The Triumph of Life, Love, and Being (Part 2/2)

(The Triumph of Life, Love, and Being)

(Part 2/2)

— 4 —

—— THE KISS THAT NEVER DIES ——

The world is very old, but every spring it grows young again when the angels of nature reconstruct it. While asleep and fused in a kiss that unlocked and merged their souls, Peter and Angelina shared their dreams while a nightingale sang nearby. They left their bodies, and were able, as spirits, to see far beyond human vision and on into the life of things. Time had slowed down—and so they could even catch flowers in the act of forming—by mirroring the pixies and obtaining their colors from the reflections. Peter and Angelina watched as butterflies came to life in the souls of pansies—embodied there by an extension into the third dimension of fluttering flight, looking like flowers floating on air and leaving only their dusty shadow prints behind on the pansies.

Angelina and Peter could see in the dark, for tulip lamps lit the path of the lane and the hollyhock torches illuminated the clearings. The secret hollows glowed at midnight from the crocuses that were cups of stored sunlight. In the luminous back wood haunts, the flowers could be seen growing from the touch of nymphs. They saw fairy’s-frocks, made of elfin sowing, and lady’s-lockets, or bleeding hearts—the two heart halves joined in love—a gift to the imagination from the spirits loosed from Eden, along with Adam and Eve. From the Virgin Virgo were strewn asters, or starworts, in the form of stardust and tears streaming down from the night sky. And wherever fairies had just romanced, wild pansies, once known as ‘jump-up-and-kiss-me’, soon sprouted and sprung from the amorous power of the sprites’ images.

Lighter than air in their spectral forms, Peter and Angelina flew down the slopes of the hillsides, sailing just above treetop level, sometimes grabbing onto branches and sling-shotting ahead, well out over a lake that was covered by a roiling fog, their perpetual momentum carrying them wherever they wished, a real-time virtual reality composed from the computing power of their united brains. They glided down the gradient from middle age into childhood, through all the timeless ages and all the ageless times. Peter was again the Centaur and soon became Pegasus, having sprouted wings, and Angelina was transformed into the Flying Tigress.

Here and there they darted in and out of the trees along the lake shore, sometimes clasping together their hearts, paws, talons, and feathers. The ground rose and fell as they winged along on a cushion of balmy air—washed, for a time, of all mortal cares—transforming to human like forms in midair when they were high enough to be sustained by the updrafts. Up above the clouds they would embrace, and their soaring souls would intermingle and communicate at those wordless levels, those that gave life and meaning to figments and phantasms, which in turn gave substance to mirages, fantasies and even further apparitions.

Outer space was next, and their wraithlike forms hitched rides on the light beams from stars, riding them toward their source, and passing, on their way to other galaxies, burned out worlds that were too close to their suns and frozen planets that were too far away. Into the core of Andromeda they dashed, into the black hole at its center, the beginning of the cosmic subway line, its terminus in another universe, wherein they emerged unscathed—clean and fresh and bathed in the radiance of love and light, and connected in both kiss and thought, still joined by reflection and perception in the mystical experience that we always refer to as attachment, devotion, kinship, warmth, affection, passion, and love. It was the circle of energy that came from being one and in love and so it sustained itself perpetually. Out came their bonded spirits to review the world and all the aspects of nature—spirits shining and glowing like vibrant glints and gleams among the facets of the diamond of life and love. And in this state they awoke somewhere in time, space, and energy, feeling relaxed and refreshed by their sleep, and blessed in serenity by the feeling of well being.

THE LOVE LIFE OF THE GLOW-WORM

Flashing desire, the glowfly twinkled across

The starry summer sky, love’s energy unspent—

Searching through the darkness, with passion’s might,

For the beacon of her consent—the mating call

Of pulsing, green and yellow light.

At last, came the reply:

“Yes, oh yes,” a-light, she said;

Now he became a firefly,

As, at once, she did too.

To a closing flower they together therein flew,

Blinking, winking in the seclusion of its petal bed.

This dance of light and love—their honeymoon—

Brightened the night, till it looked much like noon.

Those jolts and bolts, surging, merged in currents,

And swept back and forth as they signaled delight—

Fires luming and oft reluming the flames of love

With electric hugs,

For they had, by now,

Become lightning bugs.

Travelog

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.

“Angelina,” said Peter at last. “I see a friend and partner who understands the love and adventure of this day in the wonderful moisture of this scene; I’ve never seen anyone enjoy wetness so thoroughly—look at you, you’re soaked from head to toe from the spray of the waterfall!”

“I never complain about messing up my hair or about anything like that; I revel in my drenching with a joy that says I’m alive on this earth.”

Her shoes were squeaking and indeed her hair would have to be restyled; her dress was hanging in a mass of wrinkles; her blouse was saturated to the skin, and her knees were caked with red clay from climbing the steep banks where they had to detour around a washed out section of the trail.

“You’re so stimulating,” he added.

“And you’re so adventurous. Look at you—you’re quite a mess also! You certainly live close to the edge; there isn’t much in life that you miss.”

“I expect a lot from life.”

“Me, too.”

“And we’re here to give it to each other.”

“Live it, Peter, and love it—that’s our motto.”

“In between our eternal sleeps in the womb and the tomb, there is a lovely dream called life—in which roses grow, but wither soon abloom.”

“Love whispers ‘wake and live’, Peter. Where do we get these sayings anyway?”

“They just come to us.”

