Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know.

Awoke this morning with a feeling of optimism coupled with dread: how can two opposite emotions exist simultaneously in the same space?

Normal morning routine: orange juice, coffee, feeding the cats and now, during our school holidays, straight to the computer, back to the manuscript, Blog, reviews or the memoirs.

Spent the afternoon at a local pub reading chapter 10-12 to my friend over a good red wine; luckily, the place was empty, thus no inhibitions, reading freely as it was written. My friend is intrigued with the novel and continues to ask me to read the entire manuscript, which by the way, is not finished.

A good afternoon…

Returned home to find Lou preparing one of her better meals, burritos, one of my favourite dishes: absolutely a taste sensation that goes way beyond the normal fare, a true pleasurable experience.

An old friend walked through the door at dinner time and the entire atmosphere changed, drastically, but in a good way. An individual who fills the space as his view of the world is one of goodness coupled with extreme evil, a realist, but one who is ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’. Something once said by Lady Caroline Lamb during her infatuation with the 19th century poet, Lord Byron.

True musings.

Emotional State: Confused yet Serene.

Mollinsky

Not having a cat in the house makes the space feel empty. But even worse is a cat that has lived with you for many years and abruptly, out of the blue, comes to the end of their physical existence. In this life, I’ve seen and buried more cats than I would care to remember.

The domestic cat is a wonder. If you’re lucky enough to have an intelligent feline, empathic and thoughtful, loving you above all others, can be a true gift though a doubled edged sword. The domestic cat is a tremendously jealous being. Domestic cats are the quintessential souls of Envy.

Moving away from sentimentality, a house of three grown felines, the pecking order is quickly established, once a new member arriving to the Pride enters, the rules are made known instantly.

However, once a leader of the house dies suddenly, particularly in a home of two, the one left behind will move through a mourning period. The family decides to find a replacement, usually a baby, a kitten.

The old cat will behave in a variety of ways. Responses: ignore, bully, harass or nurture.

In George’s case, because of his gentle nature, because he missed his mentor so much, he needed to nurture to fill the empty space of the loss of Titimone. Thus he made the effort to become the mentor of this little bundle of hysterical fur. Molly is a female, the genetic hunter for the pride, so George was getting himself into something way above his experience.

Molly is not your usual kitten, she is the runt, and would have died if we didn’t spend a vast amount of cash to save her life. Molly, for a variety of so-called psychological reasons, has major attitude about everything and anyone. She was born to NOT take crap from anyone, whether human, vegetable or mineral.

Only after a week did she start her “kitty politics” to remove the old one from his thrown.

Molly’s first action of insurrection was to pee around George’s food bowl!

I had never ever seen anything like it in the cat world. Molly was hell-bent, at seven months old, to rule the roost; move George out of the kingdom.

It was at that point that I realized that Molly wanted the central focus. We knew she was a teenager, but peeing on the Master’s water bowl is and always will be, unacceptable.

My wife at the time, once observing the terrible act, went ballistic.

Poor Molly: she reacted to my wife’s tirade in the exact same way that I do…run for the hills.

After a month or two later, Molly began to settle, her and old George came to some kind of agreement, and became friends. I became aware of this change when seeing George cleaning her head…comfortable, accepting and very much together.

Felines are one of the most jealous beings on the planet.

For years George would sit at the front porch and wait for me to come home from work. He would wait until I got out of the car and walk up the steps, and roll on his back, to ensure he got his daily tummy rub.

Eventually Molly joined George with his daily evening greeting after work. Both sitting regally on the front porch awaiting my return, turning on their backs demanding a tummy rub. Of course, both cats received the obligatory tummy rub.

Cats are a true wonder.

Fallen Angels

The most famous of all the fallen angels is Satan, meaning “adversary” in Hebrew. A common miss understanding is that Lucifer and Satan is the same angel, Lucifer is the Angel of Light and Beauty who stole the Morning Star.

There are several interpretations on the actual reason for their fall. The most popular account is the pride, envy and vanity of Satan and his refusal to bow to God’s creation, the human being. When God told Satan that his creation, man, would now be permitted into heaven, Satan disagreed and it has been his mission to show God that the human being is not worthy, hence, temptation to all material excesses, including the seven deadly sins.

Satan disobeyed God, and conspired with Lucifer to recruit an army of angels to battle against his Creator. The Arch Angel Michael was called upon to banish these rebellious angels from heaven. Some experts in Angelology claim that a third of all angels fell from grace, cursed to walk the earth until Judgement Day.

It is interesting to note that the discussion of angels was suppressed by the Catholic Church during the Middle Ages as knowledge of the Fallen One’s would evoke too much evil in the world.

It was Pope Honorius the III, known in certain scholarly circles as the Sorcerer Pope, penned a Grimoire, a book of spells and summoning, that also included the names of every fallen angel. He wrote this Grimoire and required his priests to study it carefully in order to arm them against demons and fallen angels.

It is also fascinating that Satan, in the Book of Job of the Old Testament, is in God’s favour, where they bet that Job, once everything he loves and owns is taken from him including great physical suffering; he would turn away from Him and curse His name. Satan lost the bet.

The reason for these particular “musings” is re-looking at the 19th century artist, Gustave Dore’s incredible illustrations of scenes from Dante’s Inferno, and Milton’s Paradise Lost. There is an excellent drawing of Satan and Beelzubub discussing their insurrection against the Creator.

I spent most of the day contemplating these matters, for reasons unknown to me.

Emotional State: philosophical.

What is Genius?

There is a wonderful story about the composer Beethoven, and his music publisher coming to his door while the Master was composing. The maestro answered the door, his hair frazzled, his eyes wide and black, telling his publisher that he merely needed to finish a few notes, and he would be back in a matter of moments.

Three hours passed as Beethoven's publisher sat on the bench in front of the door as he continued to work.

Finally the front door opened, and Beethoven, smiling though appearing exhausted, asked his publisher into his small studio.

The small studio looked like a hurricane had swept through, papers, half eaten food, and empty bottles of wine lay everywhere.

"Sorry to keep you waiting Herr ...., my mind and soul has been devoured by the notes."

Attempting to be as civil as possible, without revealing his impatience, "But maestro, I have been sitting outside your door for over three hours! Although I enjoyed your music, there are other composer's to see and visit."

The Master appeared puzzled.

"You mean to say that you have been waiting for me that long?"

"Yes, maestro."

"I am astonished!" he said.

"To me, the time seemed only a few minutes. Please excuse my terrible manners."

The genius is someone who can focus their particular gift like a pin-size arrow of light, the creation of their effort going beyond time and space.

I agree with Wittgenstein, genius is a power concentrated into a pin of poweful light, the so-called material world, merely a sideshow to the "real".

These are merely my musings, an oppotunity to express thoughts otherwise not said or written.

Emotional State: Waundering & Curious.

