They say that the world is at its most beautiful in late April and May, as the various tree types and flowers bloom thereabouts, in turn, so as not to compete with each other for the agents of pollination. On a day of deep blushing pinks and unbelievable purples, Angelina and Peter drove the long length of the mid Hudson Valley, taking back roads and scenic riverside routes wherever possible.
Starting near Germantown, they drove up the winding approach to Olana, the Persian mansion, its outside brick seemingly consisting of gigantic multicolored Legos. In each room they found a painting by one of the Hudson River painters. After the tour they gained respite from the morning wind at the warm brick wall behind the mansion and kissed there as they noted the river below and all of the Catskills peaks sharply rising beyond—in a live painting of the Hudson River scenery.
A riverside breakfast at Claremont Park was next. Bacon, eggs, and sausages were broiled on the grill, the tasty scents floating on the midmorning breeze. Soon they were driving down River Road past Bard College and onward through Red Hook and toward Rhinecliff, where they stopped for awhile on the dock to see the ferry off. From here they whizzed through Rhinebeck to the Vanderbuilt Mansion in Hyde Park, where they rested for a time on the boulders near the shore as the high tide brought the waves in and splashing against the rocks, cooling the lovers with a refreshing spray.
Thus reenergized, they swept onward into Poughkeepsie, where they rested on a stone bench at the Pirate Canoe Club after walking the river bluffs on trails made long ago by the Indians, the view being much the same now as it was back then. Walking down to float on some wooden piers, they noted the passing of the sloop Clearwater and also some jet skiers, a strange mixture of old and new. A shady Sheafe road took them past the bustle of the malls and into Bowdoin
Park where they cooked a chicken. The park was to become a portion of the proposed Greenway, which from here would connect to the Reese Wildlife Sanctuary.
From Wappingers Village they followed the creek side road, taking the historic tour past the old estates and thence toward Chelsea where they stopped at the marina for a riverside kiss, then drove along lilac row, seeing views of Newburgh Bay, and swiftly passed Castle Point and the Correctional Institute and drove on through Beacon to the hallowed view of Storm King mountain, where they rested on Sandy beach, swimming in the warm currents, then ate a leisurely dinner at Breakneck Lodge.
From the restaurant they beheld the entire vista of the great Storm King, and took note of the highway carved into its side, once the only roadway on the river’s west side. Crossing underneath the Hudson River was the Catskills aqueduct that brought water by gravity alone from the mountains all the way to New York City. In the river, where once only the steamships braved this narrowest part on their journeys into what was then the undiscovered country for most people, sailboats wandered and pleasure crafts motored along between bites of Peter’s famous triple decker club sandwich and Angelina’s western omelet, for which they had built up a tremendous appetite. After dinner they went back to the beach, put out some blankets, and lay there all night, loving, sleeping, writing, talking, and enjoying the sounds of the large waves, since here the river had to quickly rush its bulk of water through the narrow passage.
Towards mid morning, Angelina and Peter packed, and crossed Bear Mountain Bridge, along with the Appalachian Trail, and wandered through the Bear Mountain Zoo, then drove up the mountain for a view back toward the Catskills. West Point was next, the plans of which were once almost handed over to the British by Benedict Arnold. The fortress like buttresses shouldered their way up from the river shore, at once protecting and symbolizing duty, honor, and service to country.
Heading back north, they passed the old summer mansions of the railroad barons, the tycoons who eventually became the environmentalists that went on to preserve much of the Hudson Highlands from encroachment by ore mining companies and from the power plants that would have tapped the electric potential of water and gravity and thereby scarred the great Storm King.
At Marlboro, they headed up Ridge road to Latintown road, passing Mt. Zion, and stopped to luxuriate and relax under and over the apple blossoms which had partially fallen and so had formed a romantic cushion upon which lovers could lay—as if in the palm of Heaven’s hand—safe in a petal bed under a corolla sky. Angelina, wearing only a smile, was ripening and reddening like buds that promised fruits from the apple tree in this Eden revisited. She removed Peter’s clothes, and they were not afraid that anyone would see, for they were well into the orchard. He drank the dew from her catkin and she did the same from his cattail—a catalyst that brought forth actions and reactions that built cathectically, like charged emotional ions attracted to the cathodes, reaching cathedral splendor in the airy and open heights and spaces in a living catechism of love’s principles, catapulting them into the cataclysm of climax, and beyond, into the serenity of catalepsy within which they catnapped, wavering between wake and sleep in a never-land of connectedness brought to you by the letter ‘C’.
Driving once again, they emerged some time later in Highland, where they ate at Mariner’s Harbor, making friends with all the workers, and then drank a California Lemonade and a Blue Lagoon, well into the afternoon, the sun shining and sparkling on their skin. Traveling a bit into the future, they walked across the old railroad bridge, which was to become a treed and grassy pedestrian walkway over the Hudson River, with a small museum house at one end.