With this statement, Angelina undid Peter’s belt and reached inside. Her blouse seemed to fall off into Peter’s hands as he cupped her braless breasts. His lubrication was flowing and several times he had to still her hand in order to control his excitement. She was a quivering mass of moans as they moved toward the waterfall, where they kissed underneath one of its dousing offshoots. They placed their clothes in a flowery glade and lay on them. Their bodies and spirits merged as Peter plunged into the deep pool of joy as Angelina swam and heaved underneath. Eons later he planted his seeds in her flower garden, wherein tulips denoted truth, roses meant beauty, and lilies represented goodness—the three aspects of love.

In late afternoon Peter and Angelina rented a room in the ghostly Catskills Mountain house and walked toward the overlook, the sweet scented manuscript of their relationship now open to a most delicious page on which they lived ideally in a perfect state—delicately balanced, as as to forever prolong that magic hour between day and night that can often pass too quickly for a couple. Soft breezes blew the edges of the page of the story that they were living.

They sat on a grassy knoll at the edge of a cliff that overlooked the river valley and the waterfall where they’d been earlier. The view was breathtaking, and, of course, any fall would have been death-taking. Their eyes swept in the vista, and it was almost too much for the brain to take in, for this was an unusual perspective. They were about 3000 feet up on a cliff edge, facing a sheer drop. The landscape of farmlands, towns, and lakes stretched on toward Connecticut. What looked like grass and bushes below were actually treetops. Here they slowly ate their dinner, and again and again they would look up and out over the never ending distance—and the immensity of it was always refreshingly overwhelming.

After dinner they lay face to face on a large rounded rock, a blan-ket cushioning them. They drew closer to each other until there wasn’t any closer, and soon they became one with each other as well as with the rock and with the entire mountain, too. They witnessed a magic moment that was seldom observed—the exact moment when spring met the summer and caressed him with her breezes and touched him with her kisses, awakening him with her last dying breath—as she unfolded her petals and became the rose—the flower that heralds the summer season. Peter melted against Angelina, dissolved by love, as they became one mind, one soul, one heart, and one body. Surrounded on all sides by their unified being, they were about, around, next to, and within each other. It was a unity, to each a perfect second self, each a mirroring of the other’s soul.

Angelina wrote in her journal at dawn and read it to Peter: I’m writing this in the morning half light because that’s the time of our relationship—twilight is the only time when the night and day can meet each other and kiss—and this is the page to which our book is open. This is the time that we can glimpse Camelot and live in our own ideal world. We don’t fight; we don’t even argue. We confide in each other; we live in each other—we live in a perpetual sunrise. It is always morning and the world is always bright and fresh.

And Peter wrote and read back: When I was in your soul, I felt the shadow of Divine Beauty itself. I had joined with you—I saw your inner flame and drew closer to it until it was bright and all consuming. All of my senses within and without had combined into a joy which was quite beyond sense. And that’s where we live, in that soulful dimension, where we will ever snuggle by our inner fire.

By evening they’d crossed the Rip Van Winkle bridge into Germantown, the trip completed in summer that had begun in spring. By nightfall they were home, trying to count the stars.

OUR CABIN

Come! I’ve built a forest cabin for us,

Away from the bustling cities and towns,

Where life’s best things are simple and free;

See! We have air, earth, tree, bird, and sky,

A well, a porch, a fireplace, and a stove,

And water, diverted from a fresh stream,

Clearly flowing into our spring-room

And out, where it laves our garden. Look!

We grow entwined like honeysuckle twins,

Close yet free—two spirits as one become,

Living and loving among the thickets

That shield and cool us in Heaven’s shade.

Each day pours life into our roots of love,

As flowers bloom and trade nectar kisses.

For such union a firefly shines its light,

And sparks the flames of a romantic night.

Summer Love

Back at the corporation after the holiday weekend, Peter noted the beginnings of a change in the atmosphere at work—the management was having second thoughts about scaring the employees with ranking and/or termination of the bottom ten percent and of the pushing of too many people into retirement. So many had retired, and morale had sunk so low among those who had stayed, that the company now had too few people—and they had been pushed too hard—for the company had let people go only to meet some nationwide corporate reduction objective, not realizing that headcount was always too low locally; but, now that the local division was its own business unit, perhaps an increase in headcount could be traded off against increased profit. But the management had severely damaged the company and the employees’ morale. Just saying that they were sorry wouldn’t be enough; compensation to employees and retribution toward management was necessary—so, heads rolled. The head of personal was fired, the CEO of the Company was sacked, and all the employees were given an 8% bonus and an extra month off, and, so, Peter was able to enjoy many carefree summer days, always taking them off on days of perfect weather, and working at the job only when it was too hot to go out.

After getting his work to a certain stable point, 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.

In the late afternoon there was tennis on the village courts. “Peter,” said Angelina, “our lovemaking is a lot like our tennis—it is at times very physical, like deep ground strokes.”

“Or even violent, like a crunching overhead!”

Peter answered “I love it that way.”

“Or as gentle and delicate as a touch volley or a deft drop shot.”

“That way, too.” They walked toward the tennis courts, knowing that the game was going to be as exciting as the lovemaking that would follow, for tennis was a sort of foreplay for love.

Peter opened a new can of balls.

“That’s a sweet sound, Peter,” Angelina said.

“Only the best for us.”

As she stood there, her sunny brown legs seemed to go on forever and thus drew attention to the place of their convergence. Her breasts peeked out and invited Peter’s glimpse.