Oscar Wilde

Reading Wilde’s The Portrait of Mr W.H., an interesting account of the mystery of W.H., the person Shakespeare devoted his famous Sonnets.

When one reads Wilde’s prose, one can actually feel his thoughts and feelings. As critic and author, Peter Ackroyd, comments:

‘This is quintessential Wilde, introducing paradox into the realm of speculation and wit into the sphere of art.’

Most English 19th century intellectuals were sincerely obsessed with Shakespeare’s Sonnets, because it is the bard’s notions on love, art, beauty and what it really means to be an artist.

Rather than spoil the plot, let me just say that the book covers Aestheticism, Literary Criticism and obsession with ‘literature’ which can, in some cases, be worse than opium addiction.

Only read this afternoon and managed to have a two hour nap. The short sleep was required as the body demanded it. My dreams, however, rambled: images of countless books, monsters and angels.

In my past, I would keep a ‘dream journal’, because at the time, my dreams began to become more real than physical reality. As I re-read these entries, the actual images return with almost the same energy as before: a strange period in my life.

Our cats are happy, sleeping on Lou’s bed.

Tomorrow is ‘chapter 15 day’ for writing on my novel. The chapter is much too long and needs a few nips and tucks, but this story, from the very beginning, has written itself, thus I can only go with the flow.

Emotional State: Philosophical & Tired…again.

Max the 'Beamer' Cat

The weather last evening was perfect: warm, breezeless and the pungent scent of violets in the air.

Out on the back porch are few cat dishes and pot plants leading to a colourful garden. Most of our cats enjoy reclining amongst the Begonias, Bird of Paradise and the Ferns. There is a floor to ceiling window looking out towards the garden. Max the ‘perfect’ cat as we call him, because the Vet told Lou that he was the most perfect specimen that he’d ever encountered. This was surprising considering he’s a stray, arriving one evening three years ago, thin, dirty and hungry.

Max also has an interesting aspect to his behaviour, as he will peer through the porch window and send out an unrelenting beam towards Lou. The ‘beam’ is actually palpable. Max does not want anything, food, attention or to come in the house. He just enjoys sending beams through the window, beams of pure admiration for his owner.

Grabbing my camera, I wanted to see if taking a picture of him during his “beam session” would put him off in any way. Lying on the floor pointing the camera and taking the shot did not disrupt his concentration at all, maintaining his constant beam to the end.

Diana Krall plays softly in the background, her velvet voice, singing “Departure Bay” sending my mind to another place and another time. Her style of Jazz, to my mind, is absolutely mesmerising. Viewed her concert in Paris on DVD the other night and was astounded at her talent on the piano. The CD playing is “Girl from the Other Room”, and excellent album.

Emotional State: Hazy & Mesmerised.

TRIP

For me at least, it is absolutely necessary to leave one’s comfortable environment that is, one’s home, one’s familiar surroundings, going beyond the “habitual” day to day routine, in order to achieve a new perspective of one’s life and the world

Decided to jump in my car and drive west, towards Perth, finally stopping in an old fishing village so named “Port ...”.

Small towns, no matter where you are in the world, are a parochial affair. The local’s eye you with suspicion, but know they have to put up with your presence because, hopefully, you’ll spend money, helping the town’s economy.

Having breakfast at the local café turned sour as the eggs were cold and the hash browns tasted like something that had been frozen for years and thawed upon my arrival. The waitress was a pretty school girl who would blush every time she approached my table. We do not “tip” in Australia, though because the young waitress appeared to go through so much embarrassment when serving me, a two dollar tip was the least I could do.

Port ... is a truly beautiful location. A sea side village, the air smelling of the sea, the water crashing against the rocks, and the local’s smiling, acknowledging my presence, made the excursion worthwhile.

My camera went on the blink, thus no pictures, except a Magpie, with her young child, walking back to my writing cell, she began to sing, teaching her young one how to attain food amongst the grass.

My true purpose for the trip was to write, finish this damn novel, and only a few words managed to come forth amongst the silence.

This particular tale has been long going but has managed to maintain an exciting coherence, something, I believe, that could be entertaining for the potential reader.

I love silence. There was neither television nor radio, and, with a great amount of effort, avoided the newspaper.

Played my guitar and sang my heart out, bringing the local kid’s to stand around my door.

‘Do you know this song?” the older boy asked.

“No, but listen to this one.” an old Collective Soul tune that they seemed to enjoy.

The excursion did not bring writing fruits, but managed to cleanse my soul, turning a somewhat down individual into a somewhat hopeful one.

Emotional State: Open & optimistic.

Harry the Magical Cat

The feline has been worshiped and scorned since the times of the Ancient World. In Egypt’s long history, the domestic cat was indeed worshiped and believed to have a direct line to the gods. When the family cat in ancient Egypt passed on, the entire family would go into a deep mourning period, each member of the family shaving a circle on the top of their heads as a gesture of respect.

As our history moves forward, the domestic cat in medieval times was thought to be evil, an instrument of Satan or the witch’s Familiar. During that dark time in our history where superstition reigned supreme, thousands of European women were burned for witchery or sorcery – the cats of the town or city were also slaughtered as instruments of the devil, and the backlash of this unnecessary slaughter came in the form of the Bubonic Plague, as the rat population, carrying the virus, quadrupled, spreading the deadly disease across most of Europe, whereupon thousands of men, women and children died in the streets.

These day’s, it is astounding to me that some people continue to hate cats. When asked why, their response is usually vague and irrational.

Harry the magic cat came uninvited one day three years ago. My sister opened the front door, and there he stood, asking to come inside. Since that time, Harry has never left, claiming his patriarchal status amongst the two other cats that currently live in the home. Interestingly, my sister’s other two cats are males and notoriously territorial; they accepted Harry into their domain with out so-much as batting an eye lid.

Why Lou calls Harry the magical cat, is that he can go out side and come back in the house without using the conventional methods, like doors and windows. After spending a little time here, I have actually witnessed this strange phenomenon.

We’ll lock down for the night, all three cat's asleep on Lou's bed, all doors and windows securely closed and bolted. As the house is relatively new, there are no unknown bolt holes or secret exits, (I’ve checked thoroughly) yet by the morning, walking into the kitchen for that much needed cup of coffee, Harry is outside the sliding glass doors, looking at me with that famous wry expression. This phenomenon also works the other way, he can be outside, every window and door secure, and walking into the bedroom, there he is sleeping soundly on the bed.

“Did you let Harry inside?”

“No”

This conversation has occurred more times than necessary; it is now accepted that Harry has his own ways, and we leave it at that.

Harry is indeed a magical cat.

True Love

"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies."

Aristotle

An interesting perception today: the expression in my roomate's cats eyes, Harry, (a wise old feline) was not one of wanting, something to eat or a request; the expression was of total love, amazement, awe if you will. Harry truly loves Loui.

Love is real, manifesting in various forms from the superficial to the divine.

