The following essay I wrote some years ago, but it seems appropriate now for folks who have an interest in my worldview. If you don't, that's fine.

The Power of One

By Theresa Holmes

 

One is a most singular number. It is the only number which can be multiplied by itself an infinite number of times and never equals more nor less than itself. It is also capable of being subdivided an infinite number of times. Added to itself an infinite number of times, it yields a number that can always be enlarged by adding another one. Subtracted from itself, it becomes naught, the absence of anything.

We all learn these facts early in life, yet we never seem to give them much thought. They’re just there, taken for granted. Perhaps it’s time we took a look at the implications of the number one, and what its singular qualities tell us about reality and our places in it.

It is human nature to separate and define objects and processes as distinctly different from other objects and processes. Language (including mathematics) is the means by which we exercise ourselves as observers, by defining what we are and are not. Over the millennia, we have been subdividing the one of which we are all parts, with the result that we no longer recognize the fact that we are integral parts of reality. A horse is not a tree is not a lake is not the sky by our way of looking at things. But a horse stands or walks on grass growing from the ground to the tree beside the lake and lowers its head to take a drink of the water without which it couldn’t live, and breathes the air of the sky, which also protects it from the “vacuum” of space. All these objects and processes are parts of the integrated one that is reality.

From the cosmological point of view, our universe began as a singularity exploding from nothing to become everything there is over the last 12 billion years or so. Most of space is seen as empty, and time as very long as it moves from finite past to infinite future. But is any of this true? Space and time, we are told by Einstein and others, are merely the structure of the universe, such that all times are here, all places now. If that is so, then our perception of the universe as largely empty and long is incomplete at best, a function of our limited senses. It is evident from viewing photos taken at all wavelengths that if we could actually perceive all wavelengths simultaneously the universe would be “solid white” with no darkness to be found anywhere. We are still in the instant of the Big Bang—or more to the point, it is still in us. As tiny a subdivision of the singular one as each of us may be, we are still a part of that one. It is not possible for us to be separate from it, therefore our sense that we are is an illusion, a figment of our imagination and need to distinguish between things and processes.

If each of us (to say nothing of everything else in the universe) is a part of the singular one, then the universe is still in superposition. Each of us could be said to be one outcome of an infinite number of possible outcomes, shimmering in and out of superposition with all other possible outcomes. This may well be why Time appears to flow for us as if we were each a leaf floating on a stream, able only to see where we’ve been and nothing of where we are going. We can only perceive the possible outcomes (and not even all of those) which have resulted in our current outcome. We are each, in effect, a single point of view within the infinity of the whole.

From the point of view of the whole, which must then be the aggregate of all existing points of view, reality IS. There is no time, no space, no separation, just the singular one, all its infinite possibilities in superposition.

This leads to five axioms that may be useful to describe reality, both from the point of view of the whole, and from the point of view of any part of the whole.

Anything is possible and all possibilities exist.
For everything that exists there is an adversary position from which to observe it.	For everything that exists, there is a reason.
Everything corresponds with everything else.	Nothing is as it seems.

 

If the whole of reality exists as a superposition of all possibilities, we may therefore logically state that anything is possible and all possibilities exist.

This axiom implies that every one of the infinite number of possible subdivisions of the singular one is its own point of view, potentially capable of observing all other possible subdivisions, and of being observed by them. Therefore we may logically state that for everything that exists there is an adversary position from which to observe it. We could not be who and what we are, with our unique individual points of view, if this were not a characteristic of reality as a whole. Indeed, we could not be who and what we are if reality as a whole—the singular one—were not who and what it is.

This implies that there is a reason for everything that exists—otherwise it wouldn’t exist. If the singular one were not its own reason for existence, and if every one of the infinite possibilities superposed within the singular one were not exactly where and what it was supposed to be, there would be no awareness of existence, because there would be no existence. One minus itself equals naught, zero, nothing.

Reality as a whole, the singular one composed of an infinite number of possible subdivisions, must be by nature a self-organizing structure in constant internal communication as a consequence of its superposition. This implies the fourth axiom, that everything corresponds with everything else. As a consequence, the speed of light is irrelevant save as an interesting constant. Call it the base resonance for the structure of reality at the level of the fourth dimension, just as the strong force is the base resonance for the structure of reality at the level of the first dimension, the weak force is the base resonance for the structure of reality at the level of the second dimension, and the electro-magnetic force is the base resonance for the structure of reality at the level of the third dimension. (Note that the speed of light is not the same thing as the photon as carrier of the electromagnetic force. It is more accurately termed the constant of organization, perhaps, since it is the rate at which what we call time is measured, and at which syntropy and entropy occur.)