Their tennis playing styles were very different. She was very steady and was quite comfortable hitting ground strokes from the baseline; he tended to close in to the net at every opportunity to volley her blistering shots. The contrast made for very interesting matches, as every point soon reached the stage of do or die.

The match began. Her serves came in flat and deep, making it hard to get his racket under them, so he just concentrated on getting them back. She immediately pinned him behind the baseline and moved the ball from side to side. They carefully watched the motion and direction of the other’s racket in order to get a clue as to where the next shot was going to land, and the spin, if any, on the ball. And so it went.

Sweat was dripping onto Peter’s lips, and during the odd-game break Angelina kissed it away.

“I love you and I love this day and I love this game,” said Peter. “I love you very much, and I love the feel of the sun on my skin and the feel of the ball on my racket.

“What’s the score?” he asked.

“Love-love,” she answered.

“How come we’re so crazy about hitting a fuzzy yellow ball over some netting with a bunch of string laced from catgut?”

“It’s some kind of drug—a wonderfully healthy drug.”

“As we are to each other.”

“Addict me please.”

“Wait until I get my hands on you when we get back.” Soon it got too dark to play and they headed back—hot, heated, and hepped up—to their sandstone farmhouse.

He helped her out of her clothes in the back yard as she lay on the picnic table, her chest still heaving with the exertion, the droplets of sweat running all over and between her breasts.

“I can see your heart beating,” said Peter.

“I can see your blood pumping,” she replied. She wrapped her thighs around him for long while. Then they entered a small pond and soothed their tired muscles—it was much like wearing a cool ice pack. They felt cool, refreshed, and sleepy. Finally, hunger called, and they lit the charcoal and cooked chicken and fish. They next drank wine and drifted along on its pleasantness.

“Do you have new balls?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Then rush to my net and send a stroke up my middle.”

“My pleasure.”

She twirled his racket handle and gave him a preview of the coming attractions. He tasted her again, returning the favor. He straddled her pomegranates, putting his strokes all over and around them and between them as she pressed on them from each side.

After volleying back and forth, his blood surging, he entered her court and they played mixed singles, then doubles, with tiebreakers, good calls, and angles from side to side. She touched him all around with her fingernails, especially the insides of his thighs, and he scratched her back, exciting her further. After five sets, they finished the exhilarating match with an orgasmic cheer and then lay happily exhausted in the arena of unending love.

The endless summer vacation continued, and they continued to work on their garden and their relationship. The corporation was just a memory now, with Peter enjoying a two month vacation with Angelina. 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. Angelina went straight for Peter’s vital area, without even a kiss beforehand—for a kiss was the most intimate act and had to be built up to—and enjoyed his fullness fully, unwanting to give it up even briefly.

Peter remarked, “I think I’ve caught a fish; it’s a lively one and it won’t let go!”

“We’ll see how much play there is in your pole,” she replied.

“I’m going swimming in you,” answered Peter.

“The water’s warm,” she encouraged, “and deep”. Peter dove head first into her underground pool, a lagoon fed by her boundless gushing spring of enthusiasm and passion, as she continued to feast on his bait, a lively serpent snaking its way all around. How they continued this magic, they never knew, but it never failed—it was the Holy Grail of sensuality and sexuality for Peter to be at the peak of excitement and still continually feel the utmost sensation without exploding, and, although practice helps to some degree, it was more than that—truly a magical enchantment that allowed the seemingly paradoxical state of infinite excitement to coexist with infinite duration.

He literally sizzled as he entered her on the lake shore, the waves coming up to lap their feet. Now she had grown from a fish into a mermaid, and he into an argonaut captivated by her song. Water was their element, everyone’s actually, since we are born in water. Now and then they would reach down and splash liquids all over their bodies. Finally they kissed—the apex of intimacy—and the kisses were fast and hard and wandered all over their lips in a frenzy of emotion out of control, these sentiments consuming the entire interval of twilight until the ardor became larger than both of them, swallowing them up with its immeasurable wealth. 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. Angelina was soon straddling Peter, hovering in the air above him, her knees and hands supporting her and settling into the hollows that she’d carved in the sand. Peter lay on his back, looking up at her and into the starry night, where endless fires burned. She was now the huntress reigning over her willing prey, and she lowered down on her elbows and brought her lips to within kissing distance, her ripeness brushing lightly against his chest. The kisses were full and moist, then playful, and finally, lingering. He harvested her bosoms as they hung in their fullness, like fruit, and she directed the lovemaking as quickly or as slowly as her passion desired. Angelina turned her head this way and that so Peter could kiss her ear to ear, as all the while her soft hair was brushing his cheeks. She soon reached down and released his love arrow from its confines as he massaged her buttocks, but he didn’t pull her down onto him, for this was her move and there was yet much magic to be enjoyed in that airy space of attraction between the sword and the scabbard. Peter reached under her to fan her quick sparks into flame, and, after some minutes of this, her lips became engorged and dripped hot rain down upon his manhood. Several times her body’s tensions were swept away in waves of well being. Balancing on one hand, she reached for his stiff wick to which she would pass her fire and there she found the seepage of love’s juices waiting to burst forth. She played it against her button of desire to set the final fuse aglow. Soon her pulsating well of flame devoured wick and wax, surrounding it with heat and comfort beyond belief. Finally, with a last surge of activity that both knew would take them beyond the point of no return, they allowed the sword and scabbard to taste the powder in the explosions of passion’s tremendous energies revealed. Still awash with waves of contentment, they pulled a blanket over them and drifted into the calm sleep that only lovers know.