Love, true love, is a mutual exchange of passion, awe and comfort.

The famous Greek philosospher, Plato, believed that long ago, humans were made up as two in one. Because the love and affection of these two in one beings was so passionate, caring and whole, the god's became jealous, and separated them. And our curse throughout time, our unconscious mission, is to find our other half, in order for "completeness" as humans to finally occur, as it was before, thousands of years ago.

If you are fortunate enough to discover your "other half" in this life time, do not hesitate, engage, submerge, and by all means follow your feelings, your heart.

Because the awful reality is that life is too short to delay or ignore true love when it comes your way.

Emotional State: Philosophical, Tired, and Thankful.

Watch the Birds

Woke early because the black crow outside my bedroom window happened to be in an argument with her suitor, this was a LOUD argument, only three meters from my ear, disturbing my quality dream of love and beautiful landscapes. Their argument finally moved away from my bedroom window, but it was too late, the day had begun.

Australia has a vast amount of crows. They are arrogant, cheeky and, for the most part, believe they rule the environment. This morning, for me at least, they certainly were manipulating my existence…

At my school, the crows have taken over. For example, attempting to teach something as basic as nouns, pronouns and verbs to a group of rambunctious Year Seven’s, is bloody hard enough, but when a large flock of black crows descend on the classroom window, squawking and performing like a pack of wild, starving dogs: the children amazed at the unusual sight of a flock of black crows outside on the window sill, disturbing the lesson, teaching, at that moment in time, literally has gone out the window.

Not long ago, around the time that grandmother passed away, my mother continued to go to her house, feed the cats, and, generally handle the business.

One particular morning, feeling the loss of her friend, a small bird began to flutter, hovering no more than a few feet before her eyes. A relationship had begun, because, from that time onward, the same little bird would arrive at the scheduled time, and hover above mum, singing, dancing and communicating.

During this time, my best friend, my mother, was not happy about anything in the world. When one’s mother passes away, the world is a different place, something in your heart is missing, and life is never the same and never will be.

Mother rang me on one of her scheduled visits because, as she told me, “I need a witness!”

It happened to be a Sunday and we arrived at the old house. Mum felt to be very nervous. She said, “I really want you to see this.”

I was not sceptical, but a little hint of doubt lingered.

We walked along the familiar walk towards the little house. Mum went about her business, feeding the old cats, etc, when, lighting a cigarette, a small bird flew down from the main tree, hovering no more than a meter away, chirping a mile a minute.

What was so cool, mum came outside at the exact second that the bird appeared; crying, tears falling down her old cheeks, she said, “I told you.”

The little winged one flew away and we left; but to see mum and the creature actually exchanging feelings of love and admiration for each other; an incredible sight to behold and see first hand, an event I’ll never forget.

Watch the birds.

This & That...

Monday morning's for alot of people is a torturous affair.

For me, however, today was an unusually pleasant Monday morning, rising early and looking forward to teaching my classes.

Teenager's are notoriously sleepy in the morning's, because as some Canadian studies have shown, adolescent's need more sleep than the average adult - brain development, hormones, etc. Thus an English or History class first period, 8 or 9 o'clock, speaking on the Rise of the Blosheviks or the various themes in Macbeth is basically a useless endevour.

This morning's class was just such a case:Drooping eyelids, the lights are on but nobody is home, expressions of extreme disinterest and tired apathy.

As the day progressed, usually by recess, the student body comes alive, and the only topic of conversation or interest is what they did on the weekend.

Times and habits seem to never change. We all did the same thing, and later in life, we remember that our lives as teenager's was somehow different, better... it wasn't.

As a teacher, I attempt to consider all these factors so actual "learning" can occur.

Looking forward to my two week holiday next week...time to read and do some serious writing.

Emotional State: Tired though happy.

Memories of St. Michael

The famous Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung, throughout his prolific writings on the unconscious, alludes to a phenomenon that, he believed, was essential in the on-going process of understanding ourselves. (Following Plato’s dictum, “know thy self’.) Jung often referred to this phenomenon as the ‘numinous’. He believed this type of experience to be important in our overall mental and spiritual health. The standard dictionary defines numinous as - arousing spiritual or religious emotions; or in my case, mysterious or awe-inspiring perceptions caused by the “divine will’. Not so long ago, it was my good fortune to experience such a phenomenon.

Last Sunday, I rose early, around six in the morning, to cook the family’s favourite fried chicken. The reason for this unusual act of kindness on my part was that it was a special request from my mother-in-law, because it was the first year anniversary of her mother’s death. Babushka’s Remembrance was being held at the Russian Orthodox Church in Dandenong. If you have had the fortune to attend a service in an Orthodox Church, you will know that these particular houses of God are rich in religious relics, icons, with the constant scent of burning incense. One could say that they haven’t really changed since the Middle Ages. Finishing my cooking around eight, we headed off to the Remembrance.

It should be stated first that, for many years, the Archangel Michael has, in numerous ways, always been close to my heart. This is difficult to explain. In other terms, his presence, his image has always held a strong intuitive significance in my life. For example, in my study at home, I have a painting of the Archangel by the Renaissance artist, Raphael. This ‘presence’ that I have come to know as Michael, has moved in and out of my awareness for many years.

While at the church service, standing in the back facing the altar, behind me was a collection of icons on display. Icons are usually small religious medieval paintings of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, angels or saints, framed in gold or wood. They are considered to be exceptionally holy in the Orthodox Church. As these icons were too far away to distinguish their subject, the actual image, to really select one of a personal nature, was impossible; they were just too far away. My thought was to purchase one of the Icons. A much closer look would have been required. However, one particular icon, the one placed on the second shelf on the right, caught my eye. I recognized the colours – red, gold and blue.

Suddenly a strange feeling came over me as the congregation moved towards the priest to receive Holy Communion. It was that intense feeling of being stared at from across the room. I quickly looked around to find this wasn’t the case; there was no sudden movement or someone covertly averting their gaze. This feeling was undeniable and continued throughout Holy Communion. Minutes passed and the feeling continued, growing in intensity, as I kept turning around in the direction of the icons at the back of the church - particularly the one of red, gold and blue. All at once it dawned on me that this single icon was indeed the image of the Archangel Michael.

The service finally ended and I told my friend that I wanted to purchase the icon.

I asked Wally, my once father-in-law, a devout Christian and good man, if it was possible to purchase the icon. He quickly escorted me over to the shelves. I pointed the icon out to him and said,

“Is that St. Michael the Archangel?”

He looked at me and said that he was…” probably Gabriel or somebody.” On top of the icon was something written in Russian. I asked Wally to read the inscription. He moved behind the counter, craned his neck, adjusted his glasses, turned around and said,

“My goodness, you’re right, it is Michael!” He looked surprised.

I then told him that I had the distinct impression he had been staring at me throughout the entire service, and for me, it didn’t seem like a very good sign.

