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

[austintorn@aol.com]

(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 in the sky, called rain, or fog or moisture that divides white light into the colors that join to form it.”

“Waterfalls? Falling water?”

“There are none to be found here—the rivers dried up long ago, leaving only those ruts in the ground that I sometimes call canals. I really miss green, though—it is somehow a part of me, but let’s not give up on it so easily, Serena.”

We ventured outside the cave to begin a search for green, there being only one sun up now, although it was still a scorching 130 degrees outside. We lifted some rocks, finding various insects thereunder, but they were either brown, gray, drab, or colorless. I next peeled back some bark from a tree, hoping for some inner tint of mossy green, but it was only tan. I pulled up a plant and tore open a leaf, but had no luck with that either—evidently chlorophyll played no role on this planet. Next we cracked open a rock but found not the fabled color. This planet was indeed a greenless world.

“I guess green is not necessary for life here,” she said.

“I guess not. This reminds me of the time I read a book which did not use the letter ‘e’, the most frequent letter in our alphabet. I didn’t even notice it at first, although I had a vague feeling that something wasn’t quite right.”

Even though I was now very tan, I didn’t dare stay out in the sun too long, so we gave up our green search for today and headed back to the cave.

“I wish I had some ice,” I said.

“Ice?”

“Solid water—hard as a rock, but so refreshingly cold.”

“Make me some ice, Peter.”

“That I can never do in this climate. It never gets cold enough.”

“What is cold?”

“It’s hard to explain if you’ve never felt it, but it’s sort of like how the underside of a rock does not burn your hand because it’s cooler than the top; only ‘cold’ means much much more cooler.”

“I know not this thing called cold,” she replied.

I looked fondly at Serena as we walked back to our eternal cave.

Her skin was a very deep bronze, all over, for she always went naked. She had blonde hair, but no other body hair (since her race had never known cold, I guess). Her hands and feet were wide and leathery, with six toes and six long slender fingers. She had no real eye lids to speak of, or eyebrows, but otherwise had all the other humanoid features and anatomy—she was a human first cousin, perhaps. She was completely vegetarian by necessity. She had not a violent thought in her head, having, I suppose, no natural enemies to fear.

For dinner we gathered some brown leaves, which evidently contained all the nutrients that we needed, since we were still healthy, and then retired for the day.

“What else do you miss from your Earth?” she asked as we lay together.

“Well, at night, for this is night to me now, I miss the stars—those suns of other worlds that I told you about, the stars that shine across the blackness of space, for they are far away and thus appear very small.”

“You mean that the space between the stars is black? At least I think I know what black might be. And the suns are not bright and blinding since they are so far away?”

“Yes, but we will never see the stars here—and how I miss them all, that night sky full of lights. I used to look up at it as a boy and dream of going to the stars. Then the transwarp drive was invented and my dreams took wing.”

“What do stars look like exactly, at night?”

“They are very small, just points of light really, but they twinkle like jewels, such as diamonds and sapphires, and some stars are even emerald green—like the close star companion of Sirius!”

“Jewels? Diamonds? Emerald? GREEN!”

“Jewels are stones that give off light in colorful gleams and sparkles, like when you cover your eyes after seeing a bright light, or like the gleaming sands outside.”

“I see them in my mind. Are there a lot of stars?”

“Trillions—so many that some areas of the night sky appear as cloudy white patches.”

“I wish that I could see stars, Peter.”

“There are so many things that you’ll never see! If only I’d brought some photos of Earth with me!”

“Photos?”

“Yes, they are like permanent mirrors.”

“I could see Earth and yet not be there?”

“Yes, and it would look about the same. We even have three-dimensional holographic pictures”

“Oh, that there are such wonders!” As I fell asleep in her embrace, I had some dreams of Earth—at least I could still go there in my sleep. Oh, how often had I taken Earth for granted, not appreciated it when it was there; I even left it time after time to go off into the cold and colorless void. I tried to forget it, but I could not. Well, at least I was alive in this strange sort of Eden. Anyway, life was life, and more and more I realized that I didn’t really need anything fancy from life, except love, of course. Yes, love was enough—and it is reason for all that we do.

Well, my spacecraft was still in working order, but was there any place out there left for me to go? Was there any life still out there? Or had it all withered away by now for lack of support? There were plenty of borderline class-K planetoids around like this one, but, unfortunately, none of them were anything like Earth for a long ways in every direction. Perhaps I could head in some chance direction, running out of fuel, of course, but coast at a high speed for years—no, it was too risky—my ship was only of the intersolar type and was not meant for distant star travel. I could, though, return to the main mining base, an artificial world built on an asteroid; but, no good, for it too was a world with an uncertain future, a world even more sterile than Serena’s planet. No, my life was here now. Anyway, all the greener worlds had nasty diseases and organisms against which I could never be immunized.

Yet another of those endless overly tropical days dawned, but only in my mind, for the sun never rose or set without another sun already in the sky before it. No dawn, no dusk, no half light. I had brown leaves for breakfast again! Talk about the simple life! I was becoming a modern day Thoreau.

“Tell me again about the mysterious colors of black and green,” she asked.

“Black is easier to tell of, so let’s start with it,” I answered. “Black is the absence of all color and so it is the opposite of white, which, amazingly, is the sum of all colors, although white reveals not a one of them, except through a prism. Since your life is based on phosphorous, you see a dim yellow even as a background color when you shield your eyes. But when I close my eyes I see a black background.”

“I can’t think what would be there if not for the yellow glow.”

“I’m afraid I’m not doing a good job of explaining.”

“Try harder,” she encouraged.

Then it hit me! “What a fool I’ve been,” I said. “I have an old-fashioned ink pen somewhere in my spaceship, one that writes in black on something old called paper!” At once I retrieved it, and the pen still worked as I ran it along my skin. “That is the color of night, my dear. This is black. See how dark it is.”

“I see now,” she said. “It is as I thought. It is the limit reached by the removal of all light, the color hinted at by shade and shadow, the color just past brown, at least for me—a lack of color really, like you said; but I still do not understand what is green. Do you have any green ink?”

“No, people don’t usually write with green ink. Red ink, yes.” I quickly ran outside and went through my spaceship with a fine-toothed comb. The ship was all white and metal gray; there was not a shade of green to be found anywhere on it or in it. The seats were simulated leather and all the electronic readouts were orange on blue. All the supply kits were yellow with the insignia of the mining company. I had trouble even finding anything blue on the ship.”

“We’re a long way from Ireland,” I said, exasperated.

“Ireland?”

“It’s a country on Earth known for its forty shades of green.”

“I wish that I could see Ireland, Peter.”

“None will ever see it again except in memory, although I came from there, for my middle name is Patrick.”

“Can you not make me the color green somehow?” The question struck me dumb, for it was really a very good question as asked.

“Wait a minute,” I said. Green is made from mixing blue and yellow—but, unfortunately I don’t have any paints or such mixing materials, although I do have a bluish-black pen, but of course not a yellow one, for who would write with yellow ink.”

“Worse than writing with green,” she added, smiling, catching on.

“Yes, writing with yellow ink is silly—but yet, there must be some way to produce green. Serena, can you logically mix blue and yellow in your mind and then imagine the result? No, forget it, that doesn’t make much sense, for yellow and blue give no hint of the resultant green like, say, the way yellow and red readily hint of the resultant orange.”

We sat silently for while, stumped, the heat growing stronger all the while. She looked down at the ground, disappointed. I, too, looked glum for a time. Neither of us spoke. We saw nothing but yellow phosphorous and yellow sand gleaming even more golden in the light of the twin suns—there was yellow everywhere we looked—hot warm glowing yellow and more yellow until it had fully saturated the eyes and the mind.

Then I noted a flash of inspiration on her face. She smiled and suddenly looked straight up into the bright blue sky, as none had ever dared to, then covered her eyes and screamed with delight. “I see green, Peter!” she cried. “I see it. It’s green!”

I quickly did the same as she, and, yes, the mixing of the blue sky with the yellow afterimage of the phosphorous ground had produced a clear and vivid green. She had, at last, seen the verdant color of Earth

“The Earth is very precious, Peter, as you have demonstrated.”


It took from morning until midday for Peter and Angelina to climb down from the hidden mountain lake, the breezes governing them as they gently flew down the slope through the alpine fields of heather and returned to the village.

“We have joy and happiness, a double treasure,” said Angelina, “happiness being our wealth of contentment.”

“That’s a good definition,” answered Peter, “for happiness is defined as the state of being content with what you have.”

“And of reveling in the moment.”

“That’s what we have right now.”

“And appreciating our very existence and love.”

“And our good health. All with gratitude.”

“And every other good, stable, and smooth thing that the brain ordinarily filters out when the scene is unchanging.”

“Unchangingly wonderful. But you’re right—the brain, allowed to go its own way, due to the old fight or flight response, usually only takes note of what’s changing, hurting, or bad.”

“But we don’t let that happen.”

“No, we have gratitude and appreciation for all that we give to each other—and we’re thankful for life and for all of our senses.”

“Sight, for example, is a fantastic sense—it brings the world to us.”

“See me, touch me, smell me.”

“Hear my words of ‘I love you’.”

“Happiness is in the present life, not in some remote and idealized or romanticized life.”

“The ideal life is within the real life, not beyond it.”

“Wealth lies in knowing what blessings you have.”

“Yes, and not in what you think that you should have, or in what you want but really shouldn’t have.”

Reaching town, Peter and Angelina sat down to brunch at an outdoor cafe, Angelina having quiche and Peter having chicken and shrimp over linguini.

This was one of many long hot summers spent in the cool sandstone farmhouse that sheltered them in the dark shade of the pines which also served to block the wind in the winter. And so it was that several years passed for Peter and Angelina during which they continued to build on their relationship, always keeping it new and interesting.

We rejoin them many summers later, at about the same time of year that we left them.

One day Peter arrived at their farmhouse and found a boat in their bed—and Angelina sitting in the boat.

“What’s that?” asked Peter.

“A two person inflatable boat with oars.” she answered.

“Well, I guess I could have known that—I am surprised.”

“It’s so we can float down the creek and row though the ponds and on toward the town lake and beach.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Exciting and serene at the same time.” It was a small boat and they fit snugly into it, sitting face to face, their legs crossing and barely allowing the oars to pass over, however, the relaxing sensations from floating made up for any small inconveniences of comfort as they rowed forth from the town dock, where an old fisherman looked at them and thereby remembered his youth. Sometimes they’d use the oars but often they’d just float on the river tide that pushed up the inlet. Boating was like the weightless feeling that comes just after making love, that effortless gliding in the aura of spirituality and sensuality.

They found a creek feeding the inlet and drifted up it amidst jungle like bird cries and imaginary alligators. Later they crossed the channel to a nature sanctuary and disembarked there into the woods for kisses and privacies which were never chronicled in their journals, for this was neverland—and therein the adventures remained—but, we can surely imagine it, by now.

“We’ve been together many years now, Peter—Happy Anniversary.”

“Thanks—we’ve done well.”

“We’ve always kept our relationship new.”

“And always kept it full of new adventures, like the boat.”

“We still focus on the good things, even the littlest things, whereas later on in their relationships some couples only focus in on the bad, especially the little trivial things.”

“We’ve never said anything to each other that couldn’t be said on a honeymoon.”

“And so our liaison has been one continuing honeymoon.”


They walked along the shore of the river. A breeze wandered by and played around with them, for it actually was a spirit, the Spirit of the Earth, about to reveal itself. The breeze swirled all around and caressed them, and a mist came off of the water and enveloped them in its fog, wetting them as it touched them all over with a fine droplet spray. The sun’s warmth vibrated on their skin and they laid on the ground, snuggling onto the sand as the earth held them dear in its embrace. Soon the breeze, mist, heat, and earth coalesced into a spirit which spoke to them.

“I am the Spirit of the Earth,” it said. “I will tell you the story of creation. In the beginning, before the great Void was knowable, Darkness stole most of Forever, and nothing was. All might have very well stayed this way, but, inborn in the Universe-to-be was a spirit of Potential. Soon there was a silent ripple and a quiet rumble as Plus and Minus came forth from nothing and then separated, each being the opposite aspect of that which was one and the same. Therefore, everything still added up to a total zero, and would become as such again if Plus and Minus were ever to recombine. Plus went one way and Minus went another, and therefore the positive Universe was born; but, again, from nothing it came and to nothing it would someday have to amount.

“So, all became stable, and, at last, after many small eternities, the faint spirit of hope arrived from beyond the dim shadow of a dream: A potent spirit had come forth from the energy and echoed in the unbounded emptiness of the Void. I am that spirit. Many things then began to happen. As Nature’s undying flame, I lit up the Darkness with my Fire, sparking all that which must come into existence to embody my spirit. So it was that all around me was created the World.

“In the World I remained entombed, but alive—forever giving life from within, for I warm this Earth as its ever vibrant and beating heart. I pumped heat into the cold oceans as my lava coursed wildly through sub earthly veins to reach the icy formless wastelands above. Then I spewed my hot breath to form the sea mountains into islands, which grew so high that moisture froze atop their crests, which then eventually melted and became my spirit sister, Water.

“Down the mountainside, as water droplets, she dreapt and flowed ever downward to join with many others who would lave the barren soil with love and nourishment. Some soil she carried away to new places, meanwhile widening herself into creeks and streams and then into streams whose banks she kept forever moist. Soon her brother, the Air, came to drink of her vapors, and carried the spirit afar. And wherever the air was wafted, flowers bloomed.

“Yes, it was here in my mountain mass and stream where Life first bred; here it was where my wind moved the air on which birds flew and carried the song of my spirit through the trees which then whispered it along to man’s ear and thence to his heart and mind wherein he sang it as a song to the beauty of Life and Love.

“And that Song was as sure and sweet as the breath of my fresh spirit which blew life into man, who, with all of my creations, came to drink of my stream. Then and there it was that Man came to understand Nature’s spiritual tone as it resonated and played rhythm to life through the din of survival and war, through the noise of consciousness, through sickness and the strife; through goodness, delight, and everlasting joy.

“But throughout it all I remained—and still and forevermore I cool the glade while my water flows lovingly astride the flower petals wherefore I evaporate and join with the air to be carried afar, even to deserts, where on the morning sand as dew I give drink to the thirsty spider. Elsewhere I wet the shores of Earth and cool the land with my breeze. There it was that you two as a poet and an artist found me lonely and ignored, and so captured my spirit into these words so that all of your readers might taste of my soul and pillow life’s weariness in one of my many sweet spots.

“Then so it is that my Love triumphs over all as I envelop you in this dream of a world that is ours. I collect your heart back to mine, for I am your beginning and your end. Now you know just how potent is the spirit of my love! So much so, that just one sigh of my love buried in you echoes forever in your heart; that it can never, after all else dies, ever pass away.”

At the Inn

Peter and Angelina had been walking the Appalachian Trail, throughout a perfect autumn, alone together in the woods, much as they had been long ago, at the beginning of this book.

“I have never seen a bluer sky than that of October, remarked Peter.

“Perhaps it is because of the cool dry air. The vision is but enhanced by the foreground of the colorful orange tree leaves. This is the last true blue that we shall see for some time; it’s only fitting that it be the best of times, the bluest of times.”

They hugged and kissed each other as Angelina began to tell Peter a story about Old Autumn:

Each year, in October, Jack-in-the-Green has a rendezvous with Old Autumn, who colors the leaves that Jack made so verdant in the spring. They meet out in the middle of the woods, although never in the same place, for the seasons come and go and meet as they may. This year Old Autumn was a little late, so Jack-in-the-Green sat down on a tree stump to wait. He began to ponder his disappearing green youth, for it was evident that someday he would have to take Old Autumn’s place and perform all of his withering tasks. A few days later Old Autumn came by and gave Jack a cheery greeting and an embrace which marked summer’s end. He gazed fondly at Jack, his younger self, and saw the vitality that was once his; then said, “Once I was young; once I was you!”

“I know,” said Jack, “Do you remember how I refused to believe it?”