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 monas- tery 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 ‘The Triumph of Love, Life, and Being—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 phe- nomenal 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 Austin Patrick, 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’ll tell you about some riches that I, too, could have had Once I had acres of gold, but I left it there,” answered Angelina. “I found a forest of original growth. What would it be like to stumble across lands that no one else had ever been to, and how could you know that? After reading Sir Conan Doyle’s ‘Lost World’ about dinosaurs on a sealed off plateau of a volcano, I wondered if there were any more undiscovered places.

“So, while at the Earth Summit in Rio last month, I forayed into the uncharted regions of Brazil, having chosen from a map the most desolate and remotest area. After various vaccinations and preparations, I trucked my one-man helicopter to the last way station, loaded the extra gas tanks onto it and flew into the heart of darkness, gliding down onto a field just as the gas ran out. From here I walked for tens of miles, always taking the most difficult path whenever there was a choice. This would insure that I could end up in some unvisited, hard-to-get-at region.

“After several hundred or so of these ‘improbable’ choices, I came across acres and acres of Lady’s Slippers flowers—very rare flowers that usually only appeared in small bunches, growing only in conjunction with a rare fungus, and, even, then, usually get picked.

“I then, after taking one last really difficult turn, discovered entire fields of flowers long though to be extinct. There were Eve’s Blossoms, not seen for thousands of years, historically valued for their life extending elixir, as well as the original, lost strain of Pearly Everlasting, the flower that never dies, and so I suspected that I might be in virgin territory. How would I know? Well, for one, there were no paths, for even animals and their hunters had either long left or had never been here. Also, the flower colors were not like any that I had ever seen before, not new colors, mind you, but, just, well, colors of different intensities and hues that were not thought to exist in nature. I saw true-blue roses, legendary no more.

“I had chanced upon a land of strange rainbows of elfin-hued flowers: Red Delphiniums, Black Tulips, Orange Fuchsias, White Marigolds, Bronze grass, Yellow Violets, and Adam’s Apple, now growing from the ground.

“Was this the original forest—the Garden of Eden? Was I the first to return? And then I knew that it was, for there, right in front of me, was a field of thousands of undisturbed golden nuggets on the forest floor. Surely no one had ever been here, at least not for a long, long time.

“I reached up and put Eden’s apple back on the tree.”

“That’s fabulous,” said Peter. “Some might even take it as an exaggeration, but I know that it’s true. 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.”

“Funny,” said Angelina. “Here’s one about a party attended by all the planets. The music of the spring was coming to us—we had heard its prelude from the airy musicians of the trees. Now the Music of the Spheres has been flung down by our Father, the Sky, through the spring air to our Mother, the Earth.

“A cross section of all the Earth’s peoples were represented in the season’s concert to the Merrie Monthe of Maie: There was Venusia, the Bringer of Peace, singing alongside Marsius, the Bringer of War. Flitting about was the wingèd messenger, Mercuria, melting all those who were touched by her burning desire. And mighty Jove was there, of course, full to the brim with the jollity of the fat man’s belly. By Jove, came Saturnus, gray with old age, along with Urania the magician and the old sea King, Nep, the mystic, with his dog, Pluto.

“Jove’s music was round and robust, and Saturnus’ orchestra filled the valley with sounds of grandeur—old venerable melodies, but Mercuria’s songs picked up the pace and moved so fast that we could hardly keep up. Next came the serene love songs of Venusia, followed inexorably by the martial marches of Marsius. Now was the time for Urania’s magic, and her tunes played musical jokes on the assemblage. Finally, all the music came to mesh, and all of our wanderers of the night floated away on the haunting mystical strains of King Nep’s tune.”

“Speaking of the only planet not playing in the orchestra, our dear Earth, I have another story,” said Peter, “about the three Heavenly things on earth. Whether by accident or by design, not many Heavenly things remain on Earth. I suggest just three: flowers, love, and dreams. A fourth, elfin creatures, is perhaps only a pleasant speculation on near-Heavenly beings that for some reason exist in the half-light scenes of our imagination.

“Had flowers never appeared on Earth, could anyone even have conceived of them? Or, say, if the natural world was all green or had no color (colors are seen mostly in the flowers) would there have been a need for us to be even cognizant of colors? More than anything else on earth, flowers have universal appeal, being picked, grown, presented, used for medications, and just plain admired as beautiful by everyone. Some think that flowers were God’s going away gift to Eve as she departed the Garden of Eden, as shown in my poem ‘Flora Symbolica’.

“The second Heavenly thing on Earth, night-dreams during sleep, shows that we really don’t need eyes to see, an amazing insight in itself. Actually, all reality takes place in the mind’s eye—it just looks like it’s out there. Dreams, whatever their ultimate purpose, provide an all night cable TV channel on which we can put on almost any show that we chose—or we can just simply lay back and discover what’s on our mind, if we can read past the static.

“Finally, love, which is perhaps the greatest of the Heavenly things on Earth since it is the greatest feeling on Earth. Would life even be worth living without affection, romance, passion, and loving? I wonder. And is there any excuse not to seek it out?

“Though many other Heavenly things were perhaps removed from the Earth when we were cast out of the Garden, love, dreams, and flowers were allowed to remain—lent by us forever seemingly from some other dimension.”

“I’ll tell you what I think of love, the greatest of all heavenly 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. 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 was 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.”

“Did the universe always exist or was it created?” asked Angelina.

