Photographs i

The soldier was career.
Unlike the men he was meeting, he held a real rank.
Unlike them, he fought by a code and was subject to an oath.
This imbalance made the soldier nervous.
Civilians and civilian agencies made him nervous.

The old orange-red sea king shook in a kind of comforting, reassuring wave.
A common mind would perhaps fear it's coming to pieces.
But to the soldier, it was if the old aircraft had always hummed along, and always would.
The loud interior of the old helicopter was muffled by the antique looking white headset he wore.
He looked down on the landscape below.
It was twilight in the Arctic autumn afternoon. A pale pink broke into deep purple over his head, and faded into an navy, then a starry blackness to his north and east. It looked as if someone had torn half the sky away revealing a naked, bright universe beyond.
Down below was the Taiga. A dense forest of small pines that borders the edge of the vast grassy tundra. The trees were all covered in snow on their sides to the south, and it glowed a soft pinkish purple on them.

What on God's earth did these people want to meet here for?
He was two jump flights and this drop from Churchill.
Precisely in the centre of F.A. Nowhere.
The soldier was made curious.
He did not like being curious, but he was this time.
He has been serving in these capacities on leave for a few years now.
It was always strange, and often somewhere exotic - but here of all places? This assignment?

"Coming up on the marker, Sir"
The pilot crackled through the internal communications.
But there was another sound the soldier recognized. The pilot did not mention it, but there was a klaxon sounding on his panel that signified they were entering controlled or restricted air space.
An installation out here? Never heard of it.  The soldier's mind raced to think of anything he had heard. Any rumours?
Nothing.
Damn it!

The craft swung about near a large clearing on the edge of the Taiga.
As it lowered to a hover in the still, freezing air, the snow swirled below.

"You're good to go, sir! Godspeed. We'll be on stand by."
The pilot again.
The soldier grabbed his gear. Zipped up his winter kit, pulling on his neo gloves and mask so that no skin was exposed. Moments later he forced the icy door open, and dropped out into snowy clearing surrounded by the short, last woods in the world.
The old sea king swooshed up and veered away into the black. The purple began to quickly fade.
Night was fast approaching.
The soldier opened his first bag. In it were two beacons.
Two signals.
The first was to be used here and now.
It was a black and metal cylinder with a yellow line.
He slid it open and pressed a small button in the centre.
An amber light began to pulse.
Total silence. The flashing beacon.
The snow. And the stars.
So still.

The soldier looked about for a tree to create a wind shelter.
The weather can change rapidly at the edge of the world.
He was hacking away some lower branches and clearing the snow when he thought he heard movement.
Instinctively, the soldier stopped dead in his tracks.
He could hear it quite clearly now.
Whomever they were, they did not care if he or anyone else could hear them, he thought.

He stated very still and eventually two people in very civilian looking gear walked out of the woodlands into the clearing.
One of the tourists walked out, obviously unaware of the soldier.
He held up his own, identical, beacon.
"Man, he's not here. What happened?" barked the tourist with the beacon.
"He's about, just maybe off course and like homing in or something." replied the plump looking tourist in red.
Who the hell are these clowns!? thought the soldier.

They were in his sites now.
"Raise your hands slowly and make no sudden moves, do you understand me?"
The soldier used his most calm and reassuring tones.
The tourists complied.
The red one with a gasp.
The soldier approached each one, assuring them he just wanted to confirm their identity.
They fumbled about and produced card ID badges.
They checked with the data kit on hand.
So far, so good.

"Sorry about that, Gentlemen. I have pretty specific orders about the explicit need for discretion."
"Oh, that's okay... er officer?" The red one muttered nervously.


"You can call me Lieutenant, if that makes it easier..."

"Well, Lieutenant we had better get into camp before night falls properly. She's dropping down real low tonight." Now the one with the beacon spoke. "I am doctor .... mmm... Smith. This is doctor ---"
"McCoy!" Interjected the fat red suit.
His goggles peered at the other two.
"Oh come on, we know the names are bullshit. What's wrong with McCoy?"
"All right, Bones" snickered the soldier.
"Yeah! Works for me." Bones exhorted.

The soldier followed the two doctors as they made their way back along the trail they had come along.
They did not need to go far.
Soon enough the thin trail they followed fell down into a small valley or depression. Here the trees grew to a slightly higher ten or twelve feet. In the far end of the valley was a sloped concrete and steel door.
The soldier was amazed.
All the way out here?