“No”, Wally said, “He’s just looking out for you.”

I then excitedly asked if I could purchase the icon. I was concerned however, because the church did not have credit card facilities, and I didn’t know how much cash could be in my wallet.

Wally then asked an elder of the congregation how much the icon would be. The old man picked it up, turned it around and said, “Thirty dollars.”

I reached for my wallet to find exactly thirty dollar – no more and no less!

Needless to say, this added coincidence only added to the mysteriousness of the experience.

After purchasing the relic, I looked around the grand church to find Michael depicted everywhere! Above the altar, next to the baptismal, on the ceiling, everywhere, always at the right hand side of the Lord. The angel made his presence known, but he was always there, right before my eyes, I just couldn’t see it. My awareness had changed.

I left the church with the icon tucked firmly under my arm and would never forget this numinous experience.

Vadim aka Wally, a Russian immigrant to Australia after WW2, is most likely, the most spiritual, gregarious and KIND man I have ever had the opportunity to meet.

He passed on last year, and will always be missed.

This one's for you, good friend.

Adolescent Love & Spring

Spent two hours last night writing an article of the American occupation in Iraq. As it was very late in the evening, I must have pushed the wrong button, and I lost the damn thing! Attempted to re-write it this morning, but it's not the same, lacking the emotional fervour of the original. I might try again at a later date.

In my Year 9 English class, the students are writing daily diaries, including date, time of writing and their emotional state at the time of writing. This exercise has always been popular with the girls, however much less so for the boys. Spent this morning reading through them, and it never ceases to astound me the sheer intensity of adolescent love. I remember as a child being told that we were too young to know"real" love. This, of course, is absurd. Adolescent love is pure, all encompassing, extremely passionate and painful...and it is real.

The Year 10's are reading "Romeo and Juliet' an adolescent love/tragedy of huge sigificance. Everytime I read the last scene, my emotional response never changes, a deep sadness. And who in their right mind would argue with the bard supreme, William Shakespeare?

My plan this weekend was to edit chapter three of my novel, however my week at school has been so full-on, that sitting on the couch and reading is about all Im up for...we'll see.

It is a beautiful, crisp morning and the air has a champagne quality to it. I might drag Loui away from her reading and go for a long walk and enjoy the weather.

Emotional State: Serene.

Teaching & Beethoven

As a teacher of Middle School and Year 12's, the difference between a 12 year old and an 18 year old is so vast, in terms of attitude, maturity level and focus on actual learning. After teaching for some years now, one of the greatest rewards is teaching a particular Year 7 student and observing her or him through to Year 12, and witnessing their personal, social and academic development. In most cases, the adolescent process is always dramatic, but they get through it and become good human beings. The heart breaker's, are those, because of an array of circumstances, throw their education away, and one never hears from them ever again. Also very sad.

Some days are so terrible for a variety of reasons, that I drive home thinking that I'm in the wrong profession and become depressed. Other day's, however, when seeing a little face brighten because they have really learned something, is priceless.

Today was a bad day. Tomorrow will be better.

Listened to Beethoven's "The Napoleon Concerto" on the way to school today, a lovely piece, and one that is a perfect piece of music to hear before the chaos of highschool. Because, as always, once walking through those doors, one cannot help but hit the ground running, never letting up until the last bell rings.

My editing of the novel has slowed but will catch up on the weekend.

Spring rain over the last two day's causing the air to smell of heaven.

Emotional State: Tired & Hopeful.

Chapter Two - "The First Initiation"

Beautiful day with dark clouds and light rain in the morning, changing to a clear blue sky in the afternoon and now, the sun, winking through the clouds, is beginning to disappear, though the temperture remains comfortably warm.

Because of an overwhelming response to Chapter One of my novel, I've been persuaded to publish my first draft of Chapter Two. Although hesitant, as it is a first draft, we'll forge ahead anyway. Of course your comments are most welcome.

Note: Painting by John Collier, "The Priestess of Delphi" (circa 1880).


CHAPTER TWO

Our situation on this earth is a strange one. Every one of us suddenly appears here involuntarily, uninvited, for a relatively short stay – without knowing why. It is only after many years; usually by the time we reach middle age that we finally get some idea as to the rules of the game. We become somewhat comfortable with the world and ourselves, we settle-in, and usually without warning, it all ends. From this point of view, existence is absurd. Sisyphus pushing the boulder slowly up the mountain for eternity towards a summit, the boulder escaping from his grasp, and rolling down to the bottom; Sisyphus walks down the precipice, his head down, only to begin the task again - for eternity. Because of the apparent absurdity of life, its blatant mystery, we spend most of our lives in pursuit of a reason, a meaning, and a purpose to continue, despite the signs telling us to simply relax and enjoy the ride. Some of us are lucky enough to be endowed with an accepting nature. Rolling with life’s punches, gently walking around the obstructions thrown in our paths – enjoying the moment. There are other’s, like me, who cannot sit back and enjoy the trip. Situations present themselves that demand to be understood. Conditions of one’s existence alter so radically that to ignore the causes would be spiritual suicide. Choosing to remain in a fool’s paradise and knowing you’re doing so is living a conscious lie, a coward’s life. Creating enough illusion in one’s life to make existence at least tenable is a short-term remedy. Sooner or later the false edifice will crumble, leaving you unprepared for the awful truth. And believe me, my friends, the answer to life’s mysteries, the reason for our existence, is a surprising one. Something you’d never expect in your wildest moments of active imagining. But it is there to be discovered if you are honest enough with yourself and pure of heart. Though I’m getting ahead of myself.

Once my wounds had healed, I left the hospital into an entirely new world. Everything had changed. The circumstances surrounding the night of the accident would remain my secret. How could I tell anyone the truth about my family, about that night? The authorities would surely lock me away and study my mind like some pathetic laboratory animal. These supposed shamans of the mind – psychologists, psychiatrists and neurologists - would have a field day with me. I would remain a medical curiosity for the rest of my life. This was not going to happen. I decided on the day of my release from the hospital, that no one, not a single soul, would discover the truth surrounding my mother and father’s death. Not anyone.

Only the hired memorial representative attended the double funeral and two ladies whose job it was to handle the food for the wake. No one else showed. This was my fault. For some reason the date on the invitations had been misprinted, stating the eight of March rather than the ninth. All exceedingly embarrassing. In retrospect, though, it was better that way. Considering my emotional state at the time, facing a hoard of postal workers and their respective partners would have only added to an otherwise torturous affair. My father’s fellow workers all sent their condolences and apologies. My mother’s friends, however, turned out to be even a bigger farce. Because, later, it turned out that her supposed show business career never actually existed. She didn’t have any friends in the business because she never actually was in the business. I discovered this truth when searching through her belongings and coming upon a business card for her agent. I called the agent and he said he had never heard of Cressida Burton or a Janice Parks for that matter.