The afternoon found them driving past the many monasteries, nunneries, and wineries on the road to Kingston, sometimes stopping at the gift shops and the antique shops. Turning west on route 32 they could see the misty Catskills off in the distance. It began to rain, but it was a gentle warm spring shower. Soon they were heading uphill in third gear along route 23A, passing the four bridges that spanned the winding Kaaterskill creek. Stopping near Bastion Falls, they followed the trail towards the Kaaterskill Falls that were further in, and here we slow down their journey a bit to join them in a hike.
It had stopped sprinkling but there was mist in the air and the tops of the mountains were shrouded in mist. The creek side path to the waterfall was verdant, wet, mossy, and fertile.
“We’re in our element again,” Angelina reminded Peter. “Water.”
“It’s everywhere, Peter.” And indeed there was; the creek was a torrent and the lower rapids were sweetwater. Rainwater was coming down the mountainside and crossing the trail in rivulets that sought out the stream. It was slippery in spots, so they held each other as they crossed between huge boulders strewn about like giants’ playthings. Water from the trees dripped on them as they walked, and mist rising from the creek drifted in small wispy clouds that settled in all around them. It had turned into a day with very soft edges.
Kaaterskill falls was stunning, with a first fall of about 175 feet to a ledge pool, then another 90 foot fall to the ground. A blanket of sweetness and serenity crept over them as they gazed in wonderment at yet another scene rendered by nature’s painters. They made camp behind a fallen tree and ate a snack of cherries and bananas. Twenty thousand gallons of water were coming over the falls every second, for it had rained very heavily to the north. The roar of the water, though loud, was reassuring and comforting, and, as they nodded in appreciation of it, the wildflowers nodded their wet drooping heads in return. Soft breezes came and went and all seemed right with the world on this extended Memorial Day weekend.
“So this was where old Rip Van Winkle slept for over twenty years,” Angelina commented.
“Just one of eternity’s heartbeats,” answered Peter.
She didn’t answer, for they weren’t speaking much in this cathedral-like atmosphere, and so they became relatively silent again in reverence for the grandeur of it all. Peter looked into Angelina’s wild wet eyes, the many droplets dripping down her face, and she looked back into his eyes and deep into his soul. A thousand memories flew by in an instant—of all the places they had traveled to in space and time. Impressions poured forth from their souls, passing directly into the other’s spirit, bypassing mind, manner, and sense.
Peter headed out for an extended stay in the cabin where he lived and loved with Angelina, and where they could relax and perhaps write a book called ‘The Answer Book’, part of a self-help series. They would also read and play and explore the summer woods, reveling in nature and life and all that was wonderful on this earth.
After fixing up their bicycles, they rode the old paths behind the farm, entering lands where no one had been for a century, passing old sugar maple barrels, ghostly summer camps, and an old rusted stagecoach. They found an old swimming hole, with its tire swing still intact, and so they swung out over and into the cool clear water.
The endless summer vacation continued, and they continued to work on their garden and their relationship. They got up at 5 AM each day with the sun, singing like lovebirds, and had breakfast out in the yard with the roaming deer that fed there at dawn and dusk.
“Let’s look for the hidden lake today, Peter,” she requested; “It’s supposed to be out there somewhere, although it may be difficult to find since it’s enclosed on all sides—it’s a glacial mountaintop lake. I only know of its general direction.”
“But no one knows exactly where it is? That’s very mysterious!”
“No one knows; it comes and goes, living and drying at the whims of plenty and drought and, perhaps, from the underground springs. It wasn’t even there when they last mapped the area.”
“We’ll have to locate it from the air so that we have some idea where it is—so we don’t wander endlessly for weeks searching for it.”
“From an airplane?”
“There’s a balloon festival at the airport. We could get a ride in one, or even rent one.”
“Let’s do it. I love balloons.” After breakfast, Lady Summer welcomed them with a promise of heat and with a breeze calm enough for floating under the clouds and, so, they rented an airship and slowly rose in it toward the sky, observing the topography of the land with their naked eyes and with binoculars, looking for a sparkle of hidden blue through the trees below.
“There’s our farmhouse,” he said, “and the cemetery.”
“And the mountains beyond. The lake is in that direction.”
“And toward those hills is a trail we’ve never walked on.”
“Yes, a clue—a faint path that can only be seen from the air.”
“But the wind is blowing us the wrong way, and anyway, we’re still too low to see far enough,” she said.
“Let’s go higher and try to find a cross wind going in our direction.”
“Fire the burner.” He did so and the sky-ship rose heavenward with a great roar.
“Look, the path comes out along the stone wall on the other side of the forest.”
“So the stone wall can guide us if we lose the trail.”