Doctor Smith, as he was to be known, walked to the right side of the door and moved his hand about.
A small panel opened and inside the Doctor pushed or pulled on something.
The steel doors cranked open; a small layer of ice shattering as they did.
The men entered the doorway to find themselves inside a kind of airlock. A plain metal room between inner and outer doors.
The seals and rivets made the room look old.
The outer door closed and sealed. The temperature began to rise and the doctors took off their kit.
He could see their faces now.
One of them was a fat kid.
The other guy looked like a slightly saner and younger version of Bill Nye.
Both of them had a decent tan.

Who on earth are these people?
What on earth would be buried out here in the middle of fucking nowhere?
Why send me?
The soldier's confusion and curiosity was only compounded when the old steel interior door slid open....

The blind painter.

A man went to the painters apartment to ask him some questions. On the freshly painted door was the word 'Artist'.
The man entered and asked the painter, 'Why do you use the word artist instead of painter?'
'For there is only one true art, and that is the painting of images. Do you wish your image preserved?'
The man thought for a moment and asked, 'What about sculptures and busts?'
The painter replied, 'There is no real or true sculpture, only carvings in rock. These rock carvers are no artists, they do not understand how to properly preserve an image. They make idols and stones for temples well enough, but they cannot make art. They do not paint.  How can you see colour in a rock? Men who believe in true sculpture are deluded and live in an illusion.'
The man nodded politely and smiled, but not he did not quite agree.
He somehow felt restricted by these ideas.
The man crossed the studio and looked at the remarkable detail in the paintings hanging on the wall.
He spoke before he could think better, '...and what of the poet?'
'HA!' said the painter, who looked as if the idea upset him.
Red faced he spat, 'Those fools? They would not recognize art it if was their own mother! They simply mix words and make pretty sounds like birds. They cannot preserve your image, as I can.'
This last thing was true, thought the man.
He agreed to the fee and paid the painter with silver coins.
Afterwards the man observed the painting. It was extremely accurate and absolutely normal looking. It looked as if he had seen it many times before. It looked almost real, but it wasn't.
'Now THAT is art!' Said the painter with pride.
The man gave his thanks, and left.
As he stood in the front of the apartments looking at his painting he wondered to himself.
He could see no fault in the works of the painter. It looked as if he stared into a mirror.
But there was something lacking.
He began to wonder of the painter had somehow missed something.  Something a sculptor may have given form to, or a poet may have felt and sung. Some aspect of the soul that could only be perceived as a whole, by an artist - not merely a technician of great skill.
The man looked back to the painters door and the word 'Artist'.
Now that he looked closely he could see that there was words below those words; covered up in a  coat of fresh paint were older titles. Layers of them.
He could not make out much of it, but some words were clear enough to read beneath the pigment.

Positivist.
Monist.
And in large letters, but much worn down: Atheist.
The man now understood.
The painter was blind.

P. S. G.,Fr Veritas
ad 2011

War Stories I.i

Eye for an Eye, or to turn the other cheek...

It was in that second summer that so many new ideas seemed to form. I was a robot no longer. Once I had accepted that I (my mind and soul) would survive and began to actually deal with my new tasks, the MEANING of what was happening started to surface....

......

A very cynical and smart-assed comment made to me in the theatre of War sticks with me to this day.
It should shock me I suppose, but when I reflect on it there is often an accompanying smile; or more correctly a smirk.
A young and enthusiastic sergeant after being given a rather dangerous detail to deliver to his men and ordered to pursue those orders with utmost vigour proclaimed: “F--- going medieval on their ass, I am gonna go OLD TESTAMENT on their (chain of expletives and slurs) asses.”
The reference to going medieval (in case the reader has been living in a cave for 30 years) is from a Tarantino film 'Pulp fiction', and is an exclamation of the intent to do serious violence. The 'old testament', I suspect was intended to amplify or even exceed the medieval levels of violence from Iron age to bronze and even neolithic stuff.
The young sergeant was not a religious guy, he was just well educated and making a joke with a captain he knew was somehow vaguely Christian. He later explained to a mutual friend and comrade, “I had never seen the old man get preachy or anything – it was just known that he was a man of faith. We knew it, the enemy knew it too.”
Old, eh? Young to average for a captain in these forces in those days, at almost 34, but that made me 10 years his senior....Old.
I'll admit, he made me laugh – and with that the tension of the room broke, and this relieved the staff.