“Yes,” remembered Old Autumn, “it was like the time that I met Old

Man Winter on a snowy day long ago. He told me then that he was my older self—and I didn’t believe it! Yes, I was already feeling my age, but after seeing that ancient white-haired geezer I felt young again! Of course he knew me very well.”

Swallows twittered in the skies as Jack-in-the-Green picked a ripen- ing gourd and gave it to Old Autumn.

“Well, Jack,” he encouraged, “you won’t have to meet the Old Man until you take my place, for only I can see him after I take down the last of the oak leaves. For now, the Old Man sends only his errand boy, Jack Frost, your twin brother. Hi ho, here he comes now! Aye, this is the rarest of days, for the three of us can be together but once a year.”

“The Old Man is lonely, is he not?” asked Jack-in-the-Green, “for he sees only you.”

“Yes. Old Man Winter lives cold and alone. He never sees the dear maidens of the spring who reinvent the natural world each year.”

There is a chill in the air as Jack Frost arrives and sings out a greeting: “Hello my brother! Hello Old Autumn! It’s going to be very cold tonight; we are going to have our first frost, but don’t worry—it won’t harm the pumpkins any.”

Old Autumn sighed and replied: “Good. Now the rest of the leaves will crack and fall all the sooner due to the ice in their veins; yes, they’ll fall like the last illusions of my youth. Soon you’ll see me ‘lying carelessly on the granary floor’ and ‘on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, drowsed with the fume of poppies’, as Keat’s described me.” Composing himself, Old Autumn continued: “And for those of you who think that ‘warm days will never cease’, let us ever remember dear Johnny Keats who died so young; however, he lived and saw much more than many of us might hope to do in a lifetime.”

A shiver ran through Jack-in-the-Green, and he spoke: “I must go now.”

“Once I, your Angelina, ventured outside at 4 AM on a dark frosty October morning to get an early preview of the stars of winter. It was so quiet that I could sense the spirit of the cosmos as it played rhythm to my fast beating heart. Oh, Orion, I exclaimed. You are so high in the sky—you hang there only for the astronomer’s eye—as the meteors fly by. Then I heard a rustling sound in the leaves around me—a skunk perhaps—but no, it was the sound of falling leaves. I knew that it must be him, Old Autumn; he was out there somewhere. Then I sensed him going by, for some of the leaves on the tree right in front of me broke loose and floated away, hitting some other leaves on the way down and making that rustling sound that I’d heard earlier. Then it stopped, but soon it started up on the next tree, and then the next—and so I could very well follow the path of Old Autumn making his rounds in the misty morn.”

“Good story, sweetheart,” said Peter. “We will mellow into the autumn of our later years.”

Following the harvest, the moon was still a strange sight at 11 AM setting in the west, quite a large chunk missing from its battered orb. Also, there was the sun well risen in the east seeming to balance the moon as its echo. The duo made their way through a lonely upland wild and still, where October’s last zephyrs whispered at will as if they were praying for the souls of the dead. They walked on.

Towards evening on a November’s day, the first quarter moon rose very early, sitting atop the evening star, but then rose later and later each day, drawing away from Venus and thereby adding light to its own face. Said Angelina, “No leaves, no warmth, no sky, no snow, November. November is a most difficult time. The glory of the summer and of the leaves is gone;, and it seems like it has been gone for years. But the spirit of the holiday season is not yet at hand. The gray and rainy skies are a stark contrast to the dry blue skies of October. There is no snow yet for winter sports and the land remains barren—the land is dead, and the very year itself continues to die in the night. The day is so short that when one gets home for dinner it already seems time for bed. Time for hibernation perhaps. To these feelings, add the specter of a long, drawn-out winter. Now we even long for February. Come December, we wake a little, when auroras will set fire to the polar heavens to give color to our lives during the festival of the Yule.”

A fierce storm arrived and so they took shelter in a cave and slept through the night and most of the next day. Upon awakening, Peter said, “The storm is long gone, and is just a memory now. The day, though nearly over now, was bright near its end; Helios has warmed our hearts. Twilight now welcomes all. Twilight. That magical hour after sunset—when people love to stroll the village square.”

The ‘second’ summer was warm but brief this year and some weeks passed. The now chill winds hastened the couple’s approach to the nearest inn. The twosome looked at the rising omen of winter in the very late night sky: “Orion, King of the bejeweled winter sky, backbone of our nights,” said Peter, “wield your sword above our heads, but please, never below!”

There, in the road, a head!—a huge yellow beast lay dead ahead and was growing larger by the second! Right in front of their eyes did it lie! It was, of course, the moon. “I think that the November Frost moon is even more impressive than that of the Harvest—it is so colorful and intimidating.”

The moon rose straight into a thunderhead as an old lady opened the door of the inn. “Tit for tat,” she said as she farted at the thunder.

“We need lodging for two travelers weary at the thought of the fast approaching winter,” said the two in unison and in tune at that.

“Yes,” replied the innkeeper, “Long since have the winds scattered the leaves of the trees to make of them a burial shroud for the flowers that died grieving at summer’s passing. Even that time called autumn is now nearly lost to memory. Winter is summer’s ungrateful heir, squandering his riches and abusing his gifts. Summer lies underground now, forgotten, silent, and crusty, covered by winter’s stern mantle. Only April’s tears can make his grave green again.

They hear the tinkling of sleigh bells and look all around but there are no sleighs to be seen. Responds the innkeeper to their dilemma: “Those are not sleigh bells, but the chickadees; their highjinks make them resemble a group of school children at play. The loon takes a vacation to the south when the weather turns cold, but the chickadee always stays with us, a beloved friend, no matter how stormy it gets.”

Inside the inn, there was a cheerful blaze of wood fire in the stone fireplace and a snug bar where red flowered linen and polished brass warmed the room’s oak paneling. Glorious views of the Berkshire Val-ley and its silvery river were as close as the nearest window. Some folks insisted on buying them drinks so as to hear the their tales of the woods. The wars of the older centuries had been ever so kind to the inn. The bedrooms were well furnished, many with four-posters. For dinner there was the game of the season: salmon, wild duck, hare, venison, and partridge. Evenings were always fine and warm at an inn, a much needed respite from frostbite. The whole of the inn shone with loving care. Bowls of nuts, with nutcrackers handy, were placed casually on tables in the living room. The walls were decked with weapons and hunting horns of copper and brass. The next day was as sunny as the nights were chilly, and much to their surprise, many travelers were to be found in the garden, where tea was served next to a joyous outside bar with traditional red carpet, even diamond-paned windows, timbered ceilings, and a massive black chimney. The twosome stayed out on the garden terrace however, still preferring the sky as their roof, for now.

At twilight they retired to their rooms, once reserved for only the noble. The rooms were warmly paneled, and fragrant with the scent of wood burning on the raised hearth of the massive stone fireplace. They beheld a wealth of graceful furniture such as carved chests. It was enchanting to the last of the fresh flowers in the antique containers and the old oil prints on the wall. The rosy glow of the lamps spread over the velvet chairs. There was a graveyard out back containing many gravestones. It had a sort of melancholy beauty. The west still glimmered with some streaks of day, and they all drank that evening sky from old pewter. Surplus war armor and weapons hung from the walls until needed again. Dinner was a smoked supper with a bottles of mulled port and a hum of pleasant voices. The scent of rare tobacco filled the room. A cheerful glow descended as a good time was had by all.

Who were the residents of the inn? Well, in the first room of the inn resided an agèd lady torn apart by all of the violence of her years. Furthermore, she could no longer understand the younger generation, although she came to tolerate them. She may have been young once herself. She was of Finnish descent and called herself Doriana. First across and down the hall was a young flaxen haired Saxon girl, a very lively young light who brought joy to all who beheld her. It was she who brought the inn people together with adventure, showing them all how to be young again in spirit. It was said that a man could fall in love with her after a mere gaze. Indeed, many men sought out potions to lessen their enchantment so that they could get about their daily business. She was but a temporary resident of the inn and would leave in the dead of winter, never to be seen again upon the earth. She came to be known only as the Flaxen Saxon. Perhaps she was an angel, an angel of life itself living in a perpetual sunrise of joy that was ever moving to mortals. Now and then an agèd wise man was seen entering then leaving the room of the Flaxen Saxon. He was as old as she was young. He was the senior citizen of the inn and all looked to him for advice on many diverse matters. He never gave his age but was said to have been born long before the Dark Ages began. At dinner he would always perform the magic trick of producing wine from thin air; then, during dinner, he would make the wine disappear by drinking it. They simply called him the old man. Often, he’d take them on tours of the emotional underworld. Next to Doriana’s room resided the last remnant of the Devil come to earth, evil incarnate, but ever suffering from a reduction of cursing power since the Grail was located so many centuries ago. From time to time he even appeared somewhat normal. But to eliminate all evil from the world would be a farce because without evil good would have no contrast and could not very well exist either. Rooming with the Devil was a silent scribe. On the right hand of the Devil was a man of many tales. There was never a moment when he was not retelling a previously told tale or two. The tales struck fear into the ears of all within earshot but it soon faded into a background noise. They called him ‘Graveyard Joe”’. Next to the old wise man was a little old gnome of undetermined gender. Then, suddenly, one day he was gone into the ground. Across from the gnome lived a giant of a man, at least eight feet tall, so very straight and very narrow, stalwart, lithe, and growing taller by the minute. He was the keeper of the gnome, a full time job until the gnome went home. Little was seen of the giant; he kept to his room most of the time because he hated to hear noise. Across the hall from the old man and the Flaxen Saxon, and between the devil and the giant, there resided a writer/scholar named Geoffrey, one who wished to record the stories of the times, and so it was he who recorded some of the tales that were told. He wrote of knights and chivalry and of adventures and of country inns where there resided a writer who wished to record the stories of the times. He wrote best under the influence of the many great wines bequeathed by the old wise man. So when he wasn’t writing, he was to be found in the inn’s great dining hall washing down his wine with some food. The little time that he had left was spent being the shadow of those who were enchanted, such as Peter and Angelina; but, this moonlight shadow job could be attended to but rarely, so, many times, the enchanted had no shadows at all! Oops, I almost forgot someone, a soldier of misfortune, a woman-child just beginning to feel her way through the world, one who was sometimes very likable, sometimes not so, but ever entertaining. She was to become the first woman president and achieve great honor in the years to come. So much for the residents, the rest being mostly transients. All will play little part in our story, but they were part of the atmosphere, and so I’ve told about them, and what a crew they were, all of them taking the time to live in life, rather than working through life as a chore. The opulence of the inn paled in comparison to the joy that was caught as it flew near the residents.

The next day—I believe it was the first of December—was clear. And Venus could even be seen even in the daytime as it was coming close to Earth. Venus seemed to be in the path of the early setting first quarter moon and was even brighter than that moon. Sure enough, the time came when that moon gave birth to Venus after its eclipse and they both set together, a wonder of wonders to Peter’s eyes. So, no moonlight streaked through the window cracks that night as Angelina slept with the man of her daydreams. The morning brought the dragon’s breath, sleet, and hail-balls. All hearts sank as the first real impression of winter iced the last wisps of the summer wind. A lament was constructed by the old man:

Bring me a zephyr to float on,

A river of sparkling diamonds

Seen through a rosé colored glass,

A love up hot and rising—

On a summer’s afternoon.

At dinner the next day, many tales were told, so entrancing that many stayed on after dessert. All then continued to tell short stories which were by no means complete but could serve as reference points during the winter of tales for the permanent residents. Peter told of some small tales, sometimes relapsing into those of his centuries-old youth, picking up on the Dark Ages theme the old man had begun. “A youth of admiration for knights was I, and I did strive to become one and therefore set out in that manner”. He then retold the events of the Grail Castle and of the Grail’s assumption to heaven and how he was somewhat relieved of his life of sainthood and now allowed to live life as a normal man if only this transition of his enhancement could be survived. “And in my hour of strife, I let the love of a woman, pure and true, strengthen my hand—and she now she sits before you.”

All truly listened to the tales when it was not their turn to tell, and not did their minds wander to their own tales except when it was their own time to tell them, and the scribes wrote with the wind which was expelled with the tellings. The old man told some tales, previously untold, of how Merlyn built Stonehenge, of how the stones were felt to be weightless by the men as they carried them to their directed places. After the morning dawned upon them they slept for a day and a night.

While the full and gleaming December moon shone on the snow, it made for the season’s brightest night, brighter than the most dismal day. During that night, the moon’s tides tossed everyone about on swells of resurrected memories from forgotten seas. Angelina woke up suddenly with a start and turned to Percevale who was awake as well. Even before they were fully alert they realized that something had changed. They couldn’t quite name it, but something had awakened them. It was very quiet outside, and this early morning’s quiet was somehow different, for noises were muffled. The daylight coming in the window was brighter, barer than yesterday’s. Then they realized that the season’s first big snow had fallen during the night. The air, the trees, and the inn were hushed in the snow. So, now it was winter. Their memories swelled for a while. To the changes in the weather, in the seasons, they thought, we are sensitive, despite our civilized attempts to remove ourselves from its raw influence. We never truly sleep. We are animals yet, a little bit. The first snowfall you won’t hear, or often see, but its advent will bring you from the deepest sleep. December’s foggy freeze descended upon the inn and the cold air seemed to crinkle about the body at every step. Angelina had seen many such winters, some from cold and lonely times, but winter’s embrace always seemed to surprise her, as it does all of us—how soon we forget. This day, many a gravedigger cursed his task as he shoveled at the snowy, hardened ground in an attempt to bury those who had succumbed the night before. The clanking could be heard throughout the day, and the bodies were as stiff as the ground that yawned to receive them. One of the tombstones read:

Summer passed away in his sleep last night,

Autumn, sweet and plump, carries his offspring.

The year dies in the night; ghostly winter comes;

Yet, Spring’s flower is already in the seed.

The old man took the floor this night and stated that he wished to freshen the forgetful atmosphere outside with the enchanting lure of an old story, a story of how a Prince learned humility, a tale from the Adventures of Price Valiant, that I am borrowing so that we can extend it:

The Prince walked right along the daring threshold of adventure and sometimes overstepped his own pride. This was not unusual for the adventurous and may have been a natural consequence. The alternative—a cautious life, of course, is worse, some would say. This then is a story of such pride. I’ll tell the tale in such a way that you will feel that you were there, by using an apparition or two to enhance the effect. The Prince was given a quest one day by an enchantress; it was, to wit, to obtain a golden case containing a beautiful face, a face of a young woman who was now old, a face that had been ripped away by a wizard when she mocked one who was not so smart. Thus, the Prince was to be shown an example of supreme humility and be refreshed in his caring for those of the world who suffered under the cruel world’s idiocy.

Ah, but I get much ahead of myself. Please allow me unfold the events from the beginning—

Along his way came the Wanderer, feared and friendless for she could speak only the truth. “It was your pride that brought this death to pass,” she said to the Prince, “though, too, your pride has often done well for the world. Look into the font, my Prince. Deep in the river forest lives an old man. Seek him out and there you will find humility. When you have found it, bring it back to me.

“But how will I find you?” he asks.

“You will find me. Like the truth, I am under the surface of everything.”

After a lonely vigil, the Prince departs. “Where will I find the old man?” he wonders.

As he enters the river forest he sees that many unfortunates have come before him, their troubled souls soothed forever by the river’s chill embrace. This was the place called ‘Springland Eternal’. The Prince was led by spirits to that deeper place where all of man’s joys, follies, and sorrows come to rest. At the entrance to this otherworld kingdom, imps lowered him down to my clutches, for I, the old man, was there, where I took over the tour. We descended a sandalwood trail past the steaming volcanic vents and arrived at a subterranean version of Camelot’s ‘mucken mire’, where the earth therein quivered like a fat man’s belly—and if you fell in you would not be spit up for three days. The old man—me—smiled sadly. “Here is where all of mankind’s tears gather after they are shed,” the old man explains. “Every day I pray for drought, but it never comes. Every day the salt line of the nearby river moves further into our fresh drinking water. Soon we shall all die of thirst.” They continue on. “See, there, giant caterpillars, deadly, too, and over there, that colorful pile—all of that was valued artwork that was destroyed by human ignorance. We repair what we can but more arrives every day.”