If everything corresponds with everything else, several things are implied. First, communication at the speed of light is useful at short range (within the immediate region of the solar system), but it is not the only possible means of communication. Second, it is theoretically possible to be anywhere or anywhen in reality. Practically speaking, of course, we don’t yet know how to do this—much less what anywhere or when actually looks like beyond our own very small worldspace. Third, what we call psi is actually a function of our correspondence with each other as points of view of the singular one. We communicate using it as the base resonance of all our other forms of communication—body language, speech, and so on. If it didn’t exist, we wouldn’t be able to understand each other, much less work together on anything. Because it is a function of our correspondence rather than a function of physics as currently defined, proof or disproof of its existence requires a different direction of approach than assuming that the problem is how to explain the process by which “thoughts generated by neurons in the sender’s brain can pass through the skull and into the brain of the receiver.”[1] We haven’t even figured out how we get from patterns of neuronal activity to specific thoughts yet. And finally, if everything corresponds with everything else and there are an infinite number of possibilities and therefore points of view, it becomes evident that nothing is as it seems—because everything will look different to every single point of view.

Logically, then, there can be no right or wrong way to look at reality, only degrees of clarity combined with unique coordinates within reality. Most people have extremely low degrees of clarity due to lack of training in logic and intuition. A few people have slightly less extreme degrees of clarity. It is simply not possible for us as a very young species, inexperienced in our role as a corporate point of view of reality, to have anything but a highly inaccurate view of the singular one.

The role of science, as well as that of intuition, is to examine that part of reality within reach of our abilities in hopes of increasing the clarity of our individual and corporate views of the singular one of which we are all parts. The scientific method is, at root, reductionism, an effort to reduce everything to its component parts. It works best when combined with intuition, which is induction of the whole from the combination of its parts.

If everyone involved in all the rancorous debates rippling around the world via the media and simple word of mouth would shut up and take a moment to realize each is a unique point of view of the singular one of which all of us are very tiny subdivisions, the debates would vanish and we might be able to find ways to work together to increase the clarity of our views of reality and our places in it. If we can conceive of such a thing as living in harmony with each other under the Golden Rule, it is certainly possible.

All it takes is a shift in perspective from reality as seen by each of us as an individual lost in the illusion of separation from the singular one to reality as seen by each of us as a unique point of view within the singular one.

I dare you to try it.

 

 

I posted the following on Austin Hill's column today, available here.

Reality IS, and Time is the revelation of what IS.

All that has ever happened on this world (much of which remains hidden from our eyes, having left only faint clues in the rocks), including all those things we and our ancestors have participated in, are merely part of the fabric of this infinitesimally tiny part of Reality. To think what WILL be revealed is any different is to be clueless about the nature of Reality, even the tiny part of it we can actually perceive.

Shakespeare understood this when he said "All the world's a stage and we but actors on it."

We think we have choices, but in fact they all boil down to just one--whether we will accept Reality and our places in it or not.

Fatalistic? Maybe. I'm a Republican precinct committee person, and will do what I can to encourage the election of conservative Republicans to office here in Colorado. But I don't hold out any hope for the future, either of this country or for the human species within the circles of the world. Hope is a word without meaning when you contemplate Reality as a whole and your place in it. But then, so is despair.

In other news, Jack Thomas, of www.non-normie.com, is retiring from the arduous task of determining which of the many non-normies contending for the dubious honor of being named Non-normie of the Day should actually get that distinction. He will be posting a detailed explanation of how a child goes through the process of becoming a non-normie, and why. I encourage all of you to take a look at it.

Also, I have been making progress on updating my website, Phoenix Lady's Nest (see the Blog Roll for the link). I still have a ways to go with the House of Tomorrow section (although part of it is now available for viewing). I've also posted three of my "music videos," more like karaoke presentations, actually, although I haven't finished fixing the new Phoenix Rising Creations index page. The link to My Videos works, but the gif files don't load yet. I hope to get that fixed later tonight.