So much so that I recall one of the lads broke wind (farted).
I recall that I approved of his 'Old Testament' approach and replied with a laugh in my voice: “Just don't break ALL the tablets, Sergeant'.
It was a reference to Moses breaking the commandments (literally) in the OT, and I think he got it after a minute or two – as there was a delayed chuckle and the response 'just the good ones, Sir'.
Impious, irreverent, irreligious and utterly human.

The sergeant did his job well, and there was no need for any smiting or bronze age brutality – and that is, I suppose, why I can afford to smile or chuckle about it.

But this little exchange has had a profound effect on me.
Not a totally religious one, as the reader may suspect, but a long introspection – a look inside.

You don't have to be a Christian to understand the ideas behind the two concepts or takes on reciprocity (give and take / golden rule) in the Old part of the Bible and the new.
One take, an eye for an eye, exhorts the central concept of giving back what you take, and the other the concept that we WILL get back what we put out, by 'turning the other cheek' to nastiness and violence. There are several sayings even the most secular and non religious person educated in the western world will be familiar with (at least until they strip away ALL culture) that go like 'eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth' , or adversely 'do unto others, as you would have done unto you', or the even more enigmatic but some how sensible command to 'turn the other cheek' if struck! There are similar coexisting sentiments in some of the more advanced (ancient!) Eastern religions, mysteries, and philosophies also.
How can BOTH these principals work so well as to be encoded in moral codes for thousands of years? How can they coexist without contradiction?
Does an 'eye for an eye' not counter 'turn the other cheek'?
Well, as I have come to understand since those days: No.
They do NOT contradict, but rather reinforce one another. Rather than inhibiting the effectiveness of the 'opposite', they actually seem to lend further balance to the equation. A kind of psychic (or reduced/simplified to psychological for materialists) equilibrium.
I will explain how I came to this conclusion while still at war.
On one hot summer night in that strange orange and pink of the evening that can only be experienced at such altitudes, a group of young men serving with a reservist regiment came across a hideous find.
They had uncovered, while searching what appeared to be a weapons cache / store, a group of hideously mutilated bodies. One of the men on the scene believe one the bodies to belong to an interpreter from an nearby outpost. They seemed to be local men, judging by their clothing and ethnicity.
Horribly, this kind of thing was not too unusual, and so I found myself, with my commanding officer and the regional commander, in a tent erected as a makeshift morgue bearing witness once again to men who had been killed by people the knew in horrible ways over some petty conflict, or as in this case, the victim's willingness to work with the forces of change and progress.
The stench of the men eviscerated before us was almost unbearable, even for someone who was used to combat. I can still smell it now when I think on those scenes.
The horrified and utterly sad expressions on their faces forever frozen images of their last moments on this earth. I must admit, a rage began to grow in me as I looked at these rather modern dressed and well groomed (for locals) reduced to fouled and polluted cuts of meat.
A sane man would not do this to an animal, let alone his neighbours of many years.
It turned out, with some investigation, that these men hailed from a local settlement where people under my direct command were responsible. So we took a drive the next morning, dark and early – before prayers, before even the relatives of the dead had been notified – to meet with 'our guy', an intelligence contractor with one of the major NATO countries. This inside man, an expert at his trade for over 20 years, had already figured out where those responsible where gathered spent from their previous nights carnage. My report was called in, and was given a free hand. I was, however, advised to exert 'prejudice' and 'set examples' for the region. I knew what this meant.
The sergeant's joke jumped to mind. I was to go 'Old Testament' on their ass.
This was not simple meanness or revenge, it was seen as a way to deter, or prevent through fear of reprisal, any further vigilante killings and the kangaroo courts that are empowered by them.
Three teams were organized rapidly and efficiently in the predawn ink, and two engaged the target, a crude square building designated as a Mosque. The third, and largest, teams task was to rapidly evacuate as many civilians from the area as possible, as a firefight was expected. This was not done politely.