“We have the right wind now; maintain this altitude.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” he said. The songs of larks rose in the air to meet them and pierced the stillness of the sky. Down below they could see the wheat ripening and turning yellow in the fields, and saw the brightly colored flower gardens in which they, from far above, could still, somehow, sense the bees bumbling, heavily laden with the honey-pollen of the foxglove, and there were wild roses everywhere.
The morning sun, though raised up by their ascent, was still low enough to give a glint off the waters of ponds, and this is what they were hoping for—a gleam of diamonds dancing and twinkling and calling to them with its glimmering splendor.
“We are always drawn to water, aren’t we,” she offered.
“We must have been sea creatures in one of our prior lives.”
“We’ve had many previous lives together, haven’t we?”
“Yes, and they’ve all been coming back to me.”
“To me, too.”
“Look! At the third peak!” she exclaimed. “It’s so blue—who would ever expect a lake up on top of a mountain.”
“It’s just beyond the slope of purple heather.”
“We can take the pass between the first two peaks—there’s a wide valley floor.”
“And it has a stream through it.”
“A day’s walk at most.”
“How do we get this dirigible down?” he wondered aloud.
“Just let it cool and float down gently, although I must say that it seems like you’ve flown before.”
“It seems like I have, that I know how, but I can’t remember when.”
They descended and just barely cleared the road as the startled drivers looked up at them.
They landed, somewhat heavily, on the edge of the airfield. “Good to be back down to earth,” they both agreed. They soon set out for the hidden lake, traveling light, bringing only fruits and nuts. The old cemetery loomed ahead; they entered, hoping to find the faint path to the lake.
Startled, Peter stopped at a twin set of tombstones.
“What is it!” cried Angelina.
“Read it,” answered Peter.
1696—1779
Here Lie Peter and Angelina,
And in your heart and mine,
Their earthly apples left behind,
But not their spirits;
For their love was so strong
That it could never die,
But blossoms again and again,
Somewhere in time.
“I’ve always felt that I’ve known and loved you before,” she realized.
“Yes, I know it, too.”
“Our love is so pure and true that our spirits live on and reincar- nate from time to time, our passion capable of drawing us together in loving enchantment, even from afar.”
“I especially enjoy our latest incarnation,” he added.
“The embodiment is most exhilarating.”
“How long have you known or suspected this?” he asked.
“Long ago, and especially since you told me of your grave site vigil and and of the captivating song of the nightingale.”
“I’ll bet that grave is here also.”
Sure enough, they found a faintly lettered gravestone not too far from the first that read, in small letters that were already fading,
1826—1912
Here together lie Br. Peter and Sr. Angelina,
Monk and holy nun, partner and paramour.
As book illuminators and editors,
They wrote and lived life’s loving scene.
“Never leave you,” she said.
“Love you always,” he answered. Somewhere a bird sang nearby.
At the edge of the woodlands stood the brave sentinels of the bugle flowers, announcing, by their call, the entrance of the lovers into the woods. Once inside, they drank dew from the buttercup flowers, that sparkling potion of lively refreshment.
“It’s going to be a good day—the scarlet pimpernels have unfolded their flowers,” he observed
“They are the poor man’s weather glass!”
“We must have learned all about the flowers in another life.”
“Flowers had a language of their own in Victorian days.” The heat of noon pressed down on them as they entered the forest and so they gained relief in a cool green bower of jasmines. They followed the faint path, sometimes losing it, but soon finding it again by predicting the way, and later on, by finding the stone wall. It was hard going, for the trail was ever rising uphill through shady and scrubby places.
Hours later, after ascending through the verdant valley and hearing many a chanting bird, they arrived at the mid-base of the mountain. Here they saw great herds of snapdragons, some of which they opened with a pinch at the right spot, not even remembering where they’d learned the trick. And, too, they saw vermilion red geraniums growing wild in countless numbers. They passed a tangle of honeysuckle mounted on high, the air filled with its sweetness by unseen fairies blowing the fragrance through the honey trumpets. Further along, woodbine scented the air with it pure coolness as it climbed toward the sky. They could hear the chimes of the bluebells, those heralds of the dim and dewy dusk, and the dance and song of evening knells—elfin music tinkling in fairy festivals. A duck lifted into flight, hinting that the lake was very near. They quickly passed through some bushes of rare white periwinkles, long thought to be extinct, and there before them lay the crystal blue lake that was secreted atop the mountain.
Overheated from the strenuous hike, they soon removed and threw aside their clothes, then plunged into the cool depths of the blue lake and remained underwater awhile to get an all around zingy chill. As they emerged and headed toward shore, the water droplets ran down their bodies and made a trail behind them.
(…love scene too hot to post…)
Daylight, extended by the mountainous height, finally fell into darkness all around them as again and again they slipped in and out of each other’s being and ultimately merged into one heart, soul, mind, and body—and, with their last ounce of energy, rolled into the shallow water and slept and dreamt.