Down the trail they go and they soon come to another cave where the sound of angry words assaults the Prince’s ears: “Liar—cheater—fool—traitor,” he hears. “Everything people wish they had never said comes here,” the old man says. “Eventually the words turn to dust and are swept away by imps. “And over there, see the dragon’s misty breath! That is where everyone’s regrets for adventures missed turns to mist! They hang heavy in the air and are so very hard to clear away.” Next, they enter a cavernous amphitheater where hundreds of scribes are busily at work. “Day and night,” the old man explains, “they write down the good intentions of everyone in the world.” The Prince notices one sleeping scribe who seems to have no work and queries the old man about him. The old man sighs. “His job is to record the good intentions that people actually fulfill. As you can see, he has not much to do.”

“Now,” says the old man, “I’ll give you what you’ve come for.” The Wanderer sent you here because you are too proud. Your pride has brought relief to some but grief to others. Now I will show you humility. Follow me. The old man rummages through an old chest: “charity—courage—loyalty—ah, here it is! Bring this golden container to the Wanderer and your quest is ended.” The Prince is confused and begins to protest, but the old man thunders, “Do as I say!”

The Prince tries to find his way out of the forest and comes to a cove where he fishes for his dinner through the ice. A gray figure on the horizon moves closer and closer and the Prince sits silently, for he knows who it is. Without a word the Prince hands up the golden casket. After some minutes of silence the Wanderer turns to the Prince. “It is time you learned,” she says. “I was not always as you see me now. Once I was the most beautiful woman of the empire. What a vain creature I was: kings pledged whole provinces as a dowry, but I always refused. And then one day the fairy tale ended. A certain dimwitted lad loved me more than all the rest. One day I found him by a stream. ‘I am waiting for the water to flow by so I can cross,’ he said. I mocked him savagely. Suddenly an old wizard slunk out of the forest and with a wave of his hand he stripped me of my beauty and locked it in this golden casket. Ever since I have been wretched as you see me now. But, now you have brought my beauty back.” For a moment she gazes fondly at the casket case—then casts it boldly into the river. “That is humility, Sir. Learn it.”

It was Peter’s turn. “I’ll extend an original tale onto this from long ago, about King Arthur’s successor, Percevale. No one know of this, for the Dark Ages have remained quite a mystery, but, I found this tale, among others, in an iron box buried beneath an Abbey. The Abbey housed both a monastery and a convent, but not in the modern sense of the words, for back then abbeys were wholly the world’s centers for libraries, education, and philosophy. Anyway, I’ll tell the story in the present tense so as to preserve the excitement of it” Again, Peter had once actually lived this tale, but there was no good way to explain this. It is called “The Curse of the Death-Crone” and begins thusly”:

As Percevale approaches a great witch’s land, he sees the shield and helmets of those who came and died before him. He clutches the Crimson Spear close and continues his approach. “Now, Bogar, my good squire, you wait here, and if I do not come out within two days, then come in after me.” Percevale feels the watch of gloom as he enters the territory of the great witch. Knowing that he is being watched, he does not turn around to alert the watcher, but slides quickly and unbeknownst into the woods at the next turn. His mentor, Taliesin, glides noiselessly, silent and invisible in Percevale’s mind! Percevale peers in a window and sees a pitiful sight. The witch’s slaves are from the world of the deformed and misshapen—those who are most easily enslaved. Next, plans are made and a good night’s sleep is taken. In the morning a huge menacing giant blocks Percevale’s path, but there is something very human and caring, yet guarded, in the giant’s eyes. Percevale speaks to the giant softly: “You could easily escape this witch’s spell and be free!”

The giant replies: “You are correct; I stay only to protect my misshapen friends from further harm, and indeed I will help you kill the witch if you will but insure the safety of my friends!”

“I am the King of Britain and the safety of all my subjects concerns me. Just keep your bewitched friends in check while I do battle with the witch and soon you shall all be free or I’ll die trying.” Such sincere words were very well understood by the giant. Now Percevale faces the witch, but not alone, for Taliesin has joined with him in mind, and the bleeding spear is at hand.

“’Tis the accursed Crimson Spear from Avalon!” she cries. “Take it from my sight, I can not bear to look at it!” But Percevale holds it all the more firmly as she tries to wrench it from his grasp with the powers of her mind. She fills his minds eye with evil sights of monsters, but ever still does he hold the red shaft; it is now bleeding profusely and its blood is pooling on the ground. For a day and a night, the battle of the minds continues, Percevale and Taliesin barely holding their own and growing ever more weary—and feeling at each instant that they cannot last another moment. Towards morning, the battle draws to its climax as Avalon’s grandson is assaulted with every trick known to sorcery by Avalon’s daughter gone astray, but, Taliesin has studied under the master Merlyn and Percevale has the strength of ten because his heart is pure. And then it is over. As the witch crumples to the ground, defeated at last, she finds those last ounces of strength that come at the time of dying and uses it to place the curse of the Death-Crone upon our hero: “Percevale, from death’s doorstep, I, the Death-Crone, curse you with my last breath; I curse you with the worst misfortune that may befall a man: that you will never find love or be loved ever again—until—rocks flow like water, until the day comes that the sun does not rise, until the new moon is seen with the naked eye, until the planet Mercury is seen at high noon, until fire is seen in water, until it snows in Cisalpine Gaul on a summer day, until all of the above events happen on the same day within a month from this very day! In other words, you will never ever find love or be loved! So then, when these events do not happen, for they cannot happen and be seen by you, you will not only be unloved nor able to give love, but you will also find the world to be filled with hate towards you, and you will soon die and forever wear the foolscap of eternal shade, for no man can live for long without love!”

The witch dies, the King is cursed, but the enslaved are free!

Bogar, forever dedicated, takes what is left of his master back to Camelot. Bogar notes the King’s despair and so Percevale tells him the tale of the witch’s curse. “I shall never succeed, Bogar, for most of the witch’s challenges are impossible; that’s the joke of it, I guess. She just threw in one easy one, ‘when rocks flow like water’ to give me false hope, for I do know of a place where rocks flow like water. But no one has ever seen the new moon. Of course, the full moon is easily seen because it is completely lit on the side facing us and rises when the sun sets and is therefore up all night, but the new moon is just the opposite: it rises in the morning, is up all day, sets at evening, and is lit only on the side away from us. It has never been seen, Bogar! Oh, we have seen the slivers of the very young and the very old moons, but the new moon gives no light at all, so, even if we see but a thin crescent moon, then by definition, it is not the new moon. Even if we knew where to look for it in the sky, which we do not, there would be the glare of the sun to contend with. Even the stars, which do give off light, cannot be seen in the daytime, even in areas of the sky not near to the sun. And Mercury, being so close to the sun, can only be seen just before sunrise or just after sunset, but never at high noon! As for snow in late June or July in Southern Gaul, it is not likely and has never occurred. And I have not yet known a day when the sun did not rise. Even on cloudy days we know that the sun has risen, for there is light behind the clouds. And fire in water! It cannot be. Water conquers fire, they cannot coexist. For any of the above to happen is impossible. For all of them to happen on the same day within a month is beyond impossible, yet, I will not give up hope for I know from Avalon that all curses have an escape.”

Percevale spends the day in the archives of Camelot with Taliesin. Then they spend all night in the Merlyn Tower Room, where they pore over over old manuscripts full of diagrams But only this much becomes known: The new moon is to appear in two weeks—this fixes the day; and there is only one place where rocks are flow like water—this fixes the place! There is hardly time to get there, so the King immediately leaves for Iceland.

The chronicles covering the first week of the journey have not survived the ravages of time, so we find ourselves already close to Iceland. The sea is glorious and the air is fresh and pure. We do know that during the journey north, the twilight lasts longer and longer each day. There is not a moment to waste, but Percevale spots a vessel in distress behind him, and for a moment he wonders if he should take the time to come to its aid. But, there is no real choice, so he turns back, and although her ship goes under, he manages to pull her from the depths and spends over an hour reviving her. And, even when revived, her lips will not part from his, for they have tasted each other and found it to be sweet.

“I am cursed, you cannot love me,” says the Ice Maiden finally, who was named Dheryle. “I am sent to remind you of that which is forbidden to you! I have no choice; the spell overwhelms me! You should have let me drown; then you would have had some peace. From now on, everyone you touch will catch the curse until the world fills with hate and destroys itself.”

“So this is how it is going to be,” laments Percevale. “How I shall hate to give up life’s wonders when I am gone!”

But, this is to be the day of the new moon; at least there is a chance, thinks Percevale. They arrive on the shore of Iceland, and on this day, as on every day for a month either way in this northern land, the sun does not rise, for it did not set the day before, since it stays aloft all day during these six months of daylight! Just before noon, strange bands of shadows begin to rapidly cross the land and Percevale feels that perhaps the end is near. The ground begins to shake and heave for a few moments and then all is silent, so very silent as to strike one dumb. Something terrible seems to be happening. Grazing animals look for shade trees and lie down to sleep. About noontime, the shadow of darkest night covers the land as the moon begins to kiss the sun and cover it—it is a solar eclipse! Merlyn’s old notes in the archive were accurate! Thank the gods for that old wizard!

During the seven minutes of total darkness, Percevale sees a black disk in the sky, surrounded by faint wisps of flame—it is, of course the new moon in all her black glory; indeed, the new moon can only be seen during a solar eclipse, and never at any other time. And there near the sun is a bright “star” that does not twinkle! It can only be the planet Mercury! Yes, there it is, in plain sight, at high noon. And farther out, Venus can be seen! Now the ground begins to really shake, and Percevale hurries to his ship with the Ice Maiden. They leave Iceland, but see the volcano erupt; rocks are flowing to the sea like water! But, the water puts out the fiery flow and so they do not see fire in water, just a lot of steam. Then a tremendous plume of smoke and debris is sent up into the sky and is carried south by the unusual winds born of the marriage of summer warmth and ice cold air brought on by the blockage of the sun’s rays by the dense volcanic ash. The spontaneous cold front sweeps south to Gaul on the reversed upper winds, bringing the darkness of the ashen sky with it. As no sunlight can penetrate, the air below grows colder and colder, and what would have been rain now turns to snow over Cisalpine Gaul for a brief time before westerly winds can disperse the volcanic cloud around the earth. That evening the sun sinks low, but does not set. On the water is the glitter path of that fiery ball—and so we have seen fire in water!

The sun has kissed the moon, and Percevale gathers the Ice

Maiden, Dheryle, into his arms and kisses her, his capacity for love far from dead, but growing stronger every minute of this glorious day as both of their curses fall by the wayside. It was the greatest day on earth.

“There is an epilog to Peter’s tale,” added Angelina, “and so I’ll tell it now.”

When love’s feeling is right, one knows it! It is beyond all doubt when the intensity pervades your every thought and action. But, I say to all of you who have not found true love, that if there is the least sense of doubt, if long courtships are necessary before you can know each other, then that is perhaps not true love, but labored love, because, as I began, when love is present, one knows it without question—and subsequent marriage occurs without either party even having to ask it of the other. So it is with Dheryle and Percevale, too, as they dally about their lake in the woods. Their cottage is nestled in the woods between the hills and the seashore. The lovers sit on a swing on the cottage porch as the peeping eye of the full moon spies on them from the top of a hill. They rock gently, bathing in the harmony and rhythm that has so recently flooded their joined being. At the sides of the porch the flowers of the white evening primrose begin to close, while lightening bugs flash their mating calls to one another.

“There, Dheryle, over those hills, is the former abode of the witch. I must go there tomorrow to see that all is well, so as to complete my quest that brought us together in the first place.”

“Well bless her wretched soul! Come Percevale, let us walk the grounds.”

Moving through the glittering fields of fireflies, they walk along the lake path, without words. Though still weary from sea travel, love’s energy carries them on its eagles’ wings, as being near to one’s life partner is contentment enough for anyone on a night in the Age of Darkness in the midsummer. There is a strange chill in the air as the woods compel them to enter and share in its secrets on this one night of magic. Church bells knell the toll of ten o’clock from the nearby town. The sounds are muffled and distant because the air has suddenly grown heavy.

“I think that we are not alone Percevale.”

“Yes, the forest has many eyes and I have come to love them—and tonight I feel as if the air is filled with the magic, hopes, and dreams of all of the souls which have come before us since the dawn of time.”

“There is a similar night in my country, during which these feelings of old, sealed in our souls, become known, and float in the air so that we might know of our dim and animal past. Hark! I see movement ahead, and in the trees!”

They run to the spot, but the impish form is gone; however, the grass is yet bent and marks the small man-creature’s passing.

“Hold me close, Percevale.”

“I know this feeling! It is but the witch’s soul on its way to its final and eternal resting spot in hell’s heart. It’s gone now—I again feel the beauty and goodness of man—and only this can ensure the victory of wisdom!” They return to the lake side, construct a bonfire, and lay a blanket nearby. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, creatures dance in the night woods, and the skies fill with comets.

They run into the giant the next day and he tells them of the last curse on earth. Percevale sits down to hear the giant’s tale as it begins: The witch placed a curse on me as well. I will forever roam the earth in sadness if I do not accomplish the following by the end of this day: I must see the sun set three times in one day, and, I must, during daylight, create a dark space behind me that never ends. What will I do? I cannot stop the sun and raise it up again, nor can I cause the absence of light behind me and into the infinite depths of space!

Day is nearly done and the horizon is rising to meet the bloodshot eye of day. Percevale, having studied under the poet-astronomer, Taliesin, quickly leads the giant to the shore where a small piece of low hilly land juts out into the sea. They face to the west and view the setting sun, now a symbol of the sad giant’s dying hopes. The sun drops though some clouds and is bright again, but half of it is already below the horizon!

“Look at your shadow, giant! How long is your shadow at sunset or sunrise? What is shortest at noon grows longer as the afternoon wears on, until finally, it stretches forever behind you, since you are directly between the sun and that which is behind you.”

“That is fine Percevale, but the sun is nearly set and will certainly not rise again until the morrow. I must still see three sunsets!”

“No time to explain now, giant. Quick! Lie down on the ground and see your first sunset today as the top sliver of the sun falls below, and is extinguished by, the horizon. See! There it goes. Now, quickly, stand up to your great height and what do you see?”

“I see the tip of the sun again!”

“And your second sunset of the day, giant?”

“Yes! I see it, and another green flash as well!”

“Now run up yonder hill and bring up the sun again so that it may

set three times in a day!”

The gleeful giant runs up the hill in great leaps, and turns to see the sun set three, four, even five more times, each sunset lasting but a few seconds.


The sunrise over the snow seemed distant the next day, for this was a natural consequence of snow, and, also, the sun’s arc was low in the sky. Peter looked at the sun, now directly over the Tropic of Capricorn; it was as far south as it could ever go, as low in the sky as it could ever be. This was the northern winter solstice, the shortest day and the longest night. That morning Angelina reported a daydream: “I was cleaning some heavy snow from the fir branches around back when I was startled to see Jack Frost sitting atop our outside table, like the centerpiece of a great cake covered with a foot of icing. I began to tell Jack of our upcoming New Year and how I am enjoying the weather, though, as I had to admit, I still harbored some dreams of summertime. Jack listened attentively as his father, Old Man Winter, sauntered by in the sky, opening the clouds to the sun to show off his handiwork. His wife, Mother Nature, looked on from on high and applauded the job. Jack Frost was soon joined by his summer brother, Jack-in-the-Green. They explained that they often appear to those who can appreciate nature in all it gloried manifestations and that indeed we had their blessings for the new year. Jack-in-the-green was soon to leave to supervise the southern summer.”


Christmas came and went at the inn, hardly making a dent in the already festive atmosphere; however, the stone walls and withered gates of the inn had warmed with the festival of the Yule, the bakers’ cakes, the rituals of the Druids, and the cutting of the sacred mistletoe from the chosen oak. Lazy winter days turned into weeks. Soon Peter began to daydream of that place they call the Tropics, although he didn’t realize why: “The moon is growing larger, towards first quarter. What a strange sight is the tropical moon—it fills up with light from the bottom, not from the side—but that’s how things are in Equatoria! Proud Orion the hunter and his three, not two, hunting dogs stride high, right down the center of the sky, in Equatoria, for that is where you will find the celestial equator there—directly above the earth’s equator, not near the horizon as in the north.”