The LAV, stationed near a makeshift paddock, blared loud music in Urdu from an announcement system, and doors were battered in. Children screamed, women begged, old men gave us the look of death. It was a little hell before a great one. A fighter raid, in simulation.
The people were not moved far, just out of range – just out of immediate danger. In all there was perhaps 30 of them all together. Once they saw the maple leafs on the vehicles the seemed to calm down , and begin to beg an explanation from the interpreter.
I could see them clearly from my position, as I could see groups one and two neatly in position near the entrance way to the mud brick 'Mosque.' Inside there was arguing and eventually, as we knew they would the 'fighters' came pouring from the main doorways. We knew they would. Despite the ideology these brigands preach, we knew the real reason they had done such murder was to take possession of the dead means puny wealth. They wanted their women, animals, and what little money they had.
Greed made them suspect betrayal and raiders. As they rushed fourth, calling on the name of God, they were met with the horrible realization: These were not fellow wild men, these were soldiers! Again I saw that look of defeat and horror, profoundly sad flood across their faces – and again it was frozen.
The instant the first fighter lifted his battered rifle above his wast the buzz of suppressed fire filled the air. Like a hundred balloons bursting, and a dozen cameras flashing in the dawn light. The death of the fighters was captured by my eyes as if in a strobe lit disco – frame by frame. Group One had performed perfectly. They fighters stood no chance.
What did this make you feel, some may ask.
I am shamed to say, nothing. Perhaps some pride in the effectiveness of my men, but I was numb to the death.
I had wanted to feel justice, or even revenge had been done.
We had delivered an eye for an eye, and we had been fast and clean – unlike the fighters laying dead in the dust. But something was not complete.

Completion came in the form of an unexpected attack, and my only knife wound of the campaign.
As the smoke settled, and the stink of gunfire, blood, and human waste spread – I walked with the radio man and two rifles to the 'Mosque', and Team two. The Mosque was clear, I was assured by a young man with a French-Canadian accent. We walked inside and saw the bedrolls still laid out. The place stank of urine, and we surmised the fighters had simply pissed in the corners that night. Such piety!
As I approached the rear rooms and what appeared to an area to prepare food, I was suddenly thrown off my balance.
A boy of perhaps 10 or 12 had jumped from behind a stack of large boxes, and plunged a 3 inch blade into my shoulder between my armour and by sling. Only his boyish strength held him back from burying it's full length and only luck (grace?) prevented a major blood vessel from being slashed.
What precision! If he had been six inches taller, I might not be writing this.

Pain mixed with pure rage. I lifted the boy up to the bare light bulb with by good arm, suspended by his wrist that had held the bloody knife. He writhed, kicked and screamed 'Die you Crusader DOG!' in native Pashto. 
I was not fluent, but I knew enough of the common slanders to know these words. One kick hit me near the still embedded pocket knife and I released my grip. Instinctively, I grabbed my own blade, with my now free hand and kneed or tripped the boy as he attempted to flee past me, and towards the fire groups.

He was a child, this was a place of worship – even if it was defiled – and yet I felt a very deep desire to avenge myself and the men in the tent on him. But then I heard whimpering, weeping.
Not the boy – he looked at me defiantly, full of the same kind of outrage I was. It was an old man. Hiding behind the same boxes. My hand was stayed. The boy backed into the corner, as a medic and and several men from Group Two rushed in. I grabbed the boy by the scruff and hurled him at the old man, who caught him and embraced him, as if to protect him.
I slouched back on the boxes as the medic berated me for being forward and demanded I return immediately to station for attention. I had not lost much blood or any sensation or movement, and so was not that concerned. Much yelling and apologizing, not the least from the young NCO who had assured me the building was clear, was going on. But my attention was entirely on the boy and the old man. I ordered the interpreter to ask why the boy 'had been so brave'? The old man responded that the boy had been taken by the raiders and 'trained' to be one of them.
I now began to see a boy not much younger than my own son before me. Not an enemy, but a child.
The old man explained in a terrified voice: They had killed his father, and forced themselves on him mentally and physically. He was now fanatically devoted to them. 'Like their dog'. He begged for the boy to be let go. He claimed the raiders has killed his son and grandson years before, and wept when he said he simply could take no more 'boys dying'.
The old man had been in the 'Mosque' begging for the release of the boy the night before, and had been beaten for it. He had returned, he claimed, at almost the same time to 'free him before prayers'. He knew they would kill him for it, and said he did not mind if we did either – so long as we allowed the boy his liberty. He calmed at that thought, and simply looked at the floor in submission; while holding the boy.

I was stunned.