“Well, either alternative seems impossible, doesn’t it, for how could something exist without having come into existence, and alternatively, how could something be created from nothing? Yet, one impossible state or the other must be true, for we are here, are we not—and that’s why I’m dwelling on this point before answering the question—because knowing that either way we must answer the ‘impossible’ will help us to be more resourceful and persevering in our solution. I shall show that one of the states is true, and offer proofs to make it plausible: The universe did not always exist because, for one, it is expanding—clusters of galaxies are all seen to be moving away from one another at very high rates of speed, and this, if we run the ‘film’ backward, points to a time when the universe was very dense and small, that is, when it was a so-called singularity; and so this was the time when the universe came into existence, perhaps from a nothing that separated into its positive and negative aspects. Of course, before this there still may have been some potential for a universe. Secondly, if the universe had always existed, then all the stars in it would have burned down to a cinder by now, since they continually expend energy, but, of course, they haven’t. Our sun has been shown to be about 5 billion years old, and the oldest objects in the universe shown to be about 14 billion years old. Third, if something had always existed, one would still reason that it had to come from someplace, but this third reason, of course, is more of a warm feeling than a firm argument, but it is bolstered by reasons one and two.”

“Perhaps the universe didn’t always exist, but its creator did? I am just playing the Devil’s advocate here, ironically, for God’s sake.”

“Same problem, only you’ve just made it larger. You have merely begged the question—and by doing so you have created an even larger problem.”

“OK, I’ll grant that for now. So, if the universe was indeed created, then what was it created from, since it nor anything else had always existed? Was the universe created from nothing?”

“Yes, amazingly, the universe was created from nothing. The universe that we now know was borrowed from the vacuum, a debt that will someday have to be paid—and the universe will then just pop out of existence. There are positive and negative energies which we know can appear from nothing, which later recombine back into nothing. Thus, either positive or negative energy, if separated long enough and far enough from its opposite, could form a universe. As we know, mass can be transformed into energy and vice versa. Energy = mass times the speed of light squared.”

“Have these pluses and minuses that appear from nothing ever been observed?”

“Yes, in physics observations, a ‘plus’ and a ‘minus’ particle pair have been observed to appear simultaneously from nothing, but, after living for but an extremely short time, they recombine back into nothing.”

“Why is this so?”

“It is just the way things are, fundamentally, and if they weren’t this way then I suppose that the universe wouldn’t be able to exist.”

“What about before the creation?”

“There was no ‘before’. In the beginning, not only was energy-matter created, but time and space were created as well, which, together, as you know, form space-time.”

“Yes, no one denies the proved laws of relativity and their space-time implications. So, you’re saying that not only did the universe come from nothing, but that time came from nowhen, and that space came from noplace.”

“Yes, those are good words. The universe did not expand into space, but space itself expanded after it was created in the big bang. Galactic clusters are not so much moving apart as the space between them is expanding, like a balloon being blown up with stars drawn on it.”

“Well, OK, but what are the positive and negative aspects of our universe?”

“Well, for example, gravity is a negative energy since it takes a positive force to keep objects from being drawn toward each other. Positive energy is embodied in matter. Someday, in billions or trillions of years from now, gravity could slow down the expanding universe, eventually bringing the expansion to a halt, and then cause the universe to contract back into nothing—then poof! it’s all gone. Or it could just disperse away and grow lifeless and cold.”

“Just like when a black hole draws matter into noplace.”

“Yes! Only it’s a very close thing, according to calculations, whether or not the universe will go on expanding forever or contract—the pluses and minuses seem to be very closely balanced, although many are unaccounted for.”

“It would be close to 50-50 if your theory is correct. But, back in the first place, how did the positive energy gain preponderance over the negative energy? Why didn’t it just all cancel out right then and there?”

“Well, actually, most of it did, but for some reason there was a slight imbalance: for every billion ‘minuses’, a billion and one ‘pluses’ were created. Thus, from this excess our positive universe was created. We’ve encountered no antimatter yet, although it could be out there somewhere.”

“Or some could be in the form of gravity.”

“True.”

“But don’t these extra billion and oneth plus-type energies some- how violate Nature’s balance sheet?”

“Indeed they do, and again, Nature’s accounts have to be settled someday.”

“How?”

“Well, it’s been theorized, although not yet proved, that protons will decay into positrons, after something like 2**30 years.”

“And positrons are the antiparticles of electrons?”

“Yes, or one could be considered as the hole left by the absence of the other. And if they meet—”

“—Nothing remains. But does the universe contain equal numbers of protons and electrons. Oh, wait, of course it does—the atomic number of every element gives the number of electrons and protons in an atom. For every proton in the universe there is a an electron. That’s neat!”

“So, eventually, one way or the other, the entire universe will crumble away into nothing—and run out of space, time, and energy and/or existence.”

“From nothing we were created and back to nothing we shall return, like dust-to-dust on a universal scale, although, of course, the ‘dust’ is nothing but the way things are.”

“The Bible was indeed close when it claimed that the Creator created itself from nothing—although the Bible was not close when it said that the Creator always was and ever shall be.”

“So there is no conscious creative deity that created the universe.”

“No, nothing existed before the big bang.”

“How did the big bang start? Spontaneously.”

“Apparently. Something small began and with it space expanded to huge proportions, relatively speaking, since nothing is huge or small in a complete vacuum where there is nothing else to compare it to. Perhaps there were many such happenings, many of which failed, which is likely since there are many more ways to have disorder than to have order.”

“So, it’s not really so remarkable that we’re here, albeit though that life and Earth are still quite wonderful and complex?”