In his dreams, Peter thought: I can have high quality virtual reality—for free. There is no need to go off to a multimedia arcade, spending a fortune on a virtual reality helmet, gloves and wires to experience time- and space-limited holoscenes of cartoon level quality—there is a free method of not only viewing high quality virtual reality but also of movie scripting all the scenes, scenery, and character actions instantaneously. Do we need a Cray mainframe computer or a Hollywood studio to do it? No, it’s free and simple, and you can do it everyday, enjoying high quality graphics that are indistinguishable from reality—with deep emotions thrown in to boot: When I lay down to sleep, I had sent the following message on ahead to my dream self, etching it into the sands of unconsciousness by repeating it over and over hundreds of times: It is only a dream—so be aware, enjoy it, control it. Sleep’s drowsy circles had drawn ever closer, soon closing to a point through which I emerged on the other side. Deeper waves of slumber rose and fell across the sands, eroding the directives written there. And yet, as I had started to dream, some faint echoing thought of that message from heretofore rang as a dim chime—and, so reminded, I became aware that I was dreaming—and that I could enjoy it, even control it. The insight was unbelievable at first—but it helped that I was flying 10 feet off of the ground, and therefore unbelief soon surrendered to amazement. I inspected the dreams, being careful not to become so alert that it would cause waking. The colors were true and glorious—24 bit color, at least; all was so clear—nothing was hazy, as is a dream’s remembrance; all the players acted in character—one even told funny jokes, although I’m not much for jokes. Best of all, my emotions were still felt deeply, for I still felt that I was really living through it, even though I knew it was a dream. Once I picked up a book in my dreams, although the images were re-versed, so, totally in control, I conjured up a mirror, reflected the words, and read a most astounding book, entitled ‘Simply Amazing’, but, the nagging question is: Who authored it?
They awoke a few hours later, still afloat with ecstasy, dried themselves off, built a small fire, then lay on a beach towel near the water as the energies of love were again asking to be quenched. The heat from the fire warmed the cool night and so Peter removed his downy vest and used it as a pillow. They slowly aroused each other in a passionate crescendo as the evensong rose all around them. …
A thousand points of light still stabbed the dome of night as Peter and Angelina awoke just before dawn. The ever present sound of the waves soothed their already trouble-free souls to a point where the partners could co-mingle with the stars, and, thus freed, they could sense the Earth floating in space, rolling like a blue-green marble. They witnessed a rare sight, the setting of the full moon, a touching if somewhat melancholy sight, as the queen of the night sunk into the west and gave off its own dim version of twilight. The zodiacal lights sprung into their western being, now that the sky was completely dark, and over in the east, false dawn came and went as the birds slept soundly, except their pet crow which dropped out of the night as if conjured from black velvet.
Angelina came to a realization as she petted the crow’s ebony neck, “Peter, the crow, our crow—of course it’s the creature that enchants us—it’s the nightingale transformed, and it is perhaps even reincarnated with us in each of our instantiations.”
“Yes, it’s somehow a magic bird.”
“Perhaps it belonged to Merlyn a long time ago.”
“Perhaps it really is Omar Khayyàm’s famous Bird of Time.”
“Like the one in the magic book we saved from the burning monastery in the 1800’s when I was a holy nun and you were a saintly monk and we fell in love—the book spoke to us and sent us on a quest to find out the name of the rose.”
“I remember it well now.”
“Yes, we wrote all about it in ‘Fumes From Ancient Times.’”
“We were as the rose.”
“Yes, although the flowers that once had blown forever died.”
“But our spirits lived on, finding life in new flowers.”
“In this new and wonderful embodiment.”
“Because our love had so much energy—”
“—that the energy became matter.”
Angelina said “Let me tell you about our true colors, our spirits. We are the Eternal Smile of Being, the Joy of the Universe’s Creation! In us the Cosmos has come alive and has evolved into our consciousness from primordial matter and energy. We have arrived! We are the Cosmos itself. We are the Universe—life from Stardust!
“We live but for one of Eternity’s heartbeats, borrowing Life from Death for just a while. All that we are we owe to Time, Death, and Stars. Truly, from the Stars cometh our help, and much more. The Stars are the creators of matter and energy. Within a Star’s heart, matter transforms itself and gives energy—this is why the Stars shine! Death is the ultimate evaluator and the director of all evolutionary progress. Over eons upon eons, Death selects the wise from the silly; Death chooses the useful from the useless, but, it takes Time. It is this long yardstick that sticks in our throat when we try to contemplate it. For what seemed like Forever, our sleepless spirits have waited to catch light, life, and delight from Heaven’s smile. Finally, we are so lucky and we live. We stand atop the pinnacle of Nature’s tireless toil which has at last brought forth our souls from that black and endless eternal deep. What a joy to Be!