The next day’s lunch, following the storytellers’ feast, was light, but delicate. There was French onion soup full of stringy cheese, ham on rye, and a cucumber. It was the kind of lunch one could finish clean by dunking the rye crust in the remains of the soup. This night, delicate stars fell to the ground as snowflakes, and the day was filled with snow-bows as the morning wind stirred up the stardust, old and new. Hibernation seemed to overtake all as the full dead-winter Snow moon brightened the frozen night. Angelina drew the winter away, artist that she was. Many of her sketches now littered their room. Here, there, and everywhere they lay, like museum artifacts that had suffered through a storm. Meanwhile, the Big Dipper began to swing round in the sky, looking like a gigantic question mark. Later that night, showers of ice needles fell, until the sky cleared near morning. Then the loving couple began to shine in the Venus-light of morn. We shall now begin to follow that rising morning star through the oncoming dawn and into the daylight, as it is now shining very brightly in the night, and casting their shadows on the snow.

“Come Peter, my sweetheart,” said Angelina, “come inside, and out of the ashen light of Venus. We’ll sleep through the dawn and then bathe in the sunlight as it kisses us through the morning. Then we’ll attend to that braggart, March. You know, I liked things better in the old days, when the new year began in March. Can we not change it back? Why start a year in the midst of winter? It makes no sense, for spring is the time for all to begin anew.”

“Well, my Queen, since I am still King, I shall simply declare that the year begins in March—starting next week, in fact—a happy new year to you!” In fact, here are some of my ideas for a whole new calendar:

It’s about time for some major revisions to the calendar, ones that are reflective of modern times, for the only improvements made during the last few hundred years have been to skip leap days in years that are evenly divisible by 400, and, more recently, to add a few insignificant leap-seconds once a year or so (“Wow, that seemed like a really long weekend!”).

The last truly major revision to the calendar occurred over a thousand years ago when Omar Khayyàm realigned the Moslem calendar so that the seasons would arrive at the same time each year—back then the year started in March with the spring, the logical time for a new year to start, I suppose, since nature is new in the spring. It took Europe another 700 years or so to pick up on this change—I guess they got tired of celebrating Christmas in July-type weather or shoveling snow in the summer. Omar also revised his philosophic calendar to suit his mental outlook—by advocating that dead yesterday and unborn tomorrow be removed; thus, he could truly live for TODAY. Later on, he refined this theory even further by also removing dead and unborn minutes, so that he could live for the moment. My calendar revisions are more along those lines.

First of all, I am eliminating the months of January (Bran-new-airy), February (Feb-buries), and March (March!) because 1) They contain cold and rotten weather, and 2) They totally lack holidays on which we could get time off with pay from work—it’s a heck of a long wait for a holiday between New Year’s Day and Memorial Day—we used to get Good Friday off, but now even that day is eliminated, since it’s a religious-ethnic holiday and other religious-ethnic groups could have then proposed other such holidays and so there’d be no time left for actual work days. Note: don’t worry, Valentine’s Day is being retained and moved elsewhere in my calendar, as is New Year’s Day.

I am adding a whole new month, called Remember, which comes right after December. That way we will have some extra time to do all of the things that we meant or forgot to do during the year. Just think, there will be not as much need to say “wait until next year!”

Therefore, my revised year starts in the spring, in April, which, as I’ve said, is much more appropriate since it is a time for renewal and rebirth. By the way, it is easily proved that the year once started in spring by noting the Latin numbers from which the months got their modern names, i.e., 7-sept, 8-oct, 9-nov, 10-dec. We, of course, have adopted these Latin numeric prefixes into general English, as well, for example, septuagenarian (age 70-80), octagon (8-sided), octave(8 musical degrees), novena (9 days of devotion), decimal (base 10), decimate (to kill one in ten), decathlon, decade, etc. I also discovered that the old names of July and August were Quintus (Latin 5) and Sextus (Latin 6), but, of course, Julius and Augustus Caesar changed the names to suit their own. As for May, June, and April, those were the names of Caesar’s girlfriends. So, anyway, what all this means is that since December used to be the tenth month (dec), the year obviously once started in March. So, I am generally readopting this policy, except that, since I’ve eliminated March, my revised year must now start in April, on April’s Fools Day, in fact, which will have to share the honor with New Year’s Day—an appropriate combination considering all of the foolish things that we do on New Year’s Eve.

So, since my year as so far constructed is only ten months long, I must now distribute the excess days that made up the two missing months. I would like to keep the months thirty days long since people are very much used to this; therefore, I am introducing a new, unnumbered day into the week, called Funday, a day which does not have to be numbered or accounted for in any way whatsoever. Funday occurs between Sunday and Monday. On Funday you can do as you please. Funday doesn’t even have a numerical date, and so it cannot possibly count against schedules, deadlines, or bills. Weekends, as we all know, have always been too short, but now, with the introduction of Funday, weekends become three days long. I have, as have many others, already pioneered the concept that led to Funday: I get up late on Saturday and Sunday to recover energy spent during the work week, and then, by Sunday night, being so well rested, I go to sleep quite late or sometimes not at all and stay up all night reading or doing you know what. Of course, I pay for all of this by being very tired on Monday, but naturally it’s much better to be tired on company time than on your own time, and who ever expects much of Monday anyway. So, this is what led me to the idea of a Funday on which you could do whatever you want—you don’t even have to visit your relatives. Funday is totally dedicated to fun, and a new law will make it a crime for you to do anything else, although shopping and home chores are allowed if you whistle while you work or sing a happy song. Yes, people are so harried these days that we have to force them to enjoy life.

So, thanks to Funday there will be no more rush-rush or hectic feelings when the work week starts. People need no longer waste short weekends of great weather by doing silly and ridiculous things like going grocery shopping or doing laundry. Well, you might say, instead of lengthening the week why not just get people to do their weekend chores during the week—but, of course, they can’t since they’re so stressed out and exhausted when they get home from work—that they just collapse and can’t even do the simplest thing. Yes, yes, I know that this is simply a matter of attitude and style, but, believe me, personal changes, even such common sense changes, seem to take huge amounts of effort; whereas, I can simply solve the problem much more easily with the introduction of Funday.

But, ten months of thirty numbered days plus five undated Fundays each month equals only 350 days, so there are still fifteen more days that must be dispersed into the new calendar. I am solving this by adding a special summer and winter festival period of seven days each, the winter festival being no more really than a reestablishment of the old Saturnalian pagan festival held in olden times before the Christians put a damper on it. This winter festival is added between Christmas and New Year’s Day so that we can have a vacation from our vacation of visiting relatives and feasting and pigging out. The summer festival is inserted between July and August and centers around the true midsummer’s day. Naturally these festivals do not count against anyone’s vacation time.

OK, there are just a few minor alterations left. There is still one day left to be accounted for, and I am inserting it between May and June as Valentines Day. I am removing a day from June, so that the saying “Nothing is so rare as a day in June” will actually be true. In the old calendar, a day in February was 4.2% more rare than a day of June, but, of course, February is gone now. The day removed from June will be called World Day. On this day we should try to get all the world’s peoples to coexist in perfect harmony. This day occurs between June and July. I am moving the Fourth of July to the first Monday in July so that we will have yet another extra long weekend.

Monday mornings and Friday afternoons are to be designated as home/work transition adjustment-recovery periods, during which one need not be present at work, thus reducing the work week to only four days! Yes, the computer age has arrived and it’s time that we reaped its benefits and gained more leisure time; for, this was the promise of the computer age: that computers would free us—so why do I get the feeling that they have become our masters?

Furthermore, the nebulous day called Someday is being removed from the calendar and from everyday conversation—because what it really meant was “Noneday” (as in “Someday we’ll go out to lunch.”).

Also, just as a matter of information, note that the days of the week were named after the sun, the moon, and all of the known planets of the time, although some of the days derive their names from French or Latin: Sunday (sun), Monday (moon), Tuesday (Mardi in French, or

Mars), Wednesday (Mercredi, or Mercury in French), Thursday (Jeudi in French, or Jupiter), Friday (Vendredi in French for Venus), Saturday (Saturn). However, this still leaves Pluto, Uranus, and Neptune unrepresented but I’ll probably leave those for my next revision. My new names for the days of the week are: Onesday, Twosday, Wedsday, Thirstday, Fryday, Satday, Sundae, and Funday. Or, we could just forget all of these revisions and go back to Omar’s great idea about having a calendar with only one day on it called TODAY. Anyway, the new calendars will be on sale soon.

Peter continued, “As soon as the ice armor melts away, I will take you to our new castle. Too bad that Camelot lies in ruins, but we’ll use another. On the way I will show you some of a boy’s secret places, if I can still remember where they are. We’ll go to the little river where I fished as in my youth and to many other wonderful hideaways.”

The braggart, March, stood in the doorway of the inn wiping away the snowflakes from the cloak that he wore. “Won’t anyone be going any place for a while,” he said. “Look at the size of these flakes, they are as big as your ears. Yes, it looks like spring will be taking its time arriving. That warm spell of last week has raised false hopes in all of us.”

Like apparitions of the night, ever more renters appeared—some from the sea, some from the land, many from Europia. But, so many from the river: here a coastal captain in gleaming white, there a tug boat officer—all through the night they came to the docks and piers: sailors, harbor pilots, and all of the mariners of the river sea, ready for spring. Unbelievably, at one table sat the Captains of three sunken ships; at another table sat three previous English Kings of centuries ago. The songs of the night were so true and clear, as if no one had written them but life itself. I heard a Germanic drinking song and also the call of Scandia. Out on the docks I watched the fish jumping out of the water and into the mouths of gulls, who then flew them over to my plate. In each fish were gold and silver rings that people had lost to the sea long ago. A night-buzzard flew high in the air. Suddenly, a sea monster leapt out of the water and snatched the buzzard out of the sky.

“…Well, yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream… and of this future we can only speculate,” said Peter, “…that the time will come for that last perfect day on earth… I can see it now: A wash of flowers sways and splashes in the late afternoon sunshine; waves of deep grasses yet move to the rhythms of the earth; trees flood across the haze… and then comes the last sunset, when Beauty herself comes to cast one last fond gaze over the world—ah, we can see her bright flowing gowns in the colors of the sunset as she leans over the earth!”

“Yes,” said Angelina as they welcomed the spring, “we will continue to sing the songs of life in our pages, for, as long as we do, it will keep us from ever withering, from ever stagnating. The faceless sea will continue to pass us by like a wave around an island as we defend our friendly little paradise and bathe in our beloved river sunshine, fleeting though it be sometimes. Yes, let us be alive with a song that only life itself could write; let us make our presence known with no regrets; let us start a song that we cannot help but to continue to sing. Do these things, ear reader, and you will never be alone. Recreate the joy of being human, and find wonder in nature and reality, for other seas are dark and cold, with a bitter wind that beats against your face. Our wind will be forever warm and caressing us, for we are braced by the calm of nature and the sanity of the earth. Yes, we allow both sides of the brain to coexist. So, take a good hard look, all of you who pass here. and especially you, dear reader. Know thou that the world looks for more from thee than from others.”

“And so,” Peter answered, “we continue to fill our heads with the best from nature, from adventure, from winter, spring, summer, and fall; from the world of sights, sounds, and natural urges; from fantasy, magic and mysticism, folklore and legend, from science, astronomy, and brain studies, and from romance—mixing it all together into a book for all seasons.

They rode horses through the day, but with no real sense of urgency, taking to their travels in a rather leisurely fashion. That night the clear skies uncovered a hidden wonder, the pale Unicorn full moon that marked another month gone by. There it was, plain as day, in the twilight sky. There too, memories danced again to yet another time. Peter felt so very content now, content with this day of sunshine and moon glow. “Yes, the Lion-sun rules the toiling day,” he said, “but the Unicorn-moon brings wisdom and calm in the night. At the magic times of dawn and twilight, when the lion and unicorn battle together to capture the heavens, only beauty and goodness in men and women can ensure the victory of wisdom.”

What lay along the road ahead? Why, adventure, of course, that old song that had to be sung. And how we love to bring back these tales of adventures to that Round Table of our fine companions. To whom shall we bring our tales and our writings now? To you, dear reader, to you.

Back on the road again early the next morning, Peter could not help but lapse into daydreams to wile away the time. Daydreams, he thought later, were actually continuous dreams, much like those of the night, which surface now and then out of our souls through the noise of consciousness; perhaps they came from the gods. They were the elixir that made one alive and kept one alive—a subterranean life-flow of desires and regrets seldom shared—for so intimate they were—plays within plays, dreams within dreams. It felt somehow strange to be observing these events in oneself—these bits and pieces of emotion and random feelings that are recorded within our memories, which might otherwise go unnoticed. These thoughts, these observations of thoughts, was this the rare working of the rational and the emotional in tandem?

That night, they rested early, looking up at the moon. The moon just sat there and waited for someone to speak. No one did. Finally Angelina said, “It’s good weather we’re having.”

“Yes, the days seem to be getting longer,” said the moon. “Soon I and my friends of the night sky will be all but obliterated by the long days and the lingering twilight of the northern summer. I trust that you will not forget your old pals like me who carried you through the winter! We trod the snow with you—remember? I was your shadow.”

“I will never forget you, old man,” said Peter. “We will stand by your coppery side in the month of June as you disappear even during the shortest, mystical night of all. But, now you must surely realize that the balance tips between the day and the night; we have the equinox and the spring to consider! Now men’s hearts must turn away, for a time, from the fathomless sky to the outdoor events that do unfold all around us in this good weather. How we love to be taken ill with the Fever of the Spring. Like the Aprilish fools that we are, we fall for it every time. Inebriated are we all with that first breath of spring. Not just a breath, mind you, but the beloved zephyr, that lukish wind from the west, never a wicked wind, but a lovely soft wind that caresses your body from head to toe as long as you will allow it.”

“Now I remember the spring,” related Angelina. “Now, this morning, as we wash our faces in the dew, I remember! And now I know, and how do I know—that life is good, especially good, when the west wind softly evaporates the morning droplets from our bright faces.”

“Indeed,” replied Peter, “I am always amazed, year in and year out, when, in spring, Nature reinvents the world of vegetation.”

The moon never could get used to being ignored in the early spring when men’s eyes turned ever downward to the up and coming crocus. So, the moon burst forth with tales before they could grow stale. First, the moon sliced through the clouds and cut them to shreds. Next, clouds in the other half of the sky went black with the sun behind then and the morning bells began to chime. And on a new spring day, snow fell from the midst of the moon—flakes like fine willow flowers, like shreds of silk torn from the clouds. The old moon man blew it this way and that until we could hardly see from here to there. “O moon,” said Peter, “how little faith you have in us! Did you really think that we could forget you? “Angelina, my Queen,” asked Peter. “What words do you have for us on such a snowy day?”

“Well, my King, I say to you that April has long been classified as portion of winter, not of spring and that an April blizzard is not unexpected; furthermore, the winter, like death, seizes on men whether prepared or not; and that May, like the virgin of Virgo, will quickly work her spring charm into the embrace of winter’s icy arms such that all shall be warm and flowery for us. Even now the wing’d musicians do sing to entertain the bashful spring. Now, sit down and hear the snow melting under Nature’s eye in the sky. Put your drink in the shade so it will stay cold as the bright light melts the cold ice. And listen: The rivulets run down to the shore; the trickling is heard by us as we are laid sunning in the snow. Great white beasts lumber through the sky as clouds and then disappear at twilight.”

Replied the moon, “Now chose your mate, the joyful spring to celebrate.” And so went the lunacy of spring fever.

The flowers of the woodland were still ever present, even with the coming of the tree leaves that spelled their doom by their shade each spring. The forest floor was strewn with oxeye daisies, viper’s bugloss, dog-tooth violets, larkspur, bloodroot, fairy-lanterns, and lizard-tail—wildflowers all.

