocent create rings of fire for the children kissing the sun.

We don’t need a ticket, we don’t need a guide—just the courage to walk that horizon toward the blue, where the carnival fades, where the laughter echoes long and low, and the stars, watching over, nod their silent approval.

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Xenitia: Nostalgia and Hardship in 1960’s Redfern, Sydney

June 30, 2024

First came the men in suits, then the bulldozers and the trucks, then the porta loos and cranes. Each day saw another house, shop, tree and a child’s doll knocked down and pulverised. Things that mattered all turned to scrap and dust. The bull dozers scraped the rubble into piles of broken bricks, concrete slabs, shattered glass and newspaper. The dust rose from under the wheels and steel jaws of the machines and swirled in the breeze. In that part of Redfern, Sydney the whole street breathed the demolition dust so holding your breath was hard. It got into clothes and between cracks along walls’ edges and footpaths. For Athena and her son Kosta, a walk down Young Street was not the easiest place to breathe.
For over three months, every day, people on Athena’s side of the road swept away sand and dust that blew from across the street onto their doorsteps. If they weren’t quick enough shutting the front door, the wind blew the sand down their narrow hallways. Every house had something tucked behind the crack between the door and the floor. Old towels, old clothes tied together, anything to stop the debris entering their homes by the wind.


As Athena opened the door, she said, “Kosta, close it quickly. We don’t want a desert in our house.” Kosta took a long look at the growing rock piles across the street. The wind blown sand prickled against his face and arms. He stepped into the hallway, sand grains tick, tick, ticked in pitter- patter against the shut door behind him.

Down the hallway, through the door, his father George squatted in front of the Kriesler radio. “Ssshh!” he said while turning the hand sized dial, “I’m looking for Greece.” The radio squawked and squealed, struck static, voices fell in and out in different tongues. Near the radio, on the table were coils of wire, screws, a rusty wire cutter and pliers. Out of the static a muffled sound came through the speaker. Then, full blown clear chimes of a bouzouki sounded from the radio. “Oppa! Ellada – Greece!” He brushed back his speckled grey, black hair with his hand. George stood up to face his wife and son. He nodded his head to the rhythm of the music, short waved all the way from Greece.


“Even in his singlet, without a shirt, he looks fully dressed,” thought Athena. George jutted his arms out to his sides, then slowly reached with his right hand for Athena. He caressed the scarf covering her hair. He returned his arm to the outstretched position and clicked his fingers, he danced a short hop to the music. Athena smiled and sat on the only soft chair in the house under the window. She took off her shoes and scarf letting her black curls fall around her face. “I fixed the antennae,” George said in Greek. Kosta stood near the cupboard with a mirror wall and glass doors. It housed the best cups and saucers for Greek coffee and small glasses for drinking ouzo and larger ones for wine and glaced cherries. Framed photos of family in Greece and their own small family in Australia covered the top of the cupboard.

Athena reached for a photo as George said, “Well, what did the doctor say?”
“Do you know what today is George?” asked Athena.
“Good Friday,” he replied.
Tears welled in her eyes, she crossed herself with her right hand while holding the photo with her left. She said, “Today, three years ago, Aliki died.” Tears trickled down her cheek. She pointed to a baby in Kosta’s arms, “Three years ago, today, my baby girl died.” She bent her head and kissed the photo. George stepped closer to her and took the photo from her hand and placed it back on the cupboard. He reached to touch her wet chin with his hand, “Athena that was three years ago. What did the doctor say today?”
“He said I have broken nerves, you tell him Kosta, you know English better than us, tell your father what the doctor said.”

George looked at Kosta, his 12 year old boy was strong, a pallikari and he had his father’s eyes. “Well son, what did the doctor say?” Kosta kept his hands, fumbling some marbles, in his pockets,. “The doctor said that mother has, I don’t know how to say this in Greek – “nervous breakdown” – her nerves, her nevra are broken.”
“What do you mean broken nerves? She looks alright to me.” George turned to face her, “Athena, what is it? What ails you?”

She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeves, took a deep breath and leant forward letting out a long sigh. “Oh George! What ails me? 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 answer she screamed, “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!’ she sobbed. Her upper body folded forward and her elbows rested on her thighs while her head weighed on her hands. She didn’t look up, nor sideways, with no expression she stared at her feet. George moved closer, leant forward and gently kissed her head. He stroked her hair, slowly weaving his thumb and finger in her curls. By now he was on his knees in front of her. “Wife, you are suffering from xenitia – home sickness, that is all. I want to return as well. Do you think I enjoy my work at the Brewery?” George whispered, “ We just need another two years,” Athena did not lift her head, “The doctor said, no more overtime, better if I don’t work at all,” she replied.


George stood up and turned his back to her. He pointed to the black and yellow calendar hanging on the glossy white wall opposite them. “Look,” he said, “It will be no time at all… two years will run by.” Athena stood up and put her arm around his waist. Instead of looking at the calendar, her eyes were on the boxed stephania above it. The wooden box had six sides with hand painted green vines and black grapes, there were faded spots and some paint had chipped off. Under the clean glass cover were the stefania, the crowns of love joined by a white ribbon and worn on their wedding day. The stephania boxed on the wall were their life – husband and wife – a union for God.

“Yes George, time runs by fast. Already we have been here for 8 years and you promised we would be back in five.” She squeezed his waist with her arm pulling him closer. “Look at the stephania George,” she purred. She let go of him and returned to her soft chair feeling snug in its space. “I want to go home now. I need to go home now but not without you and Kosta. Please, we can do it – let’s go.”


Athena turned to Kosta who was on the floor playing with a lead airplane, “Kosta, bring the letter from Greece to your father.” Kosta stood up tucking his shirt into his shorts and walked to the cupboard. The letter was under the photo of him and Aliki. As he lifted the letter the photo dragged over the edge falling to the floor. Kosta immediately bent down to pick it up. The fall left a lightning crack zigzagging across the middle of the glass. Kosta stared at the little girl, his sister in his arms. He was wearing his cowboy gun holster at his waist, as long as his shorts, carrying a Colt 45 cap gun. He remembered the time it was taken, just a few months before she died of pneumonia. He was nine and she was two.


“What did you do!?” yelled George as he rushed towards Kosta. George raised his right leg ready to kick him. “Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Athena, “Don’t touch him!” she stood up quivering and crying. George stopped and let his kicking foot step onto the photo crushing the glass into a tight spider web of cracks. He snatched the letter out of Kosta’s hand. Kosta crouched still and silent waiting for a hit across his head. It didn’t come so he crept backwards in a crouching position until his back was against the wall. He was out of range and he knew from experience that this wall was the best because it was beside the hallway entrance and provided a fast exit. Kosta knew that if he didn’t do anything, just stayed there, everything would be alright because his father was walking towards his mother with the letter and photo in his hand.


“We’ve already lost a daughter, do you want to kill your only child?” George placed the photo on the table near the wire cutters. He looked at Athena sitting there and saw her sick and beautiful. He saw his love. He fell on his knees and rested his head in the crevice between her thighs. She caressed his hair, running her fingers from his forehead to the back of his head. His hand holding the letter rested on her hip. “Athena, I want to return home and work as a silversmith and be with our family.”

He saw Kosta sitting quietly against the wall. George lifted his head slightly from her lap, raised his eyebrows and nodded his head at Kosta. This meant that he could go and play. It was like that, gestures and signs for words. Kosta got up, smiled and ran down the hallway, opening the door to the wind and dust and a direct view of the demolition site.

He heard his father call out, “I’ll whistle for you!”

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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.

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