Meanwhile, I'm still enjoying the occasional screech fests on the columns. They give me something to laugh about between calls here at work. Occasionally, as today, I feel a need to drop a load of Phoenix wisdom (or bravo sierra, depending on your point of view, I expect).

The only reason I posted this entry is to remind people to pull back and regain your perspective. All too often, we forget that we are exactly whom we are supposed to be at every instant of our lives, and that all of us are projections of Reality (Shakespeare's actors) into what we know as the Tardyon Universe (Shakespeare's stage). Our reasons for existence are far different that what we think they are. But we'll all learn once we leave the stage.

In the meantime, if you haven't already, check out the set of entries I've posted called "In the Twinkling of an Eye." Then you won't have any excuse for saying you weren't warned, especially if Hillary is elected.

For the lake of fury hiding beneath his outward face, and its occasional breakthroughs, John McCain is today's non-normie of the day. To read Jack Thomas' comments, click here. (If you do so tomorrow or the day after, you can do a search for January 17, 2008 below the then-current non-normie of the day.)

On thinking about my last post, it occurred to me that if Jack is right (and I'm wrong) in believing that non-normies only account for about 15% of the population of this country, it ought to be possible to find a way to shut them out of the voting process, much as they did the black Americans prior to the Civil Rights Act (and still do when they can get away with it).

It's not likely to happen, of course, since they (non-normies) now control the main stream media and Congress, as well as most of the states. But I deal in fantasies by nature as a sometime science fiction writer, so here's a thought, for what it's worth.

If you've been to www.non-normie.com, you know there is a way to test yourself and/or others to determine where you or they fall on the normie/non-normie spectrum. Imagine what would happen if, at age 18, everyone had to take this test. Those that score 41% or higher are then classified as non-normies and denied citizenship and the right to vote or marry until they have done the following: a.) entered a 12-Step Program and stayed active in it until they are able to prove to their peers that they have learned how to process the lemons life throws at them into lemonade instead of into buried fury, b.) have retaken the test honestly and come in under 40%, c.) have obtained and held a job for at least 12 months without any incidents, and d.) have tested clean for substance abuse and criminal activity. Also, while in treatment and probation, non-normies are not allowed to be politically active, engage in protests of any kind, have sex, much less children, or live at home. If they do any of the above, children will be taken from them, and they will be committed to an institution to remove the distractions that are keeping them from successfully completing the 12-Step Program and their probation. Said institution should be managed only by those who test normie (or recovering non-normie) on the self-test.

For everyone over the age of 18 at the time the constitutional amendment and attendant laws are passed, each person must also take the test under observation by at least two normies (who will have interviewed the subject using the companion test as a basis for their interview). Anyone scoring 41% or higher in the interview will have all rights and privileges of citizenship taken away (i.e. they will be placed on probationary status), and they will have to go through the same procedure as the 18 year olds above. If they are already married and have children, their underage children will be placed in the care of certified normie couples until they have proven they can remain in recovering non-normie status (with annual interviews by certified normies). If they are unmarried and have children, their children will be placed in the care of certified normie couples until they have proven they can remain in recovering non-normie status AND they have married a certified normie or recovering non-normie.

Those who resolutely refuse to participate in recovery will be institutionalized and kept in isolation with no privileges and only the bare necessities of food, water, and clothing, until they realize their pouting isn't going to get them anywhere--or until they die.

It's a fantasy, of course, because normies are rarely interested in political power beyond the local level. At least, that's been my observation. As a recovering non-normie (I just tested myself again today and came in at 9%, though I have tested higher in the past, and know that earlier in my life I would have tested in the non-normie range), I've learned the hard way that the higher on the scale one tests, the greater one's need for control, therefore the greater one's ambition for higher office. The other reason it's a fantasy is because of the tremendously complicated process involved in even certifying the normies needed to make it work. Still, who knows, one of these days I might write a novel about it.

In the meantime, you can always read the Starfield Valley Tales, available here. They show a somewhat less drastic method of implementing the concept.

The solution no one considers...

...is, of course, space-based solar power. The liberals won't consider it because their real agenda is to control everyone since they can't control themselves (see http://www.non-normie.com for more on that). It isn't just liberals, particularly the flaming liberals who hog all the media time, but the flaming reactionaries on the right, aka the radical Islamic Jihadists. The only difference between the poles is that the flaming left-polar non-normies demand control through government (in their case, through draconian environmental regulations) while the flaming right-polar non-normies demand control through--well--government (in their case, Sharia law). As for the sensible folks stuck in the middle, you've got basically two choices. One, bloody revolution, or two, concerted, long term action to marginalize the flaming left and right polar non-normies by identifying them, calling them what they are--emotionally ill--and laughing at them. Oh, and not voting for them even for dog catcher.