The funeral service turned out to be a tragic/comical affair with the hired ‘sympathy’ representative giving a clichéd eulogy that could have been appropriate for anyone on God’s earth. The man looked more like an accountant than a professional eulogizer. Dressed in a slick Armani suit, expensive haircut and, ironically, rough, calloused hands like a farmer, he addressed his audience of three with all the emotion and tone of a true priest and friend of the family. I found this extremely disconcerting and false. At one point in his speech, he even shed a tear or two. Considering the amount of money the memorial company charged for the whole thing, the man certainly earned it. What a performance. Throughout the service, I couldn’t help thinking that it was all some kind of set up: a grand one-act play written and performed for a one-man audience. The two catering ladies stood behind the counter of carefully prepared snacks, appearing attentive. The funeral home itself reminded me of one of those garish evangelistic meeting places you see on late night television, designed for enough worshiper’s to fill a football field: light-pink carpet, glass everywhere and an abundance of plastic flowers. I remember thinking that death must be a lucrative business.

After the memorial service, the professional eulogizer stood at the catering counter, stuffing his face with ham and cheese crackers, apologising for the obvious mistake on the invitations. He then asked if I ‘appreciated’ the eulogy, and if it touched my heart. I told him that father and mother would have ‘appreciated’ the sentiment. Looking at his watch, after his tenth helping of the food, he said he must dash off to another service. “The busy season, you know.” He disappeared into the parking lot, driving away in a brand new BMW. I recall wondering if death was indeed a seasonal occurrence - large amounts of people leaving the planet in shifts, like factory workers.

The catering ladies packed-up and left the hall, leaving me alone to gather my thoughts and consider my next move. Rather than a traditional burial, I had mother and father cremated and their ashes scattered over the Pacific Ocean. The Parks estate had left me just enough to cover the funeral costs, pay my father’s taxes and his few remaining debts. He didn’t own the house he was living in or possessed anything of any worth. In a nutshell, the man had been debtless but broke. All his disposable income went towards my college education; three and a half years worth of tuition came to a hefty sum. Father was a good man for investing in my future as an accountant. Unfortunately all that practical knowledge about balance sheets and sums would never be used. My life went in an entirely different direction. It was a direction that I wouldn’t imagine in my wildest dreams.

I drove back to my dorm at the university to find Carrie in my room on my bed waiting for my return. Even though she was an ex-girlfriend, we still managed to remain friends. Generally our relationship was based on wild sex and a common interest in everything medieval. The October Fest held by the college every year was a high point in our lives, and we enjoyed dressing-up in Arthurian garb, drinking stout out of silver goblets and screwing each other behind the jousting tent. Soon the sex and the fantasy waned, and our relationship evolved to a comfortable friendship. Carrie, once all said and done, was my only friend.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m really just glad the whole damn thing is over.”

“You seem to look like you’re doing ok.”

“Thanks.”

The day had turned to early evening and the shadows moving through the room created an interesting colour over her face. Carrie was an incredibly beautiful girl. The shock of the whole experience, my dead parents, my now permanent meant limp, having to use a walking stick to get around, and the realization that I was entirely alone, made Carrie even more attractive. Sitting on the chair at the end of the bed, I thought about making love to her, as she laid there, her hands behind her head. I know now that some men use sex as a type of out-let – this was certainly the case here.

“You have that look in your eye.” she said.

“What look?”

“You know what look I’m talking about.”

“Doesn’t matter. Do you want to get something to eat?”

“Sounds good to me.”

The pizza joint down the road was a good a place as any to eat. In fact, the pizza had to be the best in Orange County. The restaurant, packed as usual, we managed to find a table in the back. The jukebox blasted at full volume; a seventies song that the drunken college crowd seemed to love, because they were singing along like drunken sailors. We got our pizza and Carrie brought up what was on her mind.

“Tell me about your mother.”

Leave it to Carrie to get right to the heart of the matter. This was an aspect of the whole experience that I didn’t want to face. The Parks’ ‘skeleton in the closet’ that was kept from me for a reason, a reason that was not obvious at the time, but would be.

“My mother was diagnosed mentally ill. My father had her committed when I was around three or four years of age. Then she pops-up as my father’s new wife with a new identity, an alias. And rather than telling me the truth, they continue the charade, leaving me in the dark, until it’s too late.” I felt the tears well up in my eyes. Betrayal is not easy to take.

“I’m sorry, Marcus. Maybe we should talk about this another time.”

“No it’s fine. I’ve got to talk to someone about it.”

The dinnertime crowd seemed to be drinking more beer than eating pizza, because the sing-a-long had moved up a few decibels. I loved this particular U2 song but couldn’t quite hear it due to the noise. Carrie wanted to go somewhere else but I felt comfortable talking about my fucked life amongst the mayhem. It felt safer.

Carrie left the table and returned with a fresh jug of beer.

“I think the reason they kept it from you was to somehow protect you from the pain and possible embarrassment. I mean, how do you tell a little boy that his mother is mentally ill?”

“Come on, Carrie. Father could of said that she was sick and in the hospital. Most little boys could take that, however hard it may be. And why didn’t he tell me later on? Why make up this fantastic story about her dying? I’m fucking twenty-two years old for Christ sake. No, there’s something else about the whole thing, a missing piece of information that went with them to their graves. And I’ve got to find out what it is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The first place I’ll start is the mental hospital. There’s got to be a doctor who knows something. Maybe I can access her medical records. Shit, I don’t know.”

The beer had knocked down my mental defences and the brain’s circuits began to close down. I was getting emotional again, and needed some fresh air. The image of my father standing at the bottom of the stairs glaring as I lay with mother pushed its way into the mind’s eye. We walked out of the restaurant into the warm night, and I immediately started to feel better.

“Do you want me to go with you?” she asked.

“Go to the mental hospital you mean?”

“Uh uh.”

“I don’t know if I want to drag you into my family bullshit.”

She put her arm through mine as we walked along the street. The gesture reminded me of a married couple who are in love and the best of friends. A scene from a romantic, late forties film with Tyron Power and Vivian Leigh.

“I just don’t want you to be alone, that’s all.” she said.

“We’ll see.”

Unfortunately it was the last night in my university dorm because the bills had not been paid for the current term. I had a little money left over from all the expenses, but nowhere to live. Carrie lived off campus in a house with three other rich girls. She said she would have a meeting with them to decide if I could stay there until other arrangements could be made. As it turned out, the four of them agreed to the temporary set up and I moved in the next day.

One of my professor’s took an interest in the fact that I was so close to finishing my business degree and couldn’t afford the remaining tuition. Pulling a few strings, he managed to get me a temporary student loan for the following year. It was now April and too late to catch up on the course, thus I was scheduled to start in September. This never happened. I only mention this to point out the kindness of a lot of people when the chips are down. In times of crises, it is astounding to observe people pulling together. The next few months seemed to go rather well – until, of course, the manifestation, that changed everything.