Planets already bejeweled the upcoming summer sky if you stayed up late to see them. Saturn and Jupiter escorted Spica across the heavens, and the great spring Kite sailed high in the sky, pulled along by Arcturus, while the Great Hook dredged up islands from the sea in the south. Orion was behind the sun, but the Great Bear had come out from his winter’s lair of the Northern Crown. On these nights the Virgin part of the sky was sprinkled with galaxies as carefree and generously as the small wayside flowers of May, and Castor and Pollux hung like a set of eyes just above the fading twilight.

Somewhere In Time

Many more seasons of middle age came and went for Peter and Angelina. And, for all of their thoughts of impending mortality brought on by the entrance into late middle age, Peter and Angelina sailed on in their youthful relationship through many more wonderful decades of love. We rejoin them very late in their elder years. (All of you, dear readers, must live and write the years in between.)



In their old age Peter and Angelina were still somewhat sprightly since they had eaten right, stayed out of direct sunlight, and had got-ten plenty of exercise from tennis, walking, and lovemaking, but life, too, had taken its toll and so they needed extra sleep at times, plus much loving care through illnesses, and enjoyed a slower gentler style of adventure and passion, but even all the more they could pause now and appreciate life’s wonders at this slower pace—and observed in a new light what they had sometimes raced past in their youth when they were as fleet afoot as deer.

Now the mountain had to come to them—they felt comfort in its bulk—and the old memories welled and made each day bright. They had to move back into town since the farmhouse became too remote for them. There they again played hearts, rummy, and bridge on the porch of the old Victorian home where they’d met a lifetime ago, when Peter had somehow found her.

“How was your life?” Angelina asked Peter as they slowly rocked back and forth on the porch swing.

“Very fine,” answered Peter, “and if I had to live it once more I’d love you all over again.”

“And another round for me, too.” she added. “Hear, hear!”

“Ditto.”

“Let’s take one last walk like we used to years ago, if we can,” Peter requested.

“Yes, let’s roam again, Peter, even though it may take us all day—let’s take an autumn stroll through our old woods which we’ve now made into a nature reserve and sanctuary.”

“Yes, I’m feeling extra energetic today for some reason.”

“Me, too. Perhaps it’s our last hurrah, Peter.”

“I think so.” Angelina and Peter, already in very old age, somehow were able to take a long stroll into the forest that they had known long long ago…

It had been an unusually long autumn, and now, on a warm day in early November, a few leaves yet hung upon the trees, having drunk deeply of the excessive warmth and moisture that had prolonged the season. But there was frost on the morn and most of the ducks had flown, so there was a certain feeling that this day would be Peter and Angelina’s farewell to autumn.

They’d often sought refuge here from the noise of day in the quiet recesses of the nature sanctuary, languishing here on those legendary summer afternoons when down by the creek they’d play where no one but the fisherman knew. There they’d eat lunch and read new poems to each other and then lounge through the afternoon with naught but the wandering airs as a warm blanket. But now the second season blossoms were raising their final cheer.

They broke open a bottle of apple cider and gave each other a sip. They soon found the path and followed it as best they could, often having to sweep aside the pesky briars with a stick, deftly giving way to the poison ivy. Stopping to untangle some prickers and stickers, they stood on a high ridge and looked down hundreds of feet to the creek below and slightly shuddered with the sight, imagining the length of the fall. Angelina picked up a clutch of leaves, crumbled them in her hands, and they both watched as the pieces fluttered down. Peter, a boy again for a moment, threw a rock into the water.

The partners walked single file, taking turns leading the way, kissing as they passed, stalking along the ridge much as the Indians once did after they’d made this trail a long time ago. The agèd lovers labored over the fallen trees and branches; however, they quickly became energized by this steady exertion, and eased themselves along the well worn trail, passing a quaint wooden bench overlooking a bluff. Here they stopped, as they always had, and ate a little snack of nuts and raisons.

A familiar hillside sloped down from the trail to the creek, and here they headed down, slipping and sliding most of the way, sometimes holding onto branches for a little guidance and for braking. They came to a level spot near the shore where the view was blocked by some fallen trees. Here they made camp, first gathering leaves for softness underneath, and placed a blanket over the gaps in the openings between the fallen trees to shield them from the night winds, and finally, unzipped each of their sleeping bags and rejoined them into one large one.

Here the weary hikers rested, as from a torrent of everyday life, as when riding its waves at crest one must retreat to some deeper place, where the wellspring calls, and look into its depths to find that higher source, and hear by some inner sense against it pressed. So it was that they read and wrote for awhile.

Up above they could see the blue sky between some of the yellow leaves that yet remained on the branches. Now and then a grasshopper was discovered on the log next to them and they were glad to have such a visitor. Ducks and geese flew overhead and all they could hear was the wind in the trees. Supper was a chicken club sandwich with apple cider.

The warmth of the day flooded all about them during the afternoon. Peter picked up a beetle in his hand, along with an assortment of little sticks and twigs. He also found a chrysalis, probably containing a glow-worm or a butterfly. Now and again a bald eagle would dive and catch a fish from the creek. The extended autumn had given them a sort of second spring in which they could bloom again with the fall flowers, rare as could be, like some Heaven descended in which they, too, might one day again raise up their cups to toast where no one knows. Peter felt all abuzz, as a bee might feel in the presence of his rosy partner and Angelina was once again in flower.

Memories from a half a century ago flooded over them like a warm quilted comforter. Once again they inhaled the perfumed air and drank the clear cold water from the stream. Long they lay in the embrace of love, awash on their love drenched shore, and in their passionate intensity lost track of the world around them, having by then floated free of their senses, and were then quite surprised to look up and see a rabbit and a dove sitting right beside them—the fabled wildlife of the nature sanctuary. And it was on this remote shore of human soul that they felt restored in life and spirit, having learned long ago that love was the only flame that lit this endeavor on earth.

The sun was setting early, as it was wont to do on a November day. They looked up, dumbstruck by the silence of this change whereby the breezes suddenly fainted, dying in the half light, as all around them, in some sort of caress suspended, the departing day softly kissed the arriving night—and it was for this moment that the airs had slowed, now waiting for those lovers to brood and hold back the death of dusk, if just for little while, for the night’s dark shadow was terribly ponderous and pending. Dead calm descended, and for those timeless instants, stretching on into moments, they, too, felt neither here nor there, but in twilight.

The day’s gold turned into a jeweled night of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, like autumn’s last fireflies sparkling in the sky, soon though, perhaps, to turn from stars into snowflakes. One last word in her journal, Angelina wrote, just before she closed it for lack of light: “Jack Frost is here, for I have seen the hooded crow.”

A chill swept the air and they quickly bundled into the sleeping bag, warm within, as in each other’s arms they lay. They said good night and good-bye, too, and soon drowsed fast away, like two insects, hibernating in a fluffy cocoon; while, somewhere out in the woods, the season’s last crickets found that they could sing no more, and the frogs headed for the bottom of the pond.

Peter died a few days later, at age 92, on a soft autumn night, while sitting on the porch of the sandstone farmhouse. Angelina was at his side, as always. A few minutes before, a singing bird had landed on the railing, the Bird of Time, and Peter had turned to Angelina and had said, “I have to go now. I love you.”

And she’d whispered to him, “Come back to me, Peter.”

Peter smiled, finding serenity even in death, and breathed his last breath—happy to the last, as the Angel of Light came and blessed him. The soft winds murmured a dirge as darkness fell, and the flowered canterbury-bells rang their funereal tunes.

Peter was buried two days later in the rural cemetery, and, after all the eulogies had been said, and after the grave had been covered with dirt, and after everyone had gone home, only one person remained behind, Angelina, and she lay down on Peter’s grave to die, ready to melt into the dust and intermingle with his throughout all eternity.

After a day or so, she got up, or so it seemed, irresistibly drawn by the enchanting tune of a nightingale, and as such she became encased in the magic of its song, as a sheen was formed around her into a transparent dome—she protected therein from the elements. From this invisible and charmed haven, she could again see into the life of things as she watched Old Autumn making his last rounds, and she soon saw the pine trees throwing down their cones as winter came. The elves themselves, now visible to her, lay down to sleep, cuddled into the fluffy beds of wild clematis. The snow fell for several weeks, although the winter blossoms still sprouted on the blackthorns, and then the nightingale, having transferred its power to Angelina’s encasement, impaled itself on the thorn, turning the blossoms red with the life that fled. And all the while Angelina could see the spot where Peter lay buried—like some kind of flower bulb—awaiting a new birth in some far and distant spring.

Then, for a while, her spirit soared, like that of her angel namesake, as she met Peter’s soul at the Gate of Heaven, where he told her as he entered, “I’ll be back—your love will bring me back. Find me as I found you.”

Back down to earth, having been returned to her enchanted shell, Angelina felt the love he’d left behind, and it brought her warmth and comfort in her apparently endless vigil, the time moving slowly at first. However, soon the months seemed to pass by in an instant, as all the while the bird’s song yet reverberated within her. Seasons came and went, the landscape changing around her as in time-lapse photography. Trees sprouted in the fields like grass; the sun raced through the sky in a perpetual afterglow of a golden arch; even the thousand year old yew trees grew. Weeds covered the flower gardens and grew up through the porch of the old farmhouse.

Yesterday turned into yesteryear. Two decades passed.

Each day Angelina grew younger in her nether world, the aches and pains of the years falling away like so much chaff. At age 24 she was released from her crystal dome and stepped out into a cold white winter. Surely all the world was dead—but, suddenly, a snowdrop flower appeared in the heat of a tombstone as a fairy stood over her grave—“‘tis not dead” the fairy said, and with a wave of a wand an early spring began, Angelina sprouting back into life like some kind of winter jasmine. The elves then blew their pipes to awaken all of nature. Double-daisies of double love sprouted all over the rural cemetery in the memory of Peter and Angelina’s love. Kisses grew on the bushes as bits of blossoms from someone dear—from the one who had died and given his fragrance to the night.

Angelina had to find Peter—she could feel his living presence out there somewhere in the world. Not knowing where to go at first, she let her instincts guide her, just as his had led him to Rhinecliff to find her. The crow landed at her feet and she followed it to the old train station, the trains now running magnetically one hundred feet off the ground in order to allow people better access to the pure clean river. She boarded a southbound transport and got off at Fishkill for reasons unknown.

In Fishkill, which was now a borough of New York City, she walked through the crowds, arriving at an Electronic Art Center where a meeting was going on. She stepped inside and immediately felt an electricity and a chemistry emanating from a man who was painting at an electronic easel—one who suddenly stopped and looked at her intently. Peter looked a bit different than before, younger, of course, but then she herself looked in a mirror and saw that she, too, was younger, and a bit different looking. She hesitated, sure but nervous, and then walked toward him as all the room seemed to watch her.

“Where is that scene that you’re painting, that farmhouse?” she asked him.

“I’m not sure,” he answered, “I’ve never been there—the scene just sort of keeps coming to me as an artistic vision—it seems as if somehow I’ve always known of it.”

“That retreat is the sandstone farmhouse where we used to live, Peter. I’ll show it to you this afternoon… ”

“… Angelina! You’ve returned and you’ve found me—I knew you’d come back someday! It’s been a long time.”

“I came as soon as I could—I was preserved and given youth in a crystal dome in some sort of fairyland during all the while that you were growing up through your new boyhood into the man you are today.”

“Your vision was with me always, Angelina—I remember more and more of us with each incarnation. It’s getting easier. I remember now being old, and dying in your arms on the front porch on that autumnal night. Our love—was so strong—”

“—that it brought us back for yet another encore.”

“We are the triumph—”

“—of life, love, and being.”

“I feel so alive, so invigorated, so satisfied, so loving.”

“We’re young again,” she answered, “younger than ever.”

TO ANGELINA


Your figure is like a tree,

Bending with surges of wind,

Calling your arms unto me.


Your passions are unsinned,

The perfection of my fancy;

Of my ideals you are twinned.


Your spirit is of eternity:

All-pervading, never-ending,

Comforting in its certainty.


Your love rises on the wing,

Singing Heaven’s rhythm there;

Vibrations sweep my heartstrings.


You’re touching me everywhere

In all ways; within and without;

You fan my flames—they flare!



Your soft lips’ sensual pout

Draws me into the depths—

Sweetwater puts my fire out.


Flames rekindle by your breath

When your breasts rise and fall,

As ripe fruit on the tree are blest.


Your eyes gaze—to me they call;

They are deep, glowing, bright;

Therein, I see forever and all.


Like the day snuggling the night,

Your being merges with mine,

Mingling in magical twilight.



Your visions of love match mine;

Often I have dreamt you up—

Now you’re here, lovely and fine.


You’re the elixir that fills my cup,

Love’s essence distilled into being;

The scented breeze lifts me up.


This perfume is love fleeing

From you as you give it away

With kind grace all foreseeing.


Now take us to where we’ll stay,

To the forest home built for us—

Where nature is and lovers play.



— 5 —


—— VIRTUAL TIMES ——


— Peter and Angelina in the Nether World —

Each morning as I awake I can just barely remember her. Even as I rub my eyes she becomes but a shadowy recollection, although a most pleasant one, as my day begins anew. I don’t even know her name, yet I see her almost every night. All I know is that I love her dearly, for how could I not?—I’ve created her in the most perfect, loving image that I could imagine. She is a dream. As the morning wears on she is still with me, a faint glimmer of being in my heart, a mere shadow of the love I felt at daybreak. As the day grows bright into noon my remembrance of her dims into vagueness. By late afternoon she is but a wisp of near nothingness; yet, I still can feel her presence—a joyous fulfillment—as if she had somehow snuggled into my being and merged into me. But, who is she?

Well, she seems to be every woman I’ve ever known, yet none in particular. Even now I am having trouble rebuilding her image. If only I had a clear picture—it all seems so hazy now—if only I could remember. Somehow I must see her distinctly, and more importantly, remember the vision. But how can I become alert, awake, and sober of thought in a dream?

Alas, several nights flew by and I did not dream of her, but, then, finally, on one intoxicatingly drowsy night, I saw her again—and I lived and loved with her as if there were no tomorrow; however, all too soon the morrow broke, and she waned, lost to me again. Although she was so vivid, at first, she faded into evanescence. This time, though, I managed to write down her description, and by that evening that depiction was about all I had left.

Although the image had withered fast, I was now able to resurrect her, using my hasty description, even though it was made with an all too sleepy hand. For awhile I could capture her as such, but again her image faded all too quickly.

Many thoughts ran through my head the next night, turning into ghostly visions and non-sensible hallucinations of a most illogical character; that is, I was dreaming, but she was not in any of the scenes. If only I could bring some order and sense into the noisy mosaic of my random and wandering thoughts. Other thoughts waited in the wings for their appearance on the stage of the absurd, and they soon tumbled and stumbled across the dream scene, had their moment, then passed on into oblivion, apparently never to return. Of course, I saw them all pass, but I was only a paralyzed spectator, and, since a good part of my mind was quite out of it, I noted nothing unusual in the chaos and therefore had believed it all to be quite real and normal.

The weeks crawled by, and I don’t believe that I saw her, but if I did then I must have just as soon forgotten her, but somehow our love seemed to live on, but only as an idea painted in me, and so our love life was practically non existent. Then I had a great idea: if she wasn’t going to show up, then why couldn’t I just conjure her up! Yes! I’ve been a fool all of these days—why didn’t I think of this before?

I prepared myself well, and it took several days of practice: I went to bed relaxed, after a warm bath, and thus quite easily discarded the worries of the day. Then I reviewed the script in my mind, going over it and over it many times. I repeated to myself one thousand times: Control your dream. The dream images are not real although they seem to be so. You can do anything in your dream; you can control it. It is only a dream. Tell yourself therein that it is only a dream. Grasp the idea and become lucid. You can do anything in your dreams—you can go anywhere, see anyone, have anything—if you can only realize that it is a dream and then direct the dream accordingly. And so forth, I said such things, over and over and over and over.

I repeated the words while I tried to picture the most utter and complete blackness—and it was there that I etched the words rehearsed above so that they would remain there as a message to me after I slept—to be received by my normally unbelieving dream self, that drowsy mind that never questions the illogical, that mind that sees and interprets every dream literally because it all does seem so real—because the model of reality used in dreams is the same exact model used when we are awake!