...space-based solar power, to say nothing of space settlement, is going no where fast.

I wrote the above comment on Walter Williams' column about Tyranny Update--Government energy meddling, available here.

So, folks, are we going to have a bloody revolution and destroy the world economy in our efforts to kill all the flaming non-normies, or are we going to work together to out all the flaming non-normies and persuade the rest of our normie and recovering non-normie friends and relatives to join us in marginalizing them? Or are we just going to go on swimming around the simmering stewpot like the rest of the frogs?

I wish I had a better answer, but normies by nature tend to be relatively quiet and unassuming, preferring to go along to get along. Problem is, as adults we have to start acting like adults and disciplining the children.

Obviously passing more laws isn't the answer. Getting rid of the jungle of conflicting laws and regulations is an answer--but requires a major sea change in the body politic even to elect enough serious lawmakers willing to remove them. I don't see it happening.

I guess my real question is "Do any of you Normies posting here on Townhall and reading my blog from time to time have any intention of actually doing anything, or is it all talk and no action?"

You can post responses here or email me.

Just a quick post to let all my friends here know I'm still alive and kicking.

I've greatly enjoyed lurking the Townhall columns and commentary between calls at work (I do tech support for a major cable company). I can't post comments from a company computer, so I just lurk.

It's been quite amusing to see Robert (aka Wobbie) busted numerous times, along with HalD and numerous others. However snarky Robert may be, he's clearly a moderate, not a left wingnut. HalD's a bit further to the left, but also not a left wingnut. Both have completely wrong-headed views of the Religious Right, and are just as guilty of stereotyping the people they don't agree with as we are of stereotyping them. They have no excuses for their attitude of "I'm ever so much smarter than you are, you peons" save perhaps that they write with that attitude to deliberately provoke everyone. That, of couse, is even less of an excuse, because it shows them to be poor excuses for human beings. The best thing to do to these people is laugh at them--as I'm seeing most of my friends doing here. Meanwhile, I get to laugh at the zingers sent their way.

It's also been interesting to observe the networks of friends and relatives posting, and to read diametrically opposed views of the same quotes (e.g. discussions of whether Hitler was really a Christian or just using religion for his own purposes). When combined with my daily dose of www.non-normie.com (today's Non-Normie is Whole Foods, for firing an off-duty employee who chased down and held a shop lifter till the police arrived for the heinous crime of "touching a customer") I gain a lot of useful insight into human nature for use in writing my novels.

Meanwhile, as the political season heats up, I'll be doing my best to fulfill my duties as a precinct committeeperson (along with my husband). Colorado moved its caucuses up to February 5th, so we might actually have at least a tiny impact on the selection of presidential candidates. Although I prefer Fred Thompson myself, I expect Colorado will most likely select Mitt Romney, based on my admittedly sparse reading on the mood here. My husband, who is much more attuned (and interested) to local and state politics than I am, agrees. The reason for this is that most of the long-time party apparatchiks appear to believe Mitt is the best compromise between their desire for a winner and their desire for a conservative.

Someone made a comment on one of the columns a few days back about Colorado becoming a basket case like Michigan. It hasn't yet--but with a 40 to 25 Democrat legislative advantage, plus a Democrat governor, it's definitely headed in that direction. The person making the comment said it was because of all the Californians moving here, and I agree. However, we do need to remember all the years we lived under Roamin' Roy Roemer (the last Democrat governor), and before him, Dick Lamm. Colorado is really a microcosm of the country, in that the major population centers (except Colorado Springs, where I live) are largely blue, while the rural areas are largely red. The only reason Colorado Springs is largely red is because of the heavy military presence (both active duty and retired) and the major conservative religious organizations such as Focus on the Family. However, we also have a lot of liberals here, what with Colorado College, Manitou Springs (a separate city, actually), and so on. Still, the Democrats hate us because we are so red. They want control of the entire Front Range so they can consolidate their grip on the whole state.