“Blake said ‘In what far and fiery depths of space burnt the fire of your Spirit? In what distant Stars was born the gleam in your eye?’ Know it well, for one day Death will ask you “What did you do all of your life?”. But, for now we are alive. Our mind and senses interpret and distort the one Reality into the colors and sensations of the phenomenal world. We can become either rainbows or ugly stains! Our minds, like Shelley’s prisms of many-colored glass, strain this white Radiance of Eternity into our life—until Death tramples us—and back we go to stardust after relentless time has wasted us away. Yes, our creators of Time, Death, and Stardust must also write our epitaph; they devour us in order to return that life-dream which was lent to us. But, here we are now, and perhaps we come to know that the simpler things in life are still the best: A glass of water from the well in the morning; to love, laugh, and sing with family and friends. And so we live out our lives with honor and love, kindness and generosity—these are our true colors. Life for the sake of life! Good for good’s sake! Enjoying everyone and everything and every season.
“Many think that they are more important than they really are, that they deserve some reward of a divine destiny in Heaven where their every whim, wish, and fancy can be fulfilled for all of time, forever and ever. Well, to me, such endless satisfaction and pleasure sounds really rather prideful, wishful, even decadent. The ultimate humility is, I think, for us to realize that we are no more than electrochemical organisms, that we, too, are part of nature. Are we quite lucky and fancy organisms? Oh, yes. Are we specially created by a Master? Oh, no. We are the embodiment of the Cosmos and are ever the results of natural laws of Physics and Chemistry. Death may be forever, but man, with his exaggerated view of self-importance, and, not wishing to see a final end to his glorious life—and I can hardly blame him—desperately grasps for immortality’s promise. For me, I will continue to catch life’s joy and smile and will bathe in the light of its constant sunrise. On my last night on this Earth I will not be haunted by regret when the Sleep of Death comes to take me to Corruption’s dim dwelling place—for I will know that I lived for color and smile.
“And what of the Stars? They remain, as Eternity’s Love-lamps, representing our good works and deeds, which even the fathomless night cannot quench. Perhaps one day, at the end of forever, the Stars too will die and grow cold when Time conquers all; but, as long as they live they will shine and radiate the hues that paint the colors of our ashes reborn again on the phoenix wings of Time.”
“I like that,” said Peter. I’ll tell you a story about outer space. “I own infinite wealth,” said Peter. “Ever wonder just how rich you could be, laying claim to gold, silver, jewels, and gems owned by no one? You can, anytime. At night I open up the heavens’ vault, my safety deposit box of valuable stars—one of whose planets contains all my wealth. There are billions of stars, quite enough for everyone, but, can one can really own a star—yes, if it is one’s favorite star. Mine is Betelgeuse in Orion, a large dying red giant. Although it has already expanded into the orbits of its first two planets, I own the fourth planet, one that no one else has ever claimed. And I’m planning to homestead there someday. The planet, hereby named ‘Peter’, contains unlimited amounts of gold, silver, platinum, diamonds, and many other rare crystals—and it’s all mine now.
“For six months of the year my favorite star is hidden, but, in early autumn, if I stay up late, I can see Orion rising, his shining sword of nebulas gleaming in the black sky, and blue Rigel, a near favorite, sparkling on his boot, but it’s Betelgeuse, on his shoulder, that I really love. Although I am looking from Earth, I am no less out in space than is any other star. Yes, we are all far out, in fact, relatively speaking, from the galactic center, being in the middle of one the spiral arms of the Milky Way. Anyway, I’ve chosen to leave my infinite wealth right there on the planet, since at least I know where it is. If I brought it here, someone night try to steal it.
“To get through the other six months of the year, I’ve chosen orange Arcturus, in the Scorpion, which, due to ancient disputes and treaties, can never again be in the same sky with Orion the Hunter, having, in fact, once bitten him. Orion still hunts him, but, of course, can never catch him.
“I own many favorite stars, actually, but, I sometimes wonder, while enjoying the serenity of these deep dark nights, if in fact they haven’t come to own me.”
“You’re rich!” exclaimed Angelina.
“I am,” said Peter. “Now I’ll tell you a real tall-tale. During a particularly harsh winter, it was so cold that my shadow froze to the ground such that I couldn’t even move. I almost died. I tried to call for help but my words came out in ice-block letters. Luckily, a passerby observed this and lit up a match to read the words—but the flame froze, and so no one could hear the words I had said until they thawed out in the spring. I left my shadow there and retreated to my cabin and drank a hot coffee that had frozen so fast that it was still warm. That night I built a fire but I had to sleep with my head in the fireplace to keep warm. I knew it was morning when I saw light at the top of the chimney.
“Times were so tough that winter that we had to made soup out of the pictures in the seed catalog, for we dared not even go out. I tried to catch a mouse by putting a picture of some cheese in a mousetrap, but all I caught was a picture of a mouse! Some days we had to go up on the roof to chop off the smoke clouds that had frozen around the chimney.