I looked forward to the night with much anticipation. I wondered if dream images were really sharp and distinct, or if they were vague, as they seem in remembrance. Well, soon I would know.


“It is only a dream… ” These were the last words that I heard before drifting off into that fabricated netherworld in which I hoped to script, direct, produce, and star in any story that I could dream up. And there, in my dream, the etched thought “that I was dreaming” did indeed occur to me. What a revelation it was! What a realization! Still, it seemed to be so far-fetched and so amazing that I refused to believe it at the time. Damn! I was so close.

Why didn’t I believe it? Because everything in my dream was clear and sharp and colorful like a perfect image of reality itself in three dimensions—an exact match to reality itself, a genuine reconstruction, a true virtual reality!

The next night I was again haunted by the echoing thought that “I was dreaming”. I still wasn’t convinced, but at least I took some cautious control, anyway, so that I could try an experiment: I went down to the kitchen in my dream and poured some milk on the floor, much as it pained me to do so. As soon as I woke up the next morning I rushed down to the kitchen and saw that the floor was clean! This gave me confidence. I was finally making some progress in dream awareness and control. I was learning to detect the dream state.

The following night I dreamt again, realized that it was a dream, and again took control. This time I rearranged all of the wonderful items that were on my bedside table, but, of course, when I woke up, they were still untouched, having remained in their original positions.

I was getting close, for I was starting to believe. I had to be careful though, before I did crazy things in my dreams, for one must be absolutely convinced beyond certainty that a dream is indeed a dream—lest one fall into harm or become inhibited out of fear of breaking laws or dying.

The next night in my dream I wondered again “if I was dreaming” when I was flying down the street about twenty feet in the air. At last the logical portion of my brain fully “awoke” and said to me, “You are flying down the street twenty feet off the ground; this is impossible and ridiculous; therefore this must be a dream!”

So, for the first time ever I was thoroughly and utterly convinced to the core of my being that I was dreaming. Now I could begin some serious research. Yes, I was actually there in my next dream, living it and observing it all at the same time. Instead of flying straight to Hawaii, I first wanted to inspect my surrounding—to minutely analyze the dream model and images. So, I made a conscious and definite effort to look directly at everything in the scene. As I flew through my neighborhood I looked closely at each house, and I saw that every part was perfectly in place: every shingle and nail, every blade of grass distinct, every leaf and branch vivid; in fact, every single detail, including color, was identical to that of real life and was indistinguishable from it! What a discovery this was!

I flew high and low. The reconstruction of my street was perfect—no wonder that dreams seem so real, for they practically are. Of course, dreams also seem hazy, but that’s only because the recollection itself grows hazy over time; but, I’ve found that, if you write your dreams down upon awakening, you will find later, upon reading about them, that they will remain vivid and can be fully recalled.

And so it was, that after many months of such patience, discipline, and use of dream notes, I was able to do whatever I wished in my dreams: I traveled; I ate delicious food (and gained no calories from it); I met wonderful people; I even formed plays and movies in which each player performed totally in character (many were quite unlike my own character; yet all their performances must have from my own hidden talent), and scene after desired scene rolled by in 3-D Cinemascope and Technicolor.

I could now do anything that a God could do; for example, I invented and ran Universes, but, now it was time to find her—the phantom woman who had initiated my dream quest in the first place. She came easily into my vision and I saw her clearly for the first time.

She was the perfect woman—she was my dream girl! I saw her plainly; somehow I knew her, I loved her, for, she was made for me. She was a composite of all the women that I had known and loved, plus all that my my heart’s ideal had molded into being. Why should I ever wake? Why indeed. Reality is harsh, and perhaps I had just stumbled onto Heaven. Well, one must wake to live—to make one’s dreams come true for real, and to gain input for further dreams, which, in turn, will give even more life upon awakening. And so it was that I found the perfect woman in real life, Cynthia, when my dreams took wing, but, that’s another story, related in our journal.

Yes, we all have to sleep, and we must do so every night, so, why waste it? It is Heaven on earth, it is the perfect world—one in which no debts are owed, where infinite power awaits, where you can have all that the mythical afterlife has to offer. Try it. See you in my dreams!

_______________________

She awoke that morning from a dream, fresh with that free and wondrous feeling that lies at the heart of life’s exhilaration and glory; but, soon the returning waves of stifling reality swept over her like a sickness, smothering her in the dread of another hopeless day amidst the ruins of anxiety and depression.

She dragged herself out of bed. She was like a doomed ship, drifting in the storm’s aftermath under a moon pale and wan, her sails tattered and torn before the relentless wind of existence.

The dream had seemed so real, but it, too, had wilted in the heat like a flower that had lost its precious gleam of morning dew. But the hull must drive on, musn’t it, she thought, though the mast be broken… No! No more! I will end it all Tonight I will end my life! She spent the whole day planning it.

Yes, she would scuttle her ship—her car—and sink within it to the bottom of the sea, a river, really, and drown, with a sigh and a groan, devoured by forces too large to fight against.

So, she drove her car towards the cliff near the bridge. She drove faster and faster. The waters called to her—their cool and refreshing depths invited her in. “Come to me,” some deathly voice whispered in her ear, “Come to me and find everlasting peace. Come and sleep with me in the endless night. Let me cover you with my ebon wings, in darkness, for it is eternal and complete.”

“No, no, not thee!” she cried aloud. “I cannot go with thee, not with evil!”

She drove her car to the edge of the cliff, having stopped just short. Her mind was now drinking in and savoring the blue and green world that was reflected in the river. This sort of sparkling day was not the kind of day on which she could end it all. As she looked deeper and deeper into the water she began to drift into a dream-world of her own making—a fantasy fairy-world in which her ideals could live on, untainted by the reality of this mediocre world. A voice called to her. Visions of Camelot danced in her head. Mythical fantasy-worlds and legends beckoned to her, seemingly from all directions. An inner voice called to her, the sweet voice of someone who she could love.

She had often retreated to this storybook world, but now she would take it a bit further: she would plunge into it, live within its splendor, and reside mostly therein—before all else. Yes, this dreamland would be her final refuge. The fairyland called to her daily; it would be the realization of all of the imagined perfections that she had always brought to mind when the real world had so often failed to meet her expectations.

She freed her mind from many of its real life shackles and began to dream more freely, though still awake. “I’ll breath life into you, my little voice,” she said to herself, as the noise of her consciousness slowly faded away. Her imaginary world came into focus. She could now paint it with the colors of her dreams, creating a life closer to the heart’s desire. She felt like a Goddess, being able to create life at will in her dreams. This is when she created him. This is when she brought him to life by giving him her own essence. However, his existence was his own to have, and so he knew nothing of her as his creator but only that he was alive in a beautiful and perfect world. She had built him in her soul’s own image; she had molded him from her heart’s wishes. She fell in love with him, of course, for she could do no other.

“Come into my dreams,” she would say to conjure him up, “Come into my dreams, and then by day I shall be well again,” for she was using lines from the romantic poets she had read.

He was a good and decent human being, for how could he be otherwise with her ideals brought to life in him. He gave fully of himself in life and love, always placing his partner’s happiness and fulfillment above his own. Their relationship was driven by love alone, and they celebrated it often in her dreams. Yes, she had, at last, found the love that the real world had so often denied her, for she had created a new and better reality.

Yes, he did feel sadness at times, too, for she could not totally submerge that part of herself, but it was subdued in him and so the sadness was only used as necessary to enhance the beauty of their love via its sheer contrast and brightness. She, too, gave all that she had to him, watching over him and loving him deeply, utterly, and completely.

Nothing could hurt him in this special world. He was impervious to pain, cold, fire, and sickness. Once he was fatally shot in a war, but he didn’t die because it was from her spirit that he drew his life principle, and of course she had willed him to live on. Another time, he was hit by lightening, but as we have seen, a dream can never die, and so it was that he arose alive and well from the smoldering embers. He never got sick and seldom had a headache. “Everyone should have the best in life,” she said to herself, “and in my world there can be no suffering.”

Each night he would come, saying, “I arise from dreams of thee.”

“Kiss me, my dearest phantasm,” she whispered, “and hold me ever dear; shelter me from the evils and the melancholy of the torturous world; show me the true meaning of love that the real world has forgotten! Come into my dreams, and then by day I shall be well again.”

Knowing not that he was her dream image, he never doubted his own existence and happiness; however, when she didn’t think of him or when she slept, he disappeared temporarily until she awoke or thought of him again. So, when she slept or daydreamed, he existed, and when she was awake and not daydreaming, then he slipped into that oblivion which he knew only as sleep and quiet slumber, Death’s kinder brother. He was the day to her night. He arose from her dreams of him—much like the mountain rises from the depths of the valley. Without her, he could not be; without him, she could not be. The circle was now complete, the link was closed—they had become two locked boxes, each of which contained the other’s key.

The fact that he only existed as a dream in her mind took nothing away from their relationship, for their love was true and the feelings were felt as deeply as they would normally have been felt in the real world—as anyone who has dreamt can readily attest to, for, ultimately, it is what we feel that matters, not the source that causes the feeling—for all feeling comes from within.

He did wonder, sometimes, about just how good and lucky his life was, about his having almost super powers at times, but, he concluded only that he led a charmed life which stemmed from an inner happiness that constantly poured forth visions in positive creative images that bred good fortunes. Indeed he did, for she had given him that power—a power that had come from somewhere within her. He was her twin, yet also her opposite, for somehow she had given him an enthusiasm for life which she didn’t seem to have herself. He was a reflection of her image in which his outward vision mirrored her inward hope.

Consequently, he blossomed with creativity in art, music, and writing, as she continued to maintain him as both his protector and his inspiration, although, as we have seen, he certainly did have free will, for he knew not the source of his creation nor of the tendencies placed into him.

They lived and loved together, allied and alloyed in a soft metallic night, blending into the golden oneness that love had always promised but had never before delivered. He was born with the inclination of goodness—so she never had to possess him or demand from him.

Life blossomed now, and some of this exuberance did indeed surface and show itself back in the real world, but in the end she still found her real life to be the cold harsh reality that it had always been. So, she called him back to her dreams, again and again. Here they were free to love and live fully, their chemistry sending out invitations of love which were soft, sweet, and smiling on the rising air, a spray of liquid love, mystified, filling the scene with a vaporous perfume of well-being everywhere: they were up, warm, and floating on the clouds of dreams. Their passions smoldered like incense, and burned like the candle’s flame; they consumed each other often, yet continued to have endless love to give, their passions always seeming to reach new levels, then expanding even more, building, ever building.

Now and then, of course, she had to attend to events back in the real world, but it really wasn’t so bad there anymore because she knew that she had something good to look forward to in her dreams. So, she went happily through the motions in the real world, feeling better and better as the days went by, but always looking forward to the chance to dream him up again, when she would say softly to herself:

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again!

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.


Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times,

A messenger from radiant climes,

And smile on thy new world, and be

As kind to others as to me!


Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth,

Come now, and let me dream it truth,

And part my hair, and kiss my brow,

And say, ‘My love! Why sufferest thou?’


Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again!

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

(—Matthew Arnold)

She again faded off into dreamland… And there he was. Just the sight of him would bring the world to a stop, for she could only concentrate on him. When she looked at him, the birds’ song fainted on the moving air, the night breezes stopped their motion, and the moon’s radiance shone no more—for her heart had welled up within and had merged with his own. She felt herself being drawn into the dream of love in which there was only one overwhelming and all consuming feeling of glory and peace and unity.

But then, during one rainy night back in her real world, when she was driving in a storm along the cliff road around a curve, where she had once contemplated suicide, her car skidded and flew off the side of the water slicked road, falling three thousand feet, and crashed hard and straight into the rocks below and exploded in a fiery wreck.

The flames licked at her for hours, but she felt no heat. All her bones should have been crushed in the fall, but they weren’t. She did not even bleed. There was no pain. She arose from the car’s wreck unharmed, and walked away. It was then that she realized that she, too, was a character in someone’s dream …


… She did not even bleed. There was no pain. She arose from the car’s wreck unharmed, and walked away. It was then that she realized that she too was a figment of someone else’s imagination.

“Who dreamest me?” she cried to the sky. “Reveal thyself! Who art thou? Who art thou that won’t even let me die!”

The heavens remained dumb, so she climbed back up towards the road.

Back at the top she again cried, “Who hast made me? Who?—Thy image is tainted!”

Visions of angels appeared in the sky. “You have a question for us?” they asked.

“Yes, what sort of God made me to suffer and toil in this sad world?”

“It’s a lovely and beautiful world,” said the angels, in chorus.

“OK,” she said, “I’ll play your game. Tell me now, who made this varied and sensual world of charm and grace and color? Who gave me intellectual beauty and those rare but beautiful waves of emotions which I have known and enjoyed for their breathtaking meaning and depth?”

“A good and loving spirit,” they said. “That’s our usual answer.”

“And who gave me freedom to love and live and grow, flowering free and fragile, though beautiful, but then withering, faded and forlorn in old age, like some evanescent dream?”

“It was the Creator of all life.”

“And who gave me sadness?”

“HE did,” they answered.

“And who gave the world hunger, pain, misfortune, sickness, death, worry, and unbearable calamity which drags us suffering to the grave?”

“He reigns,” they said.

“Give me his name!” she asked. “Who is he that does not even grant me peace in the grave?—for Hell awaits me there as a further torture, does it not.”

“He rules,” the angels replied.

“His name! I ask but his name—the name of one so cruel! Who is the one that would create man as a precious vessel, though imperfect, and then destroy this lovely creation by sickness and death in rage?”

“He is the One,” they said.

“Name him and let him be known for his vengeful name—for in my own fine dreams of a man I allowed no sickness, no pain—all was love and beauty! Who is he that is the source of my everlasting pain?”

“HE does not exist,” the angels finally said, “nor does the Devil, nor do we—all simply is as it is and so it ever shall be. It’s the way that the world happens to work. Therefore, all is right with the world. We angels are simply manifestations of your own thoughts. All that is truly real comes from within; nothing comes from without.”

“There is no creative deity?” she asked.

“There is none; there is only an unconscious spirit which is part and parcel with the universe, co-eternal with it and embodied in it as the principle of life in all things. It is the connectedness of all things, and exists far below the level of atoms.”

She didn’t know whether she was relieved or angry at not having anyone to blame for the state of the world.

“But whose dream am I,” she wondered aloud. “Who saved me from death?”

Another voice replied—the familiar voice of the man of her dreams.

“It is I who made thee, my beloved,” he said. “I dreamt of thee. You are the dream of my dreams—you are my ideal, for your love is so innocent and free!”

“No,” she said, “it cannot be, for it was I who made thee in my dreams.”

“Yes,” he said, “but my image was already in you, was it not? Who put it there? It was from that image that you gave birth to mine—but the real story is more like we have somehow made each other. I may be the day to your night, but you are the same to me when I dream of you. I am your opposite twin. Each of us cannot exist without the other.”

“I believe it,” she said, “although there seems to be no initial cause. Very strange though.”

“I see and dream of you, my dream woman, each night,” he whispered.

“We are indeed two souls, each of which opens the other,” she said.

“Yes, it is I who made you as you made me, from all that was already inside us. As your twin spirit I arose, given life only by your dreams. Oh please, let me live, for now I sustain you—I protect you and love you as you do the same for me. Now that I love you and want you, I need you.”

“If one of us dies,” she said, “then the other will perish also?”

“The valley cannot exist without the mountain. There can be no day without the night; there can be no beauty without sadness.”

“We are twin-opposites—as alike as dawn and dusk in our aspects; reflections, as it were of each other’s image—visions which truly exist in the mind, for all is real in the mind.”

“Day gives birth to night and then night gives birth to day. That is us and that is the cycle which created us, within which scheme it was not necessary for either part to come first, as with the chicken and the egg.”

“But we live neither here nor there. Does it matter? Now that we know that we’re just dream images how can we really live and love?”

“We can neither fully live nor completely die where we are.”

“What is deathless is also lifeless, although it is still a beautiful

work of art, such as the ideals that we see in a painting.”