“Right, if the conditions weren’t right for our existence, then we wouldn’t be here talking about it. So, since we are here talking about it, then the conditions must have been perfect—just the right mix and balance of physical principles for energy, matter, and productive interactions.”

“Like, as on a simple scale, when some flowers thrive in the right mix of sun, shade, and moisture. Or why microbes only live in the puddles that didn’t dry up.”

“You’re a good person to debate with—you’re open to possibilities other than those that you might have been inclined to believe in.”

“Well, yes, because all I had to go on before was faith, legends, and the religious beliefs engendered by man’s hopes and dreams of an afterlife, and so forth. And, of course I’m open—I’m your alter ego, aren’t I.”

“Of course, I often talk to myself.”

“Here’s another story for you, Angelina, about the pursuit of a woman.”

“Should I be jealous, Peter?”

“No, as you will see.”

“Good.”

“For years, I pursued that lovely Greco-Roman woman called Mer- curia; I had yearned for her until I could stand it no longer. Once, just the sight of her would have pleased me; but now, at whatever cost, I had to taste her fiery passions. At whatever risk, I plotted her every move. When the time was right, I knew I’d be there; it would be just me and her, while the world slept. The problem is that she was a very fast woman and was very difficult to even sight, much less catch. And one could only have her for but a little while. Before dawn, if I tried to linger with her too long, then we would soon be consumed by the rising fire. After twilight, we would soon become lost in the darkness. Yes, I courted her many times, but she was so elusive.

“Once I waited for her just before nightfall. All was perfect. There was the calm of sunset, then the brief brooding of twilight, and the beginnings of a slow sultry night. And there I waited for the western clouds to disappear—but they never did—and so I missed her again!

“The challenge was that she never strayed very far away from her fiery lover. Even when I thought that I might have glimpsed her (I wasn’t sure), she was soon dragged away by the gravity of her paramour and continued to whirl about him. However, I was quite determined. Indeed, it was the thrill of the quest that kept me going. I decided to surprise her just before dawn; I crept up onto the frosty roof, almost slipping off several times, and waited for a clear view. Damn! I only saw banks of dense clouds forming and boiling along and blocking my view of her beauty. But, suddenly the clouds cleared, and she was mine at last, coming over the eastern horizon about 45 minutes ahead of the sun—the planet Mercury—my dear Mercuria. Well, I stayed with her as long as possible, naked in the night, until finally, she went to blazes when the sun rose; however, my dear memories remained—I had sighted the small planet closest to the sun for a few precious moments and now she belonged to me forever.

“Now, Urania? Where are you?”

“Passionate,” remarked Angelina. “Did you know that a tenth planet has been discovered, and it is not just a little rock, a planetoid?”

“No, I didn’t,” answered Peter. “Can you tell me about it.”

“Certainly. The nine existing planets and their order from the Sun are remembered via the memory crutch, ‘MVEMJSUNP’—the first letters of the names of the planets. This crutch is often provided as a puzzle, with ‘SUN’ the only clue given or as “My Very Extra-special Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas”. Actually, Pluto is now closer to the Sun than Neptune and will be for the next 10 years or so. This is due to Pluto’s irregular orbit. So, for the time being, Neptune is the ninth planet. But, no matter, we’re interested in the tenth planet.

“For many years, scientists have been searching for the tenth planet without much success. We have had theories, hoaxes, ghosts, but no actual tenth planet has permanently appeared. Well, I have definite proof that the tenth planet exists, and furthermore, I know exactly where it is! But, before I tell you, let’s review some previous attempts to identify the tenth planet.

“Some decades ago a tenth planet was ‘spotted’ very close to the Sun and ‘existed’ for five days. It was even ‘seen’ by more than one person. But, alas, the world was fooled for five days as imaginations ran wild. This planet was named Vulcan. It still exists in the world of ‘Star Trek’. Another popular supposition of the time was that a planet, also called Vulcan, existed in the same orbit as the planet Earth, but 180 degrees away from us—thus placing it always behind the Sun and therefore impossible to see. But this was not to be either and was easily disproved. It also was the theme of a movie, ‘Journey to the Far Side of the Sun.’

“What about all the asteroids in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter? Well, they are not considered planets, but perhaps, and probably, a tenth planet did exist there in that unstable orbit where we find the majority of these planetoids. However, there’s no planet there now, so we are still searching for the tenth planet. Nice try though.

“Some modern scientists claim that the orbit of Pluto seems to be perturbed by the effects of a possible tenth planet way out there someplace. Perhaps it is a black hole. Well, this may or may not be true, but if it’s true then it is the eleventh planet because I have already located the tenth planet for a certainty. The tenth planet does, in fact, follow an orbit very similar to that of the Earth. Had this tenth planet been a little larger and retained its atmosphere we might have had another Night like planet nearby. Now, what and where is the tenth planet?

“Here is the startling, but true, answer. The tenth planet exists right under our very nose. It is our moon! But, wait a minute, you say, the moon is captured by the Earth just like any other moon in the solar system is. But no, our moon is unique in the solar system in that it is not captured by a planet. It is captured by the Sun! The Earth and the moon form a double planet system that revolves about a common point, which happens to be inside of the Earth (but is nowhere near the center of the Earth). The moon’s orbit is everywhere concave to the sun; that is, the moon, at every instant during its orbit around the Earth, is falling towards the sun. Never does the moon fall away from the Sun as do true moons such as those of Jupiter and Saturn. This is because the Sun attracts our moon about twice as strongly as the Earth does. All the other solar system satellites, without exception, fall away from the Sun through part of their orbit, caught as they are by the superior pull of their primary—but not our ‘moon’. Our moon is a planet—the tenth planet.