*

Living with four women in one house is an experience that every young man should have, especially four beautiful, wealthy women. Carrie and her three roommates would be considered part of the privileged class. Their father’s were all-important pillars of the community – doctors, politicians, and media moguls. They all had expensive, new cars, designer cloths, and the best of everything that money could buy. The house was a newly built condominium with a lot of space, filled with art deco furniture and a great stereo unit that was played on a non-stop basis. Peace and quiet was not part of the equation. That damn stereo played twenty-four hours a day – everything from Irish ballads to the Butt-hole Surfers droned on continually, and shouting over the music was the norm. It was only at certain times of the day, usually when all four had a class on, that the house settled to a semblance of tranquillity. After about a week of living there, I finally got used to the environment, adapting you could say, and becoming part of the group. Because I had to hobble around the house with a cane and would sit and listen to their relationship dramas, like a wise grandfather, they seemed to view me as the home’s quasi- patriarch: dishing out advice and opinions concerning their lives. At times I felt like the head witch of a coven, granting approval or disapproval to their various intrigues and spells. This was a silly thought at the time, which turned out to be more true than not. After two weeks of living in the house, they believed they could trust me, and one night, let me in on the secret. These women, as it turned out, were indeed practising sorcerers.

In retrospect, it was not a matter of trust that led them to take me into their confidence, but something I witnessed one evening.

On that night, the house was unusually empty. Enjoying the quiet, I sat outside on the veranda, watching the sun disappear. It was a warm, pleasant evening to be experiencing a beautiful dusk, and for the first time in a long while I felt calm and relatively happy. The condominium is situated on the main street, facing the west. A main thorough fare, it wasn’t unusual to see people at all times of the day and evening jogging or simply taking a stroll, walking their dogs. Watching the sunset, a woman appeared at the end of the street. She was unusually tall, wearing a long black gown that dragged around her feet. I felt a surge of energy, anxiety, as I caught sight of her. The strange thing about her was the fact that she had a group of cats walking around her. I believe there were seven in number, all different sizes and colours, surrounding the woman in a kind of V-shape, their tails sticking straight up in the air. The largest cat took the lead position, the point of the V, while the rest walked on either side of her in single file. The sight was strange because they seemed to move along the road at the same speed, like one body. Reaching the position directly in front of the house, they stopped, and the woman in black just stood there, staring at me with an expression of authority. My mouth became dry and it felt like the earth’s gravity was pulling my body under ground for this woman looked exactly like my mother, as if she had risen from the dead! She then smiled, nodded with an expression of cunning and recognition as the procession continued along the road, disappearing around the corner.

Carrie came home only a few minutes later and noticed something unusual about me. She went straight for the stereo to switch it on and I told her to wait, that I needed to talk to her about something. Immediately she sensed my fear and sat down.

“What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

“Can you get me a glass of wine or something stronger? I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

She rushed to the kitchen and returned with a glass of red.

“Are you in pain? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No, no, nothing like that – but I saw something a few minutes ago that freaked me out.”

“What?”

As I told her what happened, leaving out the fact that the woman looked exactly like my dead mother, she didn’t seem in the slightest taken aback about it, like it was something one sees every day. When I finished my little narrative, she left and returned with the bottle of wine, poured herself one and began to laugh. It wasn’t a hysterical laugh but a hearty one – joyful.

“Why are you laughing, Carrie? I don’t see anything humorous about the incident at all. What’s so fucking funny?”

She finally settled down and brought out her mobile phone. She pressed a single number, and set it down on the coffee table.

“Before I tell you anything, the other’s have to be present. I’ve called them all and they should be here within half an hour.”

“But you only dialled one number…”

“It’s a multi-auto-call. We use it when any emergency arises and the coven has to meet. Be patient, they’ll be here soon.”

Within half an hour two of my pretty roommates arrived one after the other, looking at Carrie and not saying anything. A few minutes later, Sonya arrived, complaining as she walked through the front door.

“This better be good.” she said. I was listening to a great band at the ‘Last Chance’ when I got the signal.” She then looked at me and smiled. “Oh, something happened to Marcus.” Sonya sat down, crossing her long legs and waited.

“The priestess made an appearance to Marcus.” Carrie said.

No one said anything.

“She not only made an appearance but also showed him her familiars.”

The four of them stared making me very uncomfortable.

Sonya spoke up first. “Have you done anything really evil or really good lately, Marcus?”

I suddenly felt rage. “What the fuck do you think? I killed my mother and my father just committed suicide. Or haven’t you been paying attention?”

Sonya went pale and said, “I’m sorry, Marcus. It’s just that for you to see what you did, you have to do something pretty major. I’m sorry I forgot about your folks.”

Carrie stood up from her chair and sat next to me on the couch. She grabbed my hand and said. “Marcus you didn’t kill your mother, it was an accident.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to know who this so-called priestess is, and how she could have a hoard of trained cats?”

Claris poured herself a glass of wine and sat back in her chair. Out of the four women, she was the most beautiful. An arts major studying late nineteenth century painting, Pre-Raphaelite prints covered the walls in her room from Rossetti to Waterhouse. The most distinct quality about her appearance was the whiteness of her skin contrasting her waxen dark hair. Her green eyes were striking, the kind that stare right through you. She also dressed like a gypsy: black stockings, coloured scarfs and costume jewellery. During the first two weeks of my stay in the house, she barely said a word to me. But I certainly admired her from afar. Now she spoke in a serious tone.

“The woman you saw we call ‘The Maiden’. She represents enduring youth, emerging sexuality. She is the huntress running with her cats. We are not quite sure, but we also believe she’s ‘The Mother’, symbolizing feminine power, fertility and nurturing. Then again, she could also be ‘The Crone’, goddess of wisdom, compassion and the one who guides us through the death experience. She comes to us in many forms, sometimes as an animal, a bird or a cat. In your case, she showed herself in human form, accompanied by what we call ‘familiars’: helpers or guides in the form of animals. You’re fortunate to have seen her, and we must discover the significance of this manifestation.”

“I don’t understand. Are you telling me I had a vision?” I asked.

Carrie grabbed my hand again, squeezing it reassuringly. “I think we should just come right out and tell him what and who we are.” She looked at all the women in the room. “Her manifestation is a sign and we should go with our hearts.”

“Marcus, I want you to listen to us with an open mind. We are members of a neo-pagan religion that comes from the ancient Celts. We are practitioners of what is popularly known as white witchcraft.”

Supposed witchcraft recently had a fashionable surge in popularity. Sources on the subject filled New Age bookstores, and movies and television shows proliferated, causing teenage girls to want to be witches, casting love spells, etc. I remembered seeing a particular interview of a witch on a popular show that struck me as an airhead. She carried on about getting anything you wanted through the correct method of spells. Love, fame and fortune achieved by chanting twice a day. Living in LA all my life, strange cults was simply part of the landscape. Of course the whole thing was bullshit. Now I had four beautiful women, friends, telling me they were witches.