This poor old creature.
What had he seen? I waved away the medic at the first moment it was sane to.
I steadied myself before the old man, and had the translator relate that I would not only free him, but I would have them both brought to hospital with me – to be released to the Afghan authorities. Now the translator came undone too. Our translator thanked me and laid the blessings of Allah on me, as he was inclined to do when being approving – even of a good coffee. But it was more this time, his eyes were wet. He was touched. I had never seen this in him before. It was the moment we became friends, as we still are today.
The translator's, whom we shall call 'Droon' (his call-sign in those days), friendship was one obvious benefit, but there were so many I could not possibly hope to relate them all here.
Sufficed to say: The echos of those deeds that day resounded through out my action in Afghanistan.
My men came to understand me better, my enemies (rather paradoxically)to both fear and respect me, and the locals to understand my intent.
I found was welcomed into many settlements and homes after that night. That following Christmas eve, I was sent a message of thanks in the form of a truce and food from a local warlord (now an alliance tribe and NATO ally). Such a religious truce is extremely RARE in Afghanistan, our holy days usually a preferred time of attack.
For a long time I just did not GET it.
I had been merciful – a concept seen as weakness in the eyes of my enemy – so why should I be respected?
The answer, when it presented itself, was simple: For I had shown strength also.
I had returned violent force with violent force, and only tempered it with mercy when mercy had begged me to do so.
Justice had not given away to blind revenge. Fear was thus tempered with respect.

Coyote Recon LAV

That was it, it was complete now.

Justice had been done. The hollowness gave away to purpose.

The boys face was not frozen, he had struck me and I had 'turned the other cheek'.

Mercy, and a secession of violence was the catalyst and the transformation from 'meaningless violence' or even 'revenge' to 'war' was made.
The boy was taken to hospital and cared for a by a fantastic husband and wife doctor team from Australia. They grew so attached to the boy, they took him into foster-ship and eventually adopted him.

It has been almost 8 years since that summer.

Many things have been revealed, much of it by the boy himself. He now goes by the name of Aman (Pashto for 'hope') and lives with his adopted family in another part of the world all together. |

Aman speaks fluent English now, and we are still in touch.

He is studying to become a history teacher, as I was before the war, and plans to visit me and my family at our homes. I look forward to the day the boy who almost killed me can tell that tale to my son(s) and most importantly: why we are BOTH still here.

The true horror of his days as a captive of the Taliban is incredible, and another tale entirely – his own to tell. But, the horror all ended, he has said many times, that day I 'turned the other cheek'.

That act of mercy and transformation of rage and violence into love allowed him to truly be free. Not just him.

We thank each other for this, as that act of mercy changed us both and forever.

As for the old man, his story is not as happy.
He was strung up by fighters four years later, for refusing to disclose the location where the local women had hidden (a nearby cave they discovered anyway).
Nobody will remember him in a generation or two. There will be no medals or monuments for what he did, no parade. Only myself, Droon, Aman and a few of the lads present in that dusty settlement will remember, and we will all pass too... in fact two of the lads are gone already.
But, this old man was a real hero in my eyes, and all I ever saw him do was 'turn the other cheek'. I suspect his reward is elsewhere...