“Using the formula f=(g*m1*m2)/d**2 to figure out the gravitational attraction of the Sun versus that of the Earth on the Moon provides the mathematical proof of the discovery of our moon as the tenth planet.”

“Amazing,” remarked Peter. “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 which was always shining, and so it was only a matter of time, I suppose, before all the underground springs evaporated. But, these types of planetary events were still measured in years, if not decades, and there was perhaps no immediate danger in our lifetime, although life here was certainly becoming more difficult; hence the already great exodus of those who could afford to leave.

There was never any darkness in this land where the sun always shone, not even inside the caves, for the phosphorous in the walls and the ground gave off a constant luminosity. This phosphorescent light had been hard to get used to, at first, although Serena had no problem, having been born here—she even had the natural ability to sleep with her eyes open.

It was the hottest part of the week now, the time when the two largest of the three suns shone at once, there being such an overlap as this often for days at a time, and so we often had to retreat to the ‘cool dampness’ of our cave—our home in this primitive world. And even when there was but one sun in the sky, it was still quite unpleasant to be outside, for it was always hot, and bright, too, for the suns, all of them, were large, and one could not easily look up into the sky near any one of them.

As I said, the cave was lit by the radiant glow of the walls. No real blackness anywhere. Our lunch was boiled brown vegetation, the only cuisine available, however, when one is hungry, one is thankful for anything at all. No gourmet food here.

Serena had never known darkness, and, indeed, there wasn’t even a word in her language which meant anything close to ‘dark’, ‘night’, or even ‘black’; however, I’d been able to convey the concept by using the absence of light as an analogy. Of course she still had trouble grasping the idea of “that which could never be”. I suppose it was like asking someone to visualize a color that one had never seen.

Naturally, I tried covering her eyes to simulate darkness (since she couldn’t close them), but, she still reported a yellowish color, and later, upon inspecting her eyes, I noted that they gave off a cat’s eye type of glow—just like every damn phosphorous rock on this planet. Even the sand shone like gleaming yellow snowflakes. Ironically, this was what had brought me scouting here in the first place—the prospect of mining that rare yellow light that made fireflies glow and caused those struck matches of old to light up, for the Earth’s supplies had long since run out.

This ever present light was, at first, psychologically disturbing, but, I’d learned to live with it, first by sleeping with a band of cloth wrapped around my eyes, although, gradually, I lost all track of time and just slept whenever I got tired.

I also had to be careful not to come into any rough contact with the phosphorous rocks in the cave walls, lest they should burst into flame. Yes, it was a rather precarious existence, though a livable one, but, alas, I could never go home again, for the Earth had been destroyed by a giant comet, one of the Perseids, the shower whose many precursions had given us the wonderful meteor shows of that name. I turned to Serena and spoke to her about it, having been unable to deal with it until now, and because she had only recently gained the scientific knowledge to be able to understand solar system concepts.

“I was one of the lucky ones, Serena, for I was already out in space, just recently launched, in fact, when the disaster hit my home planet, Earth. You cannot know the shudder that went through me when I realized that all that I had loved was gone, that all that it was or could be, all that had formed me, given rise to me, was gone forever. My Earth was the most priceless work of art the universe had ever known.

This rock on which we now live is not even Earth’s pale shadow—at least we do have pale shadows on your planet, though they are hardly noticeable. At first, when I saw Earth’s fireball, I thought that I had seen a shooting star, but then, noting the origin and size of the spectacular explosion, I was overcome by a horrid feeling—one that was chill and sickly like any I’d never known—that it was indeed the Earth that had left us. I could do nothing but continue on, for the Earth had no equal in our solar system. Oh, we had long ago searched the the whole galaxy in vain for such a paradise, but the Earth had remained unmatched.”

Serena thought for awhile, having only recently grasped the idea of a universe filled with worlds, she never even having seen stars in this land in which a night had never fallen. But, again I was fortunate in that she had an open and intellectual mind; so, during our recent studies I had been able to take her thoughts and her mind across many centuries of learning and knowledge, sequentially educating her, step by step, using small and primitive learning blocks until reaching some rather complex theories. She was now able to understand such concepts as solar systems, space travel, physics, biology, and many unseen wonders like oceans, rivers and lakes, which, though quite impossible on her planet, were at least conceivable to her, since she had often seen water bubbling up from the hot springs—which, by the way, were apparently the limited and unrenewable source of both water and oxygen on this planet.

Finally, she spoke, after allowing the cloud of sadness to pass from my brow, for she was emotionally very capable, “Peter, you lost everything that day—you are a man without a world. How many people died? How many survived?”

“Trillions died—that is a number you don’t have here, but take your ‘deca’ and multiply it by itself for ‘deca’ number of times and you will be close to knowing what a trillion is. None on the ground survived.”

“A trillion is like the number of grains of sand in the desert outside our door,” she answered.

“Yes, Serena! I might of said that in the first place but I suppose I’ve been too much of a scientist lately. As for how many survived, I’m sure that’s only in the thousands—perhaps eventually only in the hundreds, since many Earth outposts were contained within domes on uninhabitable moons and asteroids and were quite dependent on the Earth in the long run for their survival.”