Oh well. What will be IS, and Time is the revelation of what IS to our wondering eyes. With that, I need to head off to work so I can lurk the threads somemore. Again, Happy New Year to all, and may we succeed in avoiding the catastrophe of a Shrillary election.

[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental.]

The Gathering

 

Dmitri Yaroslav made sure to be in the field of welcome before the great gates of the New Jerusalem when Lt. Golanich arrived, lest the poor fellow feel out of place. Golanich recognized him right off.

“I don’t know whether to cuss you out or thank you, sir. And I’m sure President Alexiev doesn’t know, either.” He shook his glowing head. “What a horrible future those left behind face, at least in the near term.”

“I quite agree, Yuri. And I apologize for putting you in the position of being the bearer of bad news. I take it the president shot the messenger?”

Golanich snorted. “Only because I asked him to—and perhaps it was out of gratitude for the tiny bit of hope I gave him that he made it quick, right between the eyes.”

The lieutenant looked around. “So this is Heaven?”

“A tiny part of it, yes. The city behind me is the New Jerusalem, but it is only the beginning of wonder to be found here. Will you join me?”

The younger man hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not? I’m sure I don’t belong here, but as long as I am here, I’d love to see more.”

“You’d be surprised who belongs here—and who thought they did and aren’t here.” Yaroslav led the lieutenant toward the great gate on which that of Kiev must have been modeled.

“Most of the cabinet, I assume, since only the minister of defense accompanied the president. And Alexiev mentioned something about several cathedrals collapsing, which means a lot of the parishioners must have come.”

“Yes, but not the archbishop. He was trying to keep us out. I’m afraid we all pretty much ignored him. The last I saw of him, he was stalking away from the cathedral in a high dudgeon.” Yaroslav snorted at the memory.

“If he was closer than a mile or so when the event occurred, he probably received a lethal dose of gamma radiation. His demise is not likely to be very pleasant.”

Yaroslav looked at his junior. “Interesting. None of the material I received from General Tavistock in the U.S. mentioned anything about gamma radiation resulting from the Harpazo.”

“I can only hypothesize, based on what the multi-spectral scans showed, that everyone taken out was converted instantly from mass to energy—and most of the energy went someplace else, possibly through a wormhole, leaving only the tiniest blowback, otherwise the conversion of somewhere around a billion people should have blown Earth apart.”

“Ah, that would explain a lot, since I am told we are on what the physicists who are here call the Tachyon Side of Reality. The Earth that seemed so large to us in human form is as a single sub atomic particle is to one of us here.”

Golanich blinked. “So that’s what dark energy is—and probably dark matter as well. Us and everything we see around us here. And since I see no darkness here, I can only say they were vastly misnamed.”

“I won’t argue that point. Come. Some few of us have gathered to share our stories, the better to understand how it is that we are here, even though many of us never expected to be able to come.”

They passed through the great gate and into the glorious city. Though they were afoot, many folk passed by on everything from horses and donkeys to camels to majestic African elephants. A stunned expression settled on the lieutenant’s face.

“Where did all the animals come from? I wouldn’t have thought they’d have a place in Heaven.”

“I have no idea. Perhaps they are here through the love of their human companions. Though I haven’t been here much longer than you have, I have seen a very large number of domesticated animals, and many house pets. Perhaps we can learn more at the gathering.” Yaroslav tagged the lieutenant’s elbow. “It’s just through here.”

Together they passed through an archway into a cooler, quieter building that reminded Yaroslav of an ancient Grecian-style villa he’d once had occasion to visit. Like everything else here, it had been constructed of light and sound, but both seemed subdued compared to the public spaces outside. Even so, it had been decorated with exquisite taste.

Though the living room appeared unoccupied, Yaroslav could hear the sound of many conversations within the Heavenly Song. He led Golanich through the living room and into a courtyard of some size, filled with the scent of roses, pine, and a multitude of fruit trees. Here they found the gathering to which he’d been invited.

General Tavistock, resplendent in something that resembled a dress uniform, though it glittered with a tapestry of stars telling his life story for any with eyes to read it, came over to welcome them.

“Dmitri. I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for inviting me. This is Lt. Golanich, who stayed long enough to provide a report on the event to President Alexiev. I think we might all find his report on the Harpazo worth viewing.”