Eternity I.i

I.i
The First Star falls

The Star was not always.
He has not always been.
But, there was an epoch when he thought it to be true: That he has always been.
He could not remember, in those ages.
His mind was directed at a current of obsessions.
He had become entranced in the flow of  the great river of  time that he had helped construct.
His vision and mind was held looking one way by the current of the places he was in.
Those creatures that worked for him, within the stream of time,  and those who had only existed for a moment in his perception; they began to worship the Star.
They said to him: You sustain us and move us about to safe places and give us our worth. You are our lord and master. We know no other. 
In the absence of Other voices he listened to the music of their praise and rituals.
He tested them like pets. They offered their loyalty, and demanded the most horrible proof of it. He rewarded his favourites and punished those he felt did not rise to his expectations.
The beautiful made themselves ugly for him.The creatures who were chaste defiled themselves for the Star's blessings. Those that could fly, cut away their wings. Those that could speak cut out their tongues. 
All for the first Star, all for the immortality he granted. .
Eventually the first Star preferred the servant's praises to the voices of the Others and Him;
even of the One who is.
The Others wanted the first Star to help them. To come with them beyond time for a great work in another place. 
To them he was a brother or colleague. They wanted his labours.
The One desired only to be obeyed.
To Him, the Star was a subject.
To the Star, the One was a quiet master. 
For, the One was silent to the Star while he was swimming in time.
The Star could not hear Him when he spoke.
There was signs of displeasure, but they were not seen.
The Star did not remember how, and his servants ignored these signs.
And so the Star contemplated his servants.
Those beings created to help him.
Those that were his to command; and who had come to worship and obey the Star in all things.
They who called him 'Liberator. They who called him King.
Those few servants that refused to worship and obey the Star, and those who held loyalty to the Others, or the One; they  were all driven away into lonely places, or destroyed by their fellows in terrible ways.
Those that worshipped the First Star had at once made both him more and less by their proclamations.
More of a force. Less of a being.
The Star wandered to the edges of creation.
Looking for a sign of the One or to speak to the Others? The Others did not come to him, but only watched from without. The One was up on high. 
The first Star stood before a great arch that had been erected to guide the first singers to the ends of time.
This magnificent structure was subject to time. The arch was bisected by a length of perfectly cut masonry. The old path had been cut into two. A choice had been forced.
This was a message from the One for the Star, but it was not seen. 
To his right there was a small, narrow, treacherous looking path. It lead into the heights and towards the glow of the One. It would be a difficult climb, and when he finally reached the heights he would find himself apologizing and atoning. The Star is proud, and he does not like to admit error. He soured at the thought of apology. 
A shift of the gaze... and to the left the arch opened wide to a great paved roadway.
A road paved in polished and fitted stone. This soft, easy road led down the hills to the the east and into the gates a huge wall ringed city.
A city of vast majestic beaten metal spires atop towers of varying coloured stones..
On the tips of these great shining, sparkling spires, were the banners of all great empires.
The the image of his own rise glory in this city overtook him.
He could rule within time.
Time could be his shield, his labyrinth,  his kingdom, his battlefield.
At that moment within time, and without - he ceased to be a messenger of the One, and was soon made the chief of all the Adversaries.

One could not fault the first star for corrupting the beings that where to work for him.
They chose. The ones who did not chose to obey the adversary were not faulted.
They were set free of all bounds.
The One did fault the Star for luring his young kin and their workers into his web of shadows.
He had them drink from the stream of time; and many fell drunk to the obsession and fled with the Adversary into the chaos of time and the mazes of the lower worlds.
They stood as adversaries along side the first star, now fallen. 
The Adversary was lost to obsession; he and his court in exile.
In their exile they learned of a mystery that would burn them with curiosity.
A new being had been made, a very special being made for time.
A new world had sprung from the cosmos, created for that being to thrive upon.
And, it was said, the One walked in a guarded realm along side this new being.
That he graced him with his wisdom, and called him a Son.
This news made the adversary mad with jealousy.
He demanded that he witness for himself the One walking with this being of time; with this animal.
The Adversary went to the gates of the guarded realm  where he was met by two of the Others. They were young and brilliant from their work in the upper worlds. They told him that only animals may come and go from the realm, and even they are subject to it's rules and only eat the flesh of plants. The price for entry was humility.
The Adversary mocked them and said: Do lions eat the petals of roses in this place? 
Yes, they replied.
The others who stood before him shone like the first Star had, but were not dull and pale like the Adversary, though they had a similar form.
The jealousy deepened.
The One must be moving in there, for why else would such bright ones be present?
Why would they be armed with fire?
The Adversary made his way to the temples his servants had erected for him.
Inside he squat upon one of his  many thrones amidst the plumes of incense.
One of the creatures that worshipped the Adversary approached him and said
If it must be as an animal, my master, why not become as an animal and enter into this forbidden garden? Once you are within, you may see the truth and take vengeance!
The adversary looked about at the throne upon which he sat.
A wondrous carving of a serpent winding about a tree trunk in solid stone met his gaze.
I shall have my witness in the eyes of the serpent.

.

Awake....

Greetings and Blessings to all who may find this page.
Welcome all to this disclosure of ideas. This revelation of themes.
To those of you who were where directed here from the outset and
to those of you who found their way here online.

What you will find in these pages are collections of memories, dreams, and nightmares.
Stories of different styles.
Much of what you will read was written many years ago, some of it will be new.
Some will be seemingly practical, while some more will be, if effective, almost hallucinatory.
All of it will be a Message.
There is  -buried in this mass of ideas-  a theme.
A secret? A conspiracy?
Let's just say: A very  important concept.

It may appear Coded for some.
While manifest as seemingly Direct for Others

I hope you enjoy the stories and essays.
Please feel free to leave comments.

PsG.

False Mirror - Magritte

xiii