“The day was so windy that the fence post blew out and all post holes blew up onto the roof, causing leaks when it started to snow. The wind blew so hard that the sun went down three hours late. Well, this really warmed things up, and soon the snow caught on fire but then put itself out when it turned to water.
“I ventured out that day to do some ice fishing, but the warmth had thawed the ice a lot and I soon fell through it and would have drowned had I not had the presence of mind to go back to shore and bring some logs out to float on and so I escaped from the ice hole. This was the very same lake I’d tried to swim across last summer. After getting halfway across I decided that I wasn’t going to make it, so I swam back. Anyway, I caught a big fish. It was so large that even its picture weighed twelve pounds!
“So, I did survive that winter, or I wouldn’t be writing about it, but it wasn’t easy, but that only goes to show: Never give up. Not giving up was a lesson that I’d learned from a couple of frogs: One day two frogs fell into a pail of cow’s milk. After struggling for awhile one of the frogs soon gave up and drowned, but the other frog, our hero, kept on flailing away for hours, never giving up. The next morning, I found the frog very much alive, sitting happily atop a pail of butter.”
“I’ll tell you what I think of love, the greatest of all things” replied Angelina. “Love is the finest refreshment of mortal life, providing as it does a glimpse into the heavenly state, a vision which, if maintained, can last well beyond the initial perception and for all of one’s life. So, I say that any time not spent on love is time squandered in absolute waste, that if one is idling, not loving, or, god forbid, hating, then life is a-wasting; for love is the greatest experience on earth, and so I have often sought it out, found it, received it, given it, and lived it as life’s one great happiness, for there is no other joy that compares—love being the truth of all truths.
“Who has not forgotten that first kiss and the magic that attended it? No one, for first love touches one deeply and forever. People newly in love glow for weeks on end. There is nothing like love, although, strangely, some do not actively seek it out, perhaps for fear of rejection. But, even love’s worst pain is sweeter by far than any other pleasure; there is, indeed, no contest—and to love and lose is second only to loving in triumph.
“Not merely just a pleasure, love refreshes, creates, invigorates, and provides sustenance of spirit and life itself. Without love there is no life, at least none worth living. When you give up on love, you begin to die. Love knows no laws or restrictions, for mutual passion is a law unto itself. Love is the cure-all, both for those who receive it and for those who give it. The one tragedy in life is not death, but that some people do not love—aye, nor do they live, for the fear of the one is fear of the other. So, by all means, if you love somebody, go to them and tell them so.
“It is said that the loving are the daring, perhaps because they seek the ultimate adventure, often risking all for that which lies far and above the commonplace, that vision into paradise. Imagination weaves a fairy tale of love and romance, and the mind that is alive soon brings forth the phantasm into reality.
“Placing our very life and happiness in another through love is the greatest gift one can give, for it is the gift of oneself. Unconditional love is a true gift, one without strings attached, one without any motive for gain in return. Oh, of course, we are human and often love for the sake of being loved in return, and this is not in itself wrong; but, when one loves for no other reason than for the sake of generosity and loving, then this is a saintly type of love which is above all the other kinds.
“True love loves people for what they are; not for their qualities in particular, but for the person. It’s not that we love someone because we need them—for this is quite immature—but that we need someone because we love them. It is, you see, love that is the origin. Love begets love and love, in turn, begets more love, and so on, making us even more loving to others, until Heaven is indeed brought down to earth. Real love is its own reward.
“Identity is not lost in love, for true lovers do not sit looking only into each other’s heart, but, rather, look outward, both in the same direction. It is a seeming violation of arithmetic that in love two become much greater than one plus one; and that the two, nevertheless, do not become one, but remain as two, yet still share the same vibration in their souls.
“It also seems to be a paradox that love, when divided, is not at all diminished, but that each individual love multiplies to exceed the lot. One can never run out of love! It is a miser, indeed, who withholds love from a capacity that is boundless. Hoard not that which can be given. Give love, and even more love comes back full circle to you.
“What a joy is it to experience life’s wonders with someone you love—oh, walks, and plays, and dinners are great enough pleasures when taken alone, but note how much better they are when you have someone to share them with. Another bonus of love is, that, with it behind your actions, you may soon find yourself doing the impossible, as love’s inspiration carries you along through any kind of difficulty. For me it was an inspiration to write. Love and a kind heart are much alike, and one is equivalent to the other, love being a triumvirate of truth, beauty, and goodness blended into one great purity. We do not merely love—we are love! We do not create—we are creation itself. We don’t just live—we are life!
“There are many forms and faces of love, such as brotherly, sisterly, motherly, fatherly, romantic, spiritual, professional, and physical; and it often depends much upon the circumstance which one is the most appropriate form to give to a particular person, but I think you may agree, that, in all of the above forms of love, there is much more that could be given in any case.”