“You’re pulling my chain, right?”

Claris stood up and began pacing the room. “We’re not talking about some silly teenage fad, Marcus. We despise the fact that witchcraft has been belittled by popular culture. What you see on the television is fantasy with a few truths thrown in to give it credibility. We are practitioners of an ancient religion. This practice had been suppressed with the evolution of Judaism, Christianity and eventually Islam. These are masculine-centred religions, where ours focuses on the feminine principles. The feminine presence in the major religions was suppressed, forcing our beliefs under ground. Even to the extent that, during the supposed Renaissance, hundreds of thousands of suspected female witches were exterminated by burning or hanging. We had to go under ground to protect ourselves. Even today, ignorant fundamentalist Christian’s spread lies about us, positioning our beliefs with Satanism. We have nothing to do with the worship of some fallen angel. Our goal is to bring back the feminine principle in our views of existence.”

Claris sat back down again, and Diana, quiet throughout this little speech, stood up and began to pace as well. Diana could be described as cute. Standing only about four feet and five inches tall, she reminded me of a miniature porcelain doll that if dropped, would shatter in a thousand pieces.

“You’ve just been through a terrible experience, Marcus. Except for us you are pretty much alone. What you saw was something that we believe is very special. A door has been opened. I think you should walk through it. Nothing happens without a reason.”

My legs began to hurt – a condition that has remained with me for many years. Diana, whether intending or not, made me aware that my life was a total mess. She was right; I didn’t have any friends or family. My parents were dead because I killed them. I really didn’t know who my mother was and unwittingly committed incest. Because of this despicable act, my father shot himself in the head. And now, to top it all off, my mother manifests literally at my front door as a pagan goddess, a sorceress with a pack of trained cats! I was broke and alone. And now there was nowhere to turn but to my new friends – alleged Neo-Pagan witches who I sincerely thought were there to help me.

“What do you want me to do?”

Sonya spoke up: “The first thing we’re going to do is give thanks to the goddess. Once this is done, we can ask her what our next move should be.”

“Should we take Marcus to the ‘place’?” Carrie asked.

All three women nodded their heads.

The ‘place’ and what occurred there turned out to be one of the most frightening and meaningful experiences of my many lives.



*


It was a brisk night for spring. We drove in two cars. Carrie and I in her Honda while the other three drove with Diana in her Mercedes. I asked Carrie several times where we were going and she would only respond with: “You’ll see.” We exited the freeway amongst the foothills to the east of the city. The mountain air smelled clean and natural. I commented to Carrie that my stomach was churning from nervousness, and she said it was to be expected. We finally pulled off onto a dirt road, drove for a little while longer, and then parked. Getting out of the car, I noticed how magnificent and bright the moon appeared over the hills. As I discovered later, for my companions, the moon was a significant factor in their beliefs. We now stood together in the quiet of the evening.

Sonya opened the boot of the Mercedes and took out a box. It was decorated with eastern type symbols and writing that looked Arabic or Turkish.

“Is anyone going to help me with this?” she asked. “It’s heavy.”

Claris strolled over and grabbed one end of the box.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

Carrie answered. “We might show you its contents later tonight, depending how everything goes. But we need to do something that might seem strange to you.”

“What?” I asked.

She pulled a scarf from her back pocket.

“Blindfold you.”

“You’ve got to be joking, right?”

“No, Marcus. I’m dead serious.”

The nervousness in my stomach now turned to a dull pain. I wanted to trust these women but this seemed ridiculous.

“What is it that you don’t want me to see?” I asked.

“Marcus, please. You’ve got to trust us. All your questions will be answered tonight. That is, of course, if all goes to plan. Please.”

What did I have to loose. I thought. “Ok, let’s go for it.”

Carrie wrapped the scarf around my eyes. Grabbing my hand, we began to walk. I knew we were off the main road because I kept tripping over stones and brushing against plants and bushes. None of the women said a word. Blinded, my sense of hearing amplified, hearing the sound of birds and unknown animals. From time to time, I would ask if we were almost there without a response. Their silence bothered me. I continued to tell them to slow down because my legs started to hurt. Walking blindfolded with Carrie holding one hand and my cane in the other put me at a slight disadvantage. We finally stopped and Carrie guided me backwards, setting me down gently on what felt like a small boulder.

“Leave the blindfold on, Marcus.”

“What are doing?”

“We’re building a fire.”

Sitting in the darkness I could hear the women throwing wood on a pile. Soon the heat from the fire touched my face, and I could see a shade of orange through the scarf. The fire popped and spat and felt soothing in the cool air. I wanted to pull the blindfold off my face to see what they were doing but decided to follow their orders and experience whatever they had in store for me.

“Listen carefully, Marcus. We’re going to lay you down into a large box. Don’t be afraid. Take off the blindfold only when we tell you to. Do you understand?”

My body felt numb. I felt like all my volitional will had disappeared and there was nothing I could do but follow their commands. This was an entirely new experience for me. I had always felt in control of my life. Now, at this moment, I had no control whatsoever.

A woman took each arm and we hobbled a few metres next to the fire.

“Step down, Marcus. That’s it. Now lay down. Watch your head. Good. Ok, we’re now closing the lid. Don’t be afraid. Well done.”

I heard a creaking sound then a solid thump.

“You can take off the scarf now, Marcus.”

There was hardly enough room to move my arms to remove the scarf from my eyes. I finally managed to inch my arm up to my face and fold the blindfold down around the top of my nose. Directly in front of my eyes was a small grill, revealing a portion of the night sky and the bouncing shadows made from the fire. Suddenly it was difficult to breath and I started to panic.

“I don’t know what the fuck you assholes are trying to prove, but I want you to get me out of here. Now!”

“Try to breath, Marcus. Take deep breaths and you’ll feel better. I promise.”

Carrie said these words in a whisper near to the opening of the box. Though I couldn’t see her face.

“You’ll be all right in a minute. Breathe.”

I did what she asked and took long, slow breaths until the panic seemed to subside.

“Marcus, I know this is unusual but we want you to lie there as quietly as possible. We are going to conjure the goddess, Anat, and we need you to be silent. Understand?”

I felt totally helpless. There was nothing I could do. These crazy women had me trapped in some kind of fucking coffin. At the time, however, I believed screaming wouldn’t get me anywhere. So I just lay there like a trapped hyena without a hope in hell.

Then I heard wine being opened, corks popping from their respective bottles. The women then started drinking the wine, toasting each other in some foreign language. Time passed and they began singing, laughing and dancing around my box. The fires continued to blaze as I could feel its heat through the opening and see the reflection of the flame and their hysteric shadows. My legs started to hurt, badly. I screamed through the opening to set me free, but they ignored my pleas and continued to sing and dance directly above me. They now began stomping their feet on the lid of the box. The sound was so loud that it hurt my ears. I realized these insane women were dancing on the box, smashing their empty wine bottles, looking through the grill, and screaming obscenities in my face.