“I look forward to it.” The American General nodded at Golanich. “In the meantime, why don’t you both join us for tea? While it’s true we don’t need food or drink for the nourishment of our bodies anymore, there’s no reason we can’t enjoy both just as a feast for the senses—especially since our senses are so much more complete than they ever were on Earth.”

He ushered them over to a buffet set to one side of a patio area filled with small tables at which the other guests sat and conversed over plates of biscotti, scones, and other delicacies, as well as cups of sweetly scented tea. Here General Tavistock introduced them to Harry, once the head cook for the American White House. Yaroslav thought he might have been of African descent in his human form, but here he glowed just as brightly as everyone else.

“Welcome, gentlemen. What’s your pleasure?”

A samovar appeared on the table beside what Yaroslav recognized as a commercial grade coffee pot, though far more elegant. Next to that, a similar vessel contained hot water for use with a variety of flavored teas. Harry prepared a cup of Russian-style tea in a cut crystal glass for the lieutenant, followed by another for Yaroslav. It smelled every bit as good as he remembered of his mother’s tea from childhood—and tasted even better. He joined Golanich in a sigh of pleasure for the perfection.

Harry smiled. “Care for some pastries?”

A plateful of petit fours appeared, big enough for the two of them to share. How he had missed those little dainties, last partaken of at a long forgotten party at NATO Headquarters in Brussels. He snapped a crisp bow and thanked Harry as Golanich picked up the plate and several napkins. A moment later they had found a small table of their own at which to enjoy their tea.

“Imagine!” Golanich snorted between sips. “The first place I get to go in Heaven is a welcome party. I thought we were all supposed to be angels sitting on clouds playing harps. Instead we’re sitting here in a gorgeous courtyard, drinking the perfect glass of tea and nibbling on petit fours like nothing I’ve ever tasted. And we’re surrounded by the most beautiful music, and the sweetest smells… This is ever so much better than the tales my great grandmother whispered when I was a child.”

“Of course, my friend. How could we ever have hoped to envision such wonder and beauty in our poor, limited vessels of clay?”

The lieutenant considered that for a long moment. “There is that… I wonder what I am to do here, though, if I’m not to sit on a cloud and play a harp. Thank goodness for that! I’d make a terrible harpist!”

Yaroslav laughed with him. “I as well. Like you, I also wonder what I am to do here—but given that we have all eternity to explore all infinity, I don’t doubt we will eventually discover what we most enjoy doing. Of one thing I am sure, and that is that we will no longer be required to defend the Motherland.”

“No? I seem to recall reading something in the Bible about a great battle between the forces of Heaven and those of Satan, and that the forces of Satan were thrown down to Earth.”

Yaroslav became aware of another guest standing beside him, a young man he felt he ought to know, but did not.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Be our guest.” Yaroslav waved at the empty chair between him and Golanich.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your question about the great battle with Satan, Yuri.” The familiar stranger took the seat and a sip of his rose wine. “If I might answer that?”

Golanich started to nod, then hesitated. His eyes widened, as if he’d recognized the young man. A tiny smile tugged at one end of the stranger’s mouth.

“Yes, you may call Me Y’shua.”

Yaroslav gulped hard at the thought of sitting in the presence of the Son of God. Y’shua looked from one Russian to the other. “My dear Yuri and Dmitri, would you be here had I not invited you? Trust Me when I say you are both forgiven forever, because you have both accepted Me and your places within Me.”

He touched their hands lightly, and in that gentle warmth, Yaroslav recognized the truth of what He had said.

“As to your question, Yuri, much as it pains Me to admit it, Satan is best described as My mirror image. Real though he may appear to those still cloaked within the clay of an earthly body, he remains only an image. This great battle you mention is only a story your distant ancestors devised in hopes of understanding why they feared and hated themselves. For many of them, Satan is their projection onto Me of the madness that arose when they named Me and believed I was therefore not-them. If I were not-them, then they must be not-Me, therefore I must hate them as they hated Me for their apparent abandonment.” He shook his head in sorrow. “Every world and every people I grow to self-awareness seems to go through the same process, but it must be necessary, otherwise they never grow to the point where I can bring home those able to ask questions of Me, and work with Me to learn the answers.”

Yaroslav blinked as he thought about this for a long moment. “So it really does come down to responsibility. Our ancestors, if we may believe the tale of Adam and Eve, blamed everyone else for their own choices—Eve’s choice to listen to the serpent, Adam’s choice