“I understand more and more everyday,” she answered, for she was now quite proud and even happy with all the ongoing revelations. “When you first fell from the sky I thought you a god, but now that you explain everything I see that it all makes sense, and what once seemed magical and clever to me is now all laid bare before my eyes as something entirely reasonable.”

She spoke mostly in English now, there not being enough words in her native tongue to suffice, but, of course, when discussing particulars known only to her world we had to use her language, which, for example, had hundreds of different words for all the various kinds of light and heat, although none for weather, since it never rained or even got cold; and, as I have mentioned, there were certainly no words for night, blackness, stars, or for other worlds.

She continued, “We have been together several years now, and still I awake each morning eager to learn of new mysteries. Is there no end to knowledge?”

“Oh,” I replied, “where I come from there is truly no end, but one cannot possibly know everything, so one ends up finding out things only as they are required. Oh, the wonders I could have showed you on Earth: the colors, the mountains, the forest, the meadows, the scents, the tastes, the inventions. I’m sorry that I don’t have any books with me or even something so amazing as a mirror to show you.”

“A mirror?”

“Yes, you can see yourself in it.”

“See myself? See another me? I cannot.”

“Yes, it’s like a reflection in the water—oh, I forgot—there is no standing water here, and damn, I don’t even have a shiny belt buckle to use to show you the effect, and all the glass in my spaceship is non reflective. Anyway, yes, you could see yourself just as others see you.”

“From the outside of me? I sort of understand but I cannot quite imagine.”

“When mirrors first appeared on Earth in the form of polished metal, people thought them magical, and even in modern times one could watch with wonder the amazement of babies or small kittens, who, though they both quickly got used to it, but thinking at first that they’d seen another of their species.”

“Kittens? Cat?”

“Small furry animals. Domesticated—meaning tame or not wild.”

“Animals? Wild?”

“They are other forms of life, some with four legs,” I explained, ever so patiently, for there were no animals on her planet. It was in this way that we often got nowhere fast with words, but then, all of a sudden progressed with great leaps and bounds, especially with material ideas; however, abstract concepts took longer, and concepts like darkness were still pretty much incomprehensible to her.

“We had animals in the old days,” she said; “there are drawings on some of the cave walls of such as you speak. They are all gone now, like your Earth. You seem so sad when you speak of Earth. It must have been wonderful. What do you miss the most?”

I thought for awhile, thinking of the scorched surface outside our cave. “What I miss the most is not the darkness, for I can simulate that here when I sleep, and not love, for I surely have that now with you, and not the cold, for I never liked it, nor life, for I am happy to have it here, if nothing more; but, what I miss most, if I had to say some particular thing, is the color green, for green is a color which does not seem to exist on your planet, the hue that is the soothing and lush life-giving restful green of Earth. It was said the be the sanest color, evoking serenity, as in your name.”

“What is the color green?” she inquired. “I know the blue sky, the golden suns, the tan rocks, the brown leaves and the brown vegetation, the pink of your hidden parts, the red of our blood and of your hair, the orange flashes of fire, the darker brown of trees that almost suggests the strange black color that you speak of, the gray shadows, and the yellow of phosphorous, but I have never known there to be a color called green. What is green?”

“I wish I could show you, Serena, but there is no green on your planet, not even a tint or a shade of it. On Earth, the leaves and the vegetation are all green, but here, the same are all born brown, even in the shadows of caves. Some people on Earth have green eyes even, but, alas, mine are brown, and there is no other body part which is green. Although nothing much else on Earth is green but the vegetation, green has, even more than the blue of sky and ocean, come to be regarded as the sweetest color on Earth, for it represents all that is living and supportive of life. It is very calming and serene, like you, and therefore many people use it as the color of their carpeting. Many of the other colors have drawbacks or specific uses: Red, for example means danger, blood, but having red tablecloths in eating places makes people hungrier and so they order more food; pink is debilitating, and so many of the game playing sports teams painted the visitor’s locker rooms in that hue; blue is energizing and is often used in working places; yellow is bright and cheerful, the sun’s color, and is often used in cooking rooms called kitchens, although yellow can also mean caution, danger, even, especially with black, as on stinging insects called bees; purple is used for mourning death or for the regal Kings and Queens, the rulers; our brown, like all around here, is actually the most popular non primary color and is not, therefore, even in the spectrum, for it is made up of red and yellow (orange) and black.”

“But,” she persisted, “what is green like? If you can’t tell me what it is, then maybe you can say what it is like, or perhaps you can say what it is not like.”

“Either way that’s hard to say, for green is a unitary hue, and also primary, and, so being, means that there is nothing like it, no overlap; although if I had to say so, I think green is more like blue than any other color, but I only say that because green is a cool and soothing color like blue, and not a fiery color like red, orange, or yellow. But, I should tell you that blue is certainly not green, nor is green blue. If I myself had not known green then I doubt that I could have conceived of its existence.”

“That is fine philosophy,” she said, “ but it does not tell me much about the color green. Have you any green clothes?”

“I do, or I did, but they’re not with me—not even the slightest thread, for I’ve already examined all my clothes and space suits. It’s not that I don’t like to wear the color green, although it is seldom worn on Earth, except on St. Patrick’s Day—I guess there was already so much green on Earth that we all came to prefer more of a contrast. And my spaceship, it’s all metallic skin and fiber optic conduit—there’s no green anywhere in it or on it.”

“Peter, I really wish that I could know green.”

“Too bad there are no rainbows here or waterfalls.”

“Rainbows?”

“Caused by water vapor