“You pathetic man!”

“Now what can you do? Where’s your power over us now?”

“You are where you belong!”

“Here, would you care for some wine?”

Red wine spurted though the grill, splashing over my face.

“Drink the nectar of Anat, and feel her power!”

Wine poured over my face, into my eyes and up my nostrils.

I was drowning.

“Open you mouth you fool, and drink!”

As instructed, opening my mouth, a steady stream of wine poured down my throat. To prevent myself from choking, I swallowed the wine in giant gulps. After a minute or two, I screamed for them to stop, because I could feel the excess wine around my head, it streaming under my body towards my legs: I imagined the box filling with wine and slowly drowning to death.

Then it stopped. Silence.

They had poured so much wine into the box that I was literally floating, bobbing up and down, my face occasionally bumping against the grill: drunk, dizzy and swimming in a sea of red wine with no way out. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to die.

No sound above me. Had they abandoned me? I couldn’t hear anything, except for the sloshing of the wine against the sides of the box. I had to strain my neck to keep my head above the surface. It reminded me of the ocean slapping against the shore, a peaceful sound. A feeling of deep serenity moved from the top of my head and over my body, relaxing every fibre, bone and cell of my being. Through the grill the full moon came into my view, pulsating what felt to be a warm light. Its presence signalled a transformation, a change of heart; there was a connection for me at that moment with a celestial body that otherwise had always been taken for granted. The moon was no more an inanimate object but an intimate friend – the feeling was something akin to what one feels after travelling for years abroad in distant lands and finally coming home -a warm happiness. I had returned to the beginning and would never leave again. I was home.


Through the opening of the box, I observed my new found friend, the moon, moving across the sky, and disappear. Looking at the darkness and the stars, a strong sense of sleep pervaded, though I forced myself to remain conscious for fear of drowning in my sea of red wine. It was then I felt a surge of power, a strong intuition that I had the capacity to escape my prison. Moving my hands above me, I felt something metallic, a latch, and hit it hard with my fist. The lid suddenly popped open and, like a newborn child entering the world, rose from the coffin, and into the night air.

The last embers of the fire burned, casting only a small amount of light around the camp. My tormentors, my friends, lay passed out around the dying campfire. Each had an empty bottle of wine in their hands; their bodies sprawled in strange positions. Smashed bottles lay everywhere and the place looked as if a battle had transpired and the dead lay as they fell. A gust of wind passed through me, reminding me that I had been soaked to the bone from the wine. Noticing the unusual box that Sonya and Claris carried from the car, I walked over and gazed at its contents. Inside were more bottles of wine, eastern style cloaks, and an assortment of knives. Removing my drenched shirt, I wrapped one of the cloaks around my shoulders. Sitting by the dying fire, I glanced across the camp at the strange wooden contraption. It was a perfect coffin, buried half in the ground, now full of red wine. My legs started to throb again. I remembered my cane still lay in the box. Limping over, sticking my hand into the blood-red pool retrieved my cane. Putting more wood on the fire, it came alive, lighting and warming the camp.

The heat from the fire felt good.

Carrie lay asleep closest to the fire. Her body was positioned like someone who had jumped to their death from a seventh floor skyscraper. Her face looked upward and her arms and legs seemed twisted in odd ways looking extremely uncomfortable. She breathed through her mouth, occasionally making a snorting sound. She also wore a multicoloured cloak that suited her - an odd observation, I thought, considering the circumstances. The other women also wore the eastern style cloaks, sleeping in various positions around the fire. I didn’t notice it at first, but they were all quite naked under their strange gowns. Sonya’s had opened, I guessed, from the wind as she lie unconscious. Diane and Claris slept huddled arm in arm like little kittens one sees on sentimental birthday cards. Their cloaks were spread open too, revealing their naked bodies. These were indeed sexy woman - all of them the dream of lonely men. But sex was the farthest thing from my mind. What I wanted to feel was hate for these women for putting me through this ordeal. But I didn’t feel anything, really. It was more a crystal-like state of mind, a clean awareness of my surroundings, and a healthy exhaustion, similar to what one feels after a hard day’s work. Too tired to attempt waking the women, my eyelids felt heavy, and I soon joined them, falling asleep, the sun just making a show over the hills towards the east.


My sleep was dreamless.


Chapter Three

"The Initiations' Continue"

Emotional State: Tired & Optimistic.

Spring, Kiernan and History

Spring truly has arrived with yesterday being the hottest September 1st in Melbourne in recorded history. (80 degrees F.) Have just returned from a pleasant walk to the shops with Loui, and the dusk this evening has a magical atmosphere as if the good spirits of the night are waking from their day time slumbers. A beautiful cat crossesd our paths, and Loui started a conversation with her, the cat actually talking back. (In cat language, of course) It is now that short moment between day and night, where the birds stop their singing, and the Cicada's begin their nightly calls.

Finally received my Caitlan R. Kiernan's "Tales of Pain & Wonder" in the mail today from Amazon. It's a great feeling to discover something you have been waiting for, checking the mail box after work every evening to see it has at last arrived. I haven't started reading the book, but the illustrations by Richard Kirk are absolutely astounding!

I'm currently reading David McCullough's "Brave Companions - Portraits in History." It is no wonder why McCullough is the most widely read historian in the United States, his writing style flows, describing the landscapes, atmosphere and character's of his study with such realistic detail - he has to be one of the best writer's in America. I love his view of history as a subject of study:

"It is a shame that history is ever made dry and tedious, or offered as a chronicle almost exclusively of politics, war, and social issues, when, of course, it is the full sweep of human experience: politics, war, and social issues to be sure, but also music, science, religion, medicine, the way things are made, new ideas, high attainments in every field, money, the weather, love, loss, endless ambiguities and paradoxes and small towns you never heard of. History is a spacious realm. There should be no walls." (McCullough, p.xv 1991)

And this is exactly why he is so good, his writing reflects this philosophy to the letter.

Continued editing my novel this afternoon, and the story appears to flow much better.

Loui and I are having a passive night re-watching the first season of "Millennium" on DVD, one of the better television programs of the 1990's.

Emotional State: Relaxed & Happy.

Needless Worry

Alone and worried.

Concerned about the people and circumstances that should not be my concern.

Lack of sleep thinking about people and circumstances out of my control - what a waste of energy!

Time to finally go to bed in clean sheets, and a comfortable pillow, falling into that soft area of chaos, not thinking, clear, beautiful dreaming.

What a gift!

A big week: love, anger, apathy, sadness, justification's, caring and a glimmer of hope...(wishing for a thicker skin). I cannot let some of these poor kids and their horrible home lives break my heart. There's only so much their teacher can do...

I think I just need to sleep, and dream.

Concerned about a particular student, and my lack of sleep.

Emotional state:

Tired & worried.