“So true,” answered Peter. “I’ll tell you of the greatest earthly thing—adventure, for love is part heavenly. Boredom and dull routine have little place, if any, in a life, and it is only by one’s own laziness that they are allowed to exist at all, languishing nearby on the doorstep, as it were, as uninvited guests, as all the while terrible complaints are hurled against them.
“‘I’m bored’, we say, halfheartedly hoping that some new entertainment will appear out of the blue and carry us away from a dreary commonplace existence, perhaps into a fairy tale. So, adventure calls constantly to us as a cure for the blahs, for routine dulls the senses—even the greatest music soon begins to fall unheard on our ears, and gradually degenerates into that same old song.
“Although breaking the chains of routine often requires a great burst of energy, adventure can become self-sustaining once the seeds have been planted. Yes, initially, some hard work must be applied, since adventuring is not normal, free, and easy in this world, but, remember, that before all realized realities must come the dream, the creative vision, the attitude and the outlook that will bring adventure to life.
“Even before the dream comes the yearning, though it’s dim at first, glowing as a faint phantasm in a fleeting daydream struggling to maintain its shape before it fades into the noise of day. As these shadows pass over the adventurous mind, the vision must be enhanced and then steadily pursued until it, at last, becomes three-dimensional and real. We often look back later, quite amazed at the wonders that we have wrought, but—we had the vision.
“The rewards of adventure are many; stimulation, experience, and growth are practical results, but foremost comes joy, exhilaration, and thrill—the feeling of being alive. Who has not known the adventure of walking to school alongside a steam, dallying here and there, then crossing over the water on a log, nearly slipping off, but catching one’s self at the last instant while skipping a heartbeat? Who has not known the electricity of the first kiss at summer camp? Or of the reading or writing of a great poem or story while basking warm and cozy in winter sunshine? Or the thrill of a job well done? If we no longer know such things, then, perhaps, now is the time to stop worrying about getting our hair messed up.
“It’s all a matter of style, purpose, and vision. To plant the seeds of adventure one must seek out the uncommon, the unusual situation, the exotic, even in one’s own backyard, looking for the odd character, although certainly not those who are unhealthy, the pleasantly eccentric (by today’s staid standards), the person willing to try just about anything that isn’t illegal, the offbeat but upbeat person, the optimist, the exciting prospect, the person with those excitingly wonderful and harmless character ‘defects’.
“And so it is that once you find it, adventure begets more adventure, for, ideas from all over soon begin to interact and build until a person rises above mere existence and really lives! Oh, I’ve had many adventures myself, from romance in the south seas to mysterious intrigue in the villages of France, but travel and romance are only a general means to adventure—there are many more, mostly personal, for it depends on what you want from life. Adventure can be had right here in one’s own village.
“Of course, some adventures entail a minor amount of risk-taking and rule breaking, for that which is often uncommon is often the most extraordinary and therefore must draw undue attention from those in the straight world, but, I ask you, does not the element of danger often greatly heighten the excitement? Who has not, in the throes of spring fever, slyly disappeared from his place of employment on some exciting romantic mission, and found adventure in that ‘forbidden’ quest?
“Yes, adventure is lived in that delightful middle state in which we are neither drunk nor sober—nor ever reckless, but ever balancing excitement with responsibility, each paying for the other as we walk the thin line between foolishness and adventure—the log across the creek.
“So, I say, to some of you, prime the pump; seek out adventure, embrace it. Use your emotions, get up out of your chair and into the arena; open up and invite adventure in, give it, take it; live life with a reasonable passion and with a passionate reason; for adventure can become a commonplace situation that one can tolerate! Then you, too, will say ‘I’m excited, there’s everything to do in this town, the people are all wonderful, and I marvel at life’s wonders every day!’”
“Well said,” cheered Angelina. “Our greatest adventure is living life and writing about it in this book—an art. Tell me about writing, Peter.”
“Artists create after living and feeling, whether it be for real or accomplished only in their minds and dreams, although this artistry, too, is living, and self-sustaining, although secondary, as art becomes its own reward, that is, the complete satisfaction is in the creative act itself—the sharing or selling of it either comes later or is not necessary—just give it away!
“Lord Byron once wrote ‘’Tis to create, and in creating live a being more intense…’. Artistry, as in our writing and illustration, is inspired by, and is intertwined with living a being more intense. If our dreams inspire living, then our living inspires more dreams—including the writing of them, and the living of them. When I wrote ‘Star Trek—The Last Frontier’, I truly felt that I was out in space. I wrote ‘The Last Knight’s Almanac’ when I had a terrible flu, but, while writing it, felt fine, not even realizing that I was sick, being transported in time and space to the Dark Ages. Sometimes one needs to accumulate experiences, including reading, in order to write. Mostly, for me, ideas come only when they may, after some subconscious maturation process, the poems and novels then writing themselves. My writing can never be done on demand. The art is the satisfaction.