“I can be as real as you wish me to be, as can you to me.”

“Some say it’s crazy to try and live a dream.”

“Some say it’s crazy not to!”

“Join my real world,” she said, “and I will join yours as well.”

“But your day is my night and vice versa. How can we meet?”

“We’ll meet at twilight dawn or dusk—the only time that night and day can touch.”

“I shall come,” he said, “leaving his dreamland forever and joining hers as her real life love.

She greeted the man of her ideals, saying to him, “I have wished you into being. My thoughts of you have colored my actions and have led me to find you in the real world—it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, an example of positive creative imagery.”

“It was indeed,” he answered. “Although here I shall at last know true sadness and death. But, also, I will experience higher levels of beauty.”

She said, no longer anxious or depressed, “When you’re open to beauty, then you become vulnerable to sadness. What I have finally learned, the hard way, is that they are inseparable in life.”

“Some people lead lives in which they are fat, dumb, and almost content.”

“Yes, they don’t live much, but then again, they don’t suffer much either. They’re immune to both beauty and sadness.”

“It’s like when you’re not with me. There is pain when I miss you, but for me, if I had no one to miss, then the pain would be greater.”

The new light of morning shone in that blessed mood that attends to the quiet intermingling of day and night in the dawn’s misty twilight. She came to him during morning twilight; he came to her at evening twilight. In between they dreamt of each other.

Each day forward was born in quiet innocence as their human hearts tenderly touched—open, vulnerable, and exposed, yet fully alive and beating. Days turned into weeks as they grew close together in the soft glow that was neither night nor day, but was somewhere in the nether world of half-light dawn or dusk. The morning brimmed with the freshness of life, its beauty spreading far and wide into every root and tendril. Life took wing from their these cocoons—an ugly caterpillar having magically transformed into a beautiful butterfly. Weeks turned into months. It was a dream within a dream within a dream. Faint images from dim shadows flickered and grew brighter. High noon came and showered its brightness into life’s every chamber. Now that they had felt the glory of reality, they would seek it always. From the months a life was made. Life was a dream. The afternoon sparkled and spread its gold to every living thing. Years of contentment rolled by.


The soft light of evening shone again, in that sacred mood that attends the quiet intermingling of day and night in the twilight of dusk. He came, as usual, saying:

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.


I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me—who knows how?—

To thy chamber-window sweet!


The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream,—

The champak odours fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream,


The nightingale’s complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

O, beloved as thou art!


O, lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.


My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats out loud and fast

Oh! press it close to thine again,

Where it will break at last!

(—Shelley)

He awoke that morning from a dream, filled with dread, dripping with sweat, wondering whether he had gone to Heaven or to Hell, and not knowing if he was truly awake or still in the midst of a nightmare; but, soon a calming wave of peace and quiet swept over him as he turned and saw that his dream lady was lying there next to him.

“I’m alive?”

“You were sick,” she said, “something you’re not very used to in my world, but you are recovering now. I suppose it’s a sign of age, for we’ve spent many years together now.”

“We’re getting old, aren’t we,” he continued. “Indeed, but we still have many good years left. Here, I’ll read you something from Wordsworth that he wrote in his later years:”

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind.

(—Wordsworth)

A shade passed from between them—a door between their worlds had opened to let their dreams pass through. One shooting star after another signaled these wishful events.

They awoke that morning from another dream—or perhaps they dreamt that they awoke—on the shore where they had once discovered the Spirit of the Earth. They rubbed the sand from their eyes and opened their minds to the day, being careful not to clear from them the shadows of dreamy visions. Their nighttime apparitions were soothing, calming, relaxing, real, tranquil, refreshing, restful, and peaceful—just like the water of the lake which still slept under the morning mist.

They had camped on the shore, in a mossy nook between some rocks. An overhang of trees protected them. They couldn’t see the sky, but they could see a reflection of the sky and its clouds in the water when the mist lifted. A reflected bird flew in a reflected sky. Water lilies floated in the heavenly mirror. Orange day-lilies nearby told them that that deep Summer was here. Haunting visions poured forth as they looked at the image of the sky in the water. Soft winds rippled the water ever so slightly and blew the branches of the reflected trees. Dreamy visions held them still a little bit sleep-eyed. Again their worlds had met at twilight. A lark rose from the water and flew into nothingness. Gossamer threads ran from rock to rock, seemingly attaching them to their dream world. Was it dawn or dusk? In half light, it did not matter.

“Which is real and which is an illusion?” she wondered.

“Do we sleep or do we dream?” he asked.

She answered with a poem:

Some say that gleams of a remoter world

Visit the soul in sleep, —that death is slumber,

And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber

Of those who wake and live—

(—Shelley)

Blossoms started falling from the trees and began to cover their feet. When a cushion had been formed, they sat down to prepare an imaginative breakfast of nuts and strawberries. Flowers gently cascaded onto them as their dreams took wing. They did eight impossible things like this before breakfast each and every day.

A unicorn wandered by, its existence fed only by the possibility of being. A chimera came forth and ate nuts and berries from their hands. Faeries danced between the flowers, caught only by a believing glance. Elves rode flying horses, and centaurs walked proudly down the path near them. These were the creatures who never were, all living in the land that never was.

They looked into each other’s eyes, reflecting on their thoughts. “I’m not sure what world we’re in anymore,” she noted. “Nor does it matter very much which side of the looking glass we’re on, for we are here.”

“It’s as if some ethereal beauty has descended over our thoughts, and lent a poetic vision to us,” he added, “a shadow of some divine perfection It is rapt, although a little vague, but I can sense its presence. Hear:”

—I look on high;

Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled

The veil of life and death? or do I lie

In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep

Spread far around and inaccessibly its circles?

(—Shelley)

The day soon came to life, and they saw castle builders laying stones, dream merchants giving away various unrealities, idealists realizing their ambitions, visionaries watching plans taking shape, ghosts and wraiths playing joyfully on the air, vapors forming and rising and then coalescing into forms, phantoms riding on the lighthearted breezes, will-o’-the-wisps sparkling over the water, and mirages becoming real at the slightest touch.

“I am so much enjoying our world,” she said. “Here, all things are possible—it is an oasis untouched by oblivion and regret, free from contagion, debt, worry, care, strife, and woe.”

And so they lived in the clouds, drifted into the Land of Nod, resided in Never-land, and made a home in the world of make believe. Twilight fell and brooded awhile at the shore. They looked at the water and saw therein a reflection of the sunset. Reflected fire burned through reflected clouds. A fish swam in the reflected sky.

She walked to the water’s edge and looked into it, expecting to see her reflection there, but she was surprised and pleased to see there his there instead.

“Come,” she said, “look! Come here to the shore.”

He walked down to the water and looked in, seeing not his own reflection, but a reflection of her instead.

“We have merged,” he said, “we are one. We will be strong now. We will survive in either world.”

— 6 —


—— FUTURE TIMES ——

In the year 2035, Peter and Angelina left the sealed community near Fishkill for good, knowing that they could never return, but felt ever safe from the new viruses in knowing that they would only be in contact with each other in the old sandstone farmhouse of the naturally purified forest. They had each always been isolated in their personality types, as had now been revealed through the insights of the new millennium, being Introverted iNtuitive Feelers, a mere one percent of the population—and especially isolated in school among the dutiful Sensing-Judging types, the competent iNtuitive Thinking types, and the playful Sensing-Perceiving types, until they met each other, that is, which was, by the way, a 1 in 10,000 chance. Peter would often joke to Angelina that he had to go through 9999 women to find her. And she would always say that no one ever loved her like Peter did since they could never understand her. Yes, the bonding of two INtuitive Feeling types certainly led to what others types might call a lot of ‘mush’, but in this age of pandemics there were advantages to being able to enjoy another person’s presence and fantasies twenty-four hours a day.

Other advances of the new age had brought to direct light the very biochemical nature of our being, with such old ideas of religious souls and other magical properties now long gone the way of alchemy, astrology, and the dodo bird. Clearly now, evolution, and all that it entailed, was appreciated by all but a few of the forever delusioned. Furthermore, drugs had been tamed to remove the worst of the aversive biological substrates from the mind, especially high anxiety, depression, obsession, and insane violence and, optionally, those unwelcome emotions that have always been forced upon us, such as jealousy. However, new and virulent infections still swept the body, especially in the year 2015 when over two billion died of EBL in Europia. But, at least, more and and more of the myths of past ignorances—no longer excusable in the Age of Information—had given way to the solutions of science and had gone far past the simple DNA revelations of the previous century. Indeed, the human genome had been mapped even in the late 1990s and now, some thirty years later, had inspired cures for cancer, leukemia, and almost every other genetic disease. Humans now had a life span of who knows how long, for it remained to be seen, and, if recent work on the aging preventative drugs came to fruition, perhaps one could live forever, for there were now drugs that lengthened the junk DNA that protected the ends of the DNA strands. As discussed previously, horrible and torturous emotions were seen for what they were, i.e., just spurious molecular events, and, so, serotonin re-uptake inhibitors became the new fluoride of the water supply so that the primitive and long useless negative feedback mechanisms in our central nervous systems could no longer send out thousands-of-years-old notices. Therefore, we could no longer be plagued by, for example, the horrid persistence of negative or anxious thoughts, that downward spiraling feedback loop which never led to anything positive. Blame itself had, of course, fallen, too, as it had to, after it had been proved that aggressive urges were not completely controllable due to the remaining chemical imbalances of the brain, but criminals were still locked up to protect society. Free will itself was still on shaky ground, but falling fast, as it was realized that the brain’s decisions are predetermined by memories, associations, and learned behaviors right up to the instant of ‘choice’; free will had, in fact, been declared nonsensical, as the ‘free’ in free will didn’t actually mean anything, for what good would be a brain that made random or semi random choices based on nothing? Many, of course, still thought that they had choices, such as, let’s say, taking up smoking, but, since those choices were only apparent, and not really ‘them’, and so they didn’t ever take those choices. Furthermore, it was discovered that 90% of what the brain did didn’t even reach one’s consciousness and what did reach consciousness came a startling half a second after the brain was done doing its thing, giving us, at the very most, perhaps, somewhat of a veto power (hardly ever taken), but showing that we were just executives and/or tourists along for the ride and certainly out of the brain’s deep and formative loop. Of course it is not so bad as it sounds. Even the self had been shown to be not intrinsic, but just a sort of narrative center of gravity that had no real and independent existence from the brain. You are your mind, in other words. However, the person as a whole was, at least, still real, and now, faced with all these revelations, was strangely free, not only from the superstitions and folk science of two thousand years ago, but also in the way that the existentialists had hinted at: free to create a meaning out of one’s life. Consciousness, at the end of the day, was seen to be a fundamental force, like space-time and energy, that reflected brain processes as information, albeit 300-500 milliseconds later. Animals had been long recognized as having consciousness, too, and feeling, like humans, although to a lower degree, and some, as such, like chimps, became as special and protected as humans and were granted personhood status. Luckily, science had developed tasty artificial meat, and so cattle and other animals no longer needed to be slaughtered by us who they would have surely regarded (if they could) as Hitlers.

People had come to see what was absolute, eternal, and the basis of all existence, realizing that all of the stuff in our world, including our minds and consciousness, is biological and is made of molecules—and they are made of atoms, which, in turn, are made of electrons and quarks, or both, from vibrating strings, perhaps—whatever it is that we call that which is bottommost—let us simply call it Energy, for the form does not matter—it may be a field, actual stuff, or some swirling energy that gives us an illusion of solidity, or even a vibrating string. What’s important is that it is the most fundamental and absolute substance, which implies that each and every composite system made from it is totally dependent on it for its existence—everything—even Gods. Energy, being made of itself, cannot be created or destroyed and was therefore eternal and omnipresent. This was called ‘G-O-D’, the Ground of Determination. Energy can, perhaps, even amount to ‘nothing’ and come from ‘nothing’. Perhaps ‘nothing’ is composed of opposite plus and minus aspects of this Energy. Perhaps ‘nothing’ is what our universe will eventually amount to, but, for now, somehow, positive energy prevails around here, since we are indeed here, and has separated from the negative and granted us a preponderance of plus-type stuff in our universe, antimatter being elsewhere, or, perhaps, the minus-type stuff is embodied in gravity’s power—it doesn’t really matter that much where it is. Clearly, what is really in charge of the universe lies beneath it all, not above it all. Anything above is composite and therefore not fundamental. What underlies our reality is much more eternal, omnipresent, absolute and creative than any supposed superbeing above it.

Furthermore, people realized that life is but a dream. What we think is hard reality in a dream is but a grand illusion. Sights are seen and sounds are heard, things are felt and touched, but do not exist as such, although, at the time, we would swear that they do. Random brain waves and memories woven from their frequency domains are real, although they come from static and noise that the brain uses to try to make sense of as best it can in its half-awake half-working state. We seem to feel and touch things in our dreams as well as taste and smell them, but they do not exist, as we realize when we wake up. Such it is when we are awake, as well. And, so, waking reality is an illusion, too. Basically, our vision interprets interference patterns. Sound and color waves exist, perhaps, somewhere out there, but it is our brain and consciousness that turn them into sound and color. Perhaps the externally viewed world is not even three-dimensional but that we are made to see it as so, a useful, but projected, illusion. All that’s really out there are, perhaps, something like differing frequencies and waves of light and sound and existence that originate somewhere else, as when a TV station broadcasts to a TV set tuner. Reality may be like a hologram, just as it is when we have night dreams. Matter, as we know it, may not even exist, just Energy, thus the new saying “Never matter, ever mind”. Why do twin photons emitted from subatomic collisions seem to still act as they are the same particle, for example, when polarizing one, the other polarizes to the same state even when it is farther than the speed of light can signal? Well, because they are still the same particle in some more real reality than ours, although not in our illusion of reality. Why does a photon shot at some holes go through every one of them unless we try to find out which one by measuring it? Because, in the quantum holographic world, all possibilities exist simultaneously, imposed upon one another, until our consciousness sorts out one path at random in our local illusion of reality. In our holographic universe, everything is connected to everything; there is truly a universe in a grain of sand. This connectedness is a form of rudimentary perception, so to speak, in and of itself.

Religion eventually collapsed, partly because of the wars and prejudice that it caused and because the science of two thousand years ago finally became obsolete and because life found on other planets had no such legends of God, but mostly because God was no longer seen to be a good role model and the divinity of Jesus came into question along with everything else—making it all a wishful myth. The Europeans began the abandonment and the Americas soon followed. The general analysis follows, and was, amazingly, published way back in 2004:

The current God of the Old Testament, an amalgamation of old Jewish legends of many imagined Gods rolled into one, is followed as a leader, but, I suggest, is in reality not a leader or a role model at all, and is not someone that we really, deep down, would really wish to follow, imitate, emulate, adore, or be like, He is an abuser, pure and simple. There is no way around it. God killed all life, excepting Noah and his family, in the Great Flood. This included all men, women, children and their pets. Furthermore, he erred in doing so since he is not all-knowing and supposedly created the rainbow to show that he would never do such a bad thing again. Although some would imitate his genocide, like Hitler, or Saddam, most of us wouldn’t. It was a rather large mistake for someone so infallible to make. “Whoops! I so easily wiped out everyone, but I won’t do it again”. Sure. How callous! God won’t even kill Satan, the total embodiment of Evil, but kills chil-dren and their kitty cats. There is no getting around this one with fancy cover-up words, like that he works in strange ways. Perhaps the bible is wrong? Of course it is—it contains only really old legends and superstitions. His Original Sin blamed us at birth for the sins of our ancestors, Adam and Eve. We don’t usually do this to people who have bad ancestors. This is dead wrong. Also, in Eden, he apparently wasn’t all-knowing in supposing that children certainly won’t want to touch that which they are forbidden to touch. Please don’t touch the apple. It’s was devious entrapment plan. Who would follow that example? He grants free will, only to take it back by threatening to burn us forever if our will does not match his will. We good people would not hold a gun to someone’s head and say accept me or die. In God We Fear, it seems, not In God We Trust. Benevolent Gods don’t punish and torture creatures they make. Would you? He just doesn’t honor his creations as he would honor himself. Even hoards and hosts of intelligent angels didn’t like him. The Christian concept of reward and punishment that is handed out by an omnipotent, omniscient God, is but derivative of the family experience, the child and parent—a conception of our world painted onto God’s. We didn’t ask to be born into rules and regulations and punishment.