“The selling of it for peanuts comes only out of the unconditional love of sharing it. We all contribute to the world what we do best. If that happens to be telling jokes, then that’s what we ‘give away’ for free; otherwise, in our case, writing and art. In most areas of my writing, especially in the Universal Wisdom poems, I must live the ideas first in order to prove that the advice can be written down and dispensed. Same for romance or self-help, as for me it would not be fair to write something that really couldn’t happen. In most of my novels I try to show for inspiration how good life could be instead of a list of things not to do—so then, when the reader sees how fine life and love can be, the reader just runs right out and does it.”
“Here’s something a bit different,” said Angelina, “a story of free will, called ‘The Chains of the Keeper’.
In his mind’s eye, at the center of a Universe receding in all directions, the Keeper of the Kinds turned ever so slowly in his chair and stared out the window into the Universe. He cared little for what he saw since he’d seen it all before. He cared even less about me or you. Most of the time he cared only for Order, and rarely for naught except on those hyper days when he wondered if fleas had fleas or if he might ever become his Keeper’s Keeper. Well, this was one of those days, and on this day the Entropy Devil was Kinged for a time.
Henry Humpersnickle, one of the Kind, was indeed wary of being caught up in the scheme of things, so he stumbled onto an escape from reality. After Henry went to sleep, he dreamed that he had awakened, but, at first, upon actually awakening, he didn’t even remember it; but that was good, for then neither did the Keeper. When he next slept, the Universe became its mirror image and shrunk a million times. Still, Henry didn’t take much notice of this, due mostly to time and space limitations.
Henry awoke, in dream only, in a strange world, although still dreaming, but he thought that it was real. All these events had almost happened before, but were unique since one grain of sand had shifted ever so slightly, by the length of a blue light wavelength. The Keeper, an eternal determinist, was not upset, for he knew that this might happen someday, as sure as he knew that the entire contents of an encyclopedia might be represented somewhere in the infinite non repeating expansion of pi (3.1416… ), all of which, of course, he held within a small corner of his mind. However, lately there was talk that all infinities need not be exhaustive.
Nevertheless, he could never know everything, and didn’t care to anymore, for only his own Keeper could unlock life’s two Yin/Yang boxes, each of which contained the other’s key. Meanwhile, a Bishop at Queen’s Knight 10**11**9 had attacked the pawn at King’s Bishop 5**5**6, diverting the attention of the Keeper and sending illusions of ripples through Henry’s world-line. Although it was still questionable as to whether all things must eventually happen in a world of illusions, Henry had already made the question academic, for Henry had now dreamt of dreaming, and what’s more, he became very much aware of it and all was quite lucid. Thus, the Keeper’s grip on him loosened, and Henry’s ripples became smoother.
Soon there would be no sign that the pebble had even slipped through the surface. Indeed, it could no longer even be determined if the pawn was still under attack, or even who Henry was, for there was no one around to answer the question. The Keeper did not miss Henry, for the elements of his Universe still constituted a tautology on Nature’s thumbnail, although Henry would almost surely die before his birth—to balance the books.
Ice winds filled Henry’s vacuum and as he dreamed of dreaming and awakening, and the fates of his chances answered to none other than the chances of his fate. As his own Keeper, Henry kept to himself. Being alone, as a being alone, Henry no longer bothered with keeping track of time or movement since this was impossible with no one around. It was all he could do to remember the day that the monsters came.”
“That was different, all right!” responded Peter. “It was almost scary, having those universes within universes.”
“Angelina, did you know that I once was marooned on a very large, inhabitable planetoid in another galaxy—a greenless world?”
“No, but I have a feeling that you are about to tell me.”
“OK, I will. It’s a rather long story, but nowhere near as long as a Star Trek book that I’m writing now. Here goes.”
I’d come to this strange and foreign world over three years ago as a scout for a phosphorus mining expedition, and here I had remained, marooned, for the nearest asteroid supply bases had been closed for lack of their necessary Earth supplied material. Well, at least I had life. I’ll take that anytime.
I was thankful, too, that my alien friend, a native of this planet, was female and that we were compatible both genetically and physically, although we were probably unable to produce offspring—at least so far. Science long ago had proven that the Earth was certainly not the birthplace of mankind, that Earth was seeded by ancestors who were common to all the galaxy.
My friend’s name was Serena, that being the closest English translation Over the years here, I had learned her language and she had learned mine. We lived together 24-7, and so I had been spared an eternity of loneliness, although it had been a very close thing, I being the only human here and she being one of the few remaining natives of this doomed planetoid.
This planet had been dying since its birth, for it had three suns, one of w