The above actions are more like Satan’s—although Satan hasn’t done such yet—not a God’s. Not to mention why God allows the Devil to even exist to tempt our very human nature that God himself created in us. Doesn’t God abhor evil? Did he goof in granting us strong drives, only to say not to use them? Did he fill the glass of our human nature overflowing to the brim and then say not to spill it? Perhaps he is a rather poor craftsman, or is no good himself, for we are made in his image, he says. He tries to blame everyone (us) for all of his mistakes Would we good people do that?. He tells people, like Abraham, to sacrifice (kill) their children. All of the above is why many churches have abandoned God (of the Old testament) and turned to Jesus, a fine human, as their central figure—but, wait, who is he the son of or part of? God the Father. The problem returns. The vengeful one is still the leader. And how is his insanity explained away—by saying the he works in mysterious (insane) ways. This admits that he is terrible and not a good role model. Why did Jesus die for our sins when we merely—in the Catholic church—have to confess them and have them washed away forever. Not to mention that we did not even exist or commit sins when Jesus died for them. How arbitrary is it that the Jews say Jesus wasn’t even Godlike or even God’s messenger—and they were even there at the time. or that Islam says that Mohammed was the prophet, not Jesus. Or that the Mormons say that Jesus was in America for his first 30 years. Or that the Lutherans say that Mary was not special. Or committing the most heinous crimes and then being forgiven upon repenting, as the Catholics believe. Well, you get the picture—all the beliefs are arbitrary. The sad part is that many of the religious of one belief would be espousing some of these other beliefs had they been born into other religions. Beliefs are mostly geographical, familial, sociological, not to mention illogical, but, we often believe legends that are drilled into us. Jesus is a good human as are many others like Gandhi, Buddha, and Mother Teresa. There have been many such savior myths such as Jesus throughout the ages. People joining cults still fall for those who say they are from god and they always will. People want, want, want rewards and afterlife. The founders of the religions were all ‘divinely inspired’, but, were each told a different story; now we know that their visions were but psychotic episodes—hallucinations and voices. As for priest’s ‘callings’, only 2% of the world’s population tens toward schizo, but 17% of priests do. This is not even to mention that so many religions are contradictory in very major areas, and therefore as arbitrary as belief in Zeus or the Sun God. Are we religious because of geographical or sociological ‘learning’. Is religion, being a major part of culture, one of the differences that leads to so many wars? How intolerant are we of those who differ. Naturally, people like to think they are special and above the animals, but our DNA is 98% similar to a chimp’s. 95% identical to a gorilla’s. We are closer to chimps that chimps are to gorillas. Two of our chromosomes fused together and so we can no longer mate with chimps, their number of chromosomes now differing from ours by one. We are not so special afterall—this is the ultimate humility—to realize that we are part and parcel of the organic world, rare and smart, yes, but electrochemical biological beings. And what of the natural human need to explain the universe? We beg the question by assigning God to that cause and thereby only compose a larger problem: how do we explain God? A larger God? Suddenly, an even larger quandary doesn’t need answer-ing. The same answers that serve for God’s birth can serve for the birth of the Universe. Why add an extra step? Nor was the world created in six days—we can see 13 billion years into the past with telescopes, for that is how long the light took to reach us. As for no sex without procreation, this goes against all evolution. As for evolution, there is a fossil record beyond doubt. Now the Pope says no football or sports on Sunday—not that I would watch it anyway. We must really think hard if we wish to follow a non role model who is vengeful and controlling and punishing. Out of fear? But this is not how it is, really, for belief in God is but a superstition. I merely wish to point out the absurdities of it all. As for the church, they once thought that physical illnesses were caused by evil spirits and devils, for they didn’t know about germs and viruses. Do they fall into the same trap now with mental ills called sins? Does the Devil cause aberrant thoughts or does low serotonin cause it—the neurotransmitter that regulates mood—yes, indeed, strange moods are molecular events, nothing more, due to chemical imbalances in the brain. Even now, this is known. How many decades will it take the church to get the news? Add a low heart rate—meaning no anxiety or guilt—to someone, along with chemical imbalances causing unmanaged anger—and you have someone who may rob a gas station and kill. As for only allowing men to become Catholic priests and requiring them to be celibate, we know what unnatural results of child abuse came from that unnatural practice. Why discriminate against women? Would you? God needs a girlfriend. The Lord requires adoration and worship—would we do that if we made life or do we require that from our pets? Or would we just give love with no strings attached? Perhaps we wouldn’t if we had low self-esteem like the Lord. Let us adore and worship him over and over. He even gets jealous and envious of strange gods/idols before him. Why does he covet and require approval, adoration, worship and much praise Would we do that? And his emotional system with such temper outbursts! Like any system, it is composite and depends on what underlies reality for its existence, for these parts are needed to make a system. Perhaps he needs Prozac. In any case, he is NOT a good example to follow, much less adore.

Did he save you from a car accident, only to kill the poor sap behind you? Does he give you a sunny day for your wedding or give the farmer a rainy day for his crops? Did you beg for favors and get ahead by ‘cheating’, that is, having outside help, or did you make it on your own? Did you pick up litter on a beach because it was the right thing to do or because God might be watching? Who is the worst role model? God, who says “Vengeance is mine alone.” or a God who would say “You can take away all my powers but love”? The days are long gone when we had to revere the Sun God or be thrown out of the tribe, but that’s how adherence to superstition began. How about astrology? It is still followed. Think of how silly it is to believe in an invisible man up in the sky who never once even said a word. Or did he talk through Mohammed? Of course not. You don’t believe in Mohammed You get it now—even your superstition is arbitrary. God, or Allah, or Jehovah, or Yahweh, whatever his alias, is a terrorist and is wanted for crimes against humanity, and is certainly not a good role model to follow.

But, we are not here, really, to dissect the future any further (in another book, perhaps), but to glimpse if we may, one very brief and final encore by Peter and Angelina.

It was a snowy winter day in in the old sandstone farmhouse in the year 2035, and Peter and Angelina would pretend that it was the year 1945, a fantasy game they often played, 1945 being picked because it was a happy time just after World War II and because most of the United States had indoor plumbing by that time.

Of course in 1945 there was no detailed and local Weather Net and so they weren’t allowed to know (by the rules of pretending) that the snowstorm was coming or how many inches they would get—nor did they care to know anyway, for it put some of the mystery back into nature’s hands. They found an oldies station on the Radio Net and began dancing as the swing music filled the air. The snow was falling heavier now and so there was no way to go out until the plows came, for only the main roads had electronic snow melting beams, although in 1945 they still rolled the snow in some rural areas and then brought out the sleighs to ride on top of it. They stopped dancing for a moment and just held each other close, kissing and laughing because they always hibernated in winter anyway, snow or no snow. Another laugh was had in noting that Peter and Angelina had no TV to turn off, they not even owning one, for there was no TV in 1945. Nor could they use the telephone since they either pretended that they were too rural to have one or that it was a party line and was ever busy, but, then yet another laugh, since in current times they would always turn off their wrist phones anyway, ever complete in their isolation form the world’s trivial intrusions. Out in the yard was an old ‘56 chevy, close enough to the 40s, which was already half covered with snow and memories, and so this became their car, forgetting, of course, that they ever had personal magnetic transports.

They used the old gas range to make soup, for there would have been no microwave, and certainly no new thermal jet cookers in the postwar years. They sipped the steaming spoonfuls and gave the soup bone to their dog. Angelina allowed her ever lengthening long legs to slip out of her robe for Peter to note, since she was an incorrigibly romantic and sensuous woman in Peter’s presence, and Peter was always a consistent worker of miracles in her—they were an ever escalating feedback loop of love in operation. To an iNtuitive Feeler there is no such thing as sex—only love—deep, meaningful, all consuming love, with no holding back, its ultimate vulnerability made safe through the undeniable loyalty of INFJs to INFPs.

There was no going back, however, to the emotionally primitive times of the last century, for now the country’s entire water supply contained selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors and dopamine additives, and thus prevented all prolonged and useless emotional suffering, while preserving and enhancing all feelings that were good. The naturalist, for instance, was able to absorb with awestruck reverence scenes of overpowering sublimity far beyond the simple prettiness on offer before. A musician could hear and play music more exhilarating and heartfelt than anyone ever dreamed of; the celestial music of the spheres heard by the mystics was as a child’s toy flute in comparison. The sensualist discovered that what had decades ago passed for deep and passionate sex had been merely a pleasant prelude. Erotic pleasure of an intensity that flesh had never known was now enjoyable without guilt. A painter or patron of the visual arts was able to behold representative vision in a holographic reality of indescribable glory. And yet, throughout the ages there had always been those rare and mystical moments as described above for those in love, as were Peter and Angelina in their past life, and so now they rose above even this highest ecstasy of the day in their glory.

“Funny,” said Peter, “that in modern times, 95% of what we think we need was not even invented in 1945!”

“But love transcends all of these things,” said Angelina, as she led Peter up the stairs and into their bedroom done in sort of an Indian Palace style with veils hanging from the ceiling. Peter placed a pillow on the floor at the side of the bed and knelt on it, spreading her long red heeled legs apart so that he could worship at the place of the alpha and the omega, where the river met the sea, And all the while the phone could not ring and the doorbell would be ignored, as the big snow fell, nearly two feet, although they hadn’t known the amount beforehand, for here it seemed that it was always 1945.

“What is life?”

“To find the answer, one must live it fully.”



SENSE

In winter’s sleep I lay enrapt,

Safe in a chrysalis, thought-bound.

Oh, pleasures of the mind! Enjoy—

They’re intensely sweet to the depths.


Dreams rival the sense’s pleasures—

They’re alive even in the mind:

Within is as real as without;

Within is where senses make sense!


When I wished and dreamt fantasies,

Life lived in my sanctuaries—

Influenced not by the senses,

But by soul, heart, and memory.


Such waking-dreams must ever be fed

If they’re going to grow without. So,

As spring returns, dreams take wing—

The senses reign; the mind can rest.



The Last Light

We rejoin our namers of the rose in ‘The Triumph of Life, Love, and Being’ many centuries later, long after ‘Ageless Times’, around the year 2165 as they visit the place where it all began, each of then about 162 years old, the life span having been much longer by then. They are still very much together and have found the complete happiness that was inspired by the advice of the Book of Quatrains and the many other books that they wrote together. He and she have now become I and she, for the story’s narrator was, of course, also the participant.

It was on the last day of Indian summer that I approached the side entrance of the nature reserve, the one near the old graveyard, for we felt that the cemetery was a place that was both for the living and the dead. As I left our cabin and walked through the streets, I was saddened, though in a pleasant way, when I saw the last flowers of autumn still trying to push up through and around the leaves that the fall had everywhere bestrewn. In one garden there was a sundial, and an old man sitting silently next to it. In my mind I named him Care. The gentle old man nodded his ascent as I looked to pick some flowers to bring to her, my holy partner—while Care slowly marked the hours by the shadows that crept over time’s face.

Angelina was not with me, for she liked to wait in the cemetery—resting up against a tombstone and reading or writing the time away until I arrived at our afternoon rendezvous. My steps, therefore, hurried on through and over the cemetery gate now lying broken and rotting on the ground. Here the path rose up the hill where many had taken their last journey. Carrying my half of the supplies and sleeping gear, I walked up the hill, my steps heavy and plodding at first, but then lightening and quickening with the thought of my angel waiting up there. I picked up the nature path behind the tombs, braving the briars, the poison ivy, and the wandering brush that often obscured the trail.

I soon arrived among the tombstones, and there she was, as often as not, next to the empty grave of Jane Hamilton. We had always joked that perhaps Jane was now on the loose, but since then Angelina had adopted Jane’s last abode as her own, and was warming herself with the heat of the gravestone. Of course, had I not seen this scene before, I might have thought that “Here Lies Jane,” but I just smiled and kissed her awake, handing her the last flowers of the year.

Leaves began to flutter down on us as the wind rustled the trees, trees which probably weren’t even here when the cemetery was last used. There seemed to be no dates on the tombstones later than the eighteen hundreds, say 1875 or so. So, we rested in a place that had, perhaps, been forgotten forever.

Closing our eyes, we imagined the scene without the trees and the new growth, as it probably once was: a clearing covered with leafy ground plants which alone had still persisted. In our minds we saw a meadow on a hill where the stones stood proud, where Victorian hearse carriages from the gaslight era lumbered up the hill with the dead, their mourning processions coming on behind.

But, now, the gravestones leaned every which way, many of them cracked or in pieces, some even laying down flat, and many others not readable, the scene being much overgrown and under swept. Well, little by little, each time we came here, we’d start clearing the brush and righting the stones, and so we did that for awhile. We read some of the inscriptions engraved on the stones:

The first, its dates denoting an infant’s short smile of years, read,

It was so soon that I was done for

that’s it’s a wonder what I was begun for!

Another said, apparently from beyond the grave,

My death is separate from life

By just a breath.

Another said, with somewhat dry humor,

Please turn down your cup to my thirsty lips.

Another, of a local writer, words resting in print, read,

Whither has flown the spirit from the dead,

But rests here as the soul in all I’ve said.

The last one showed a picture of a raised glass and said,

Take Heavenly sups from your earthly cup,

And live your life while the wine flows red.

We took this last one as a sign to move on, saving the other inscriptions for next time, being careful as we walked not to fall into any of the empty or sunken grave sites. We broke open a bottle of apple cider, gave each other a sip, and then, thinking back, of Omar, poured a few drops of our precious drink into the ground.

Refreshed, we wandered among the tombs, using some as stepping stones and quickly ran on out of the back of the cemetery, where we soon lay asleep in the old caretaker’s hut. We dreamed of a world white in the moonlight—of a crystalline cathedral built from falling stars in the holy night. It was then that agèd Winter came, looked at us while we slept, and cried down his crystal tears on us; for, our youth and beauty had made the old man mourn for summer’s love—for the waving wheat and corn, and, even more so for the late autumn mild, who, withered, wan, had just now passed on, taking us both with him, leaving the earth a widow, weather worn.

— THE END OF THE STORY —

THE AGE OF JUNE


Now June embodies us—

It is the hinge of season and of life,

So—take heed, fond man,

And pass some few years

As the full blossom of the June rose,

For, these are rare times now.


Soon enough comes the autumn of care

Sobering into age, thence into

The pale white winter of death,

And not yet the warm indolent summer

Of contentment lazing into mid-age,

Though surely past is the crisp,

Flowering youth-spring of joy!


Behold now thy pictur’d life in June,

A nameless, happy season well spent

Between passion and contentment,

A time when life is made or not;


For I am now June,

And June is me in age,

And I can stay, or go either way.




QUALITY TIME


When push turns to shove,

I turn to love,

And retire to our woodsy home,

Far from the noise of day,

Where my partner and I

Live and laugh and play.


Here the phone cannot ring,

And there are no bills to pay;

We drench in the joys of morn,

Pulling out each other’s thorn.



There are no deadlines to meet,

No interruptions allowed;

We wander each other’s way,

The hours to drink away.


No hustle-bustle or rushing

Hither and thither

For this and that

Small and smothering detail.


We just kiss away the stress,

And together caress,

And cuddle in the

Flickering candlelight—


For, in the love temple,

There is only Now.




THE END OF THE ROAD


My steps fell heavy on the ground,

As the dusk settled in all around,

And I passed the stones,

Where, thereunder, grass blanket overgrown,

The forefathers of the hamlet slept.


Although dead upon,

I stopped not to rest,

But plodded on,

To where autumn’s last garden grew

Through the leaves that fast the fall bestrew.


With her sight, my step was lightened,

As in a hearth when a flame quickens,

For there ahead, alone,

The golden light of my angel shone

From a heart fair

That reached out in rays,

And lifted my own—


A star lighting the way,

Guiding me—


On a night when every road

Led toward home.




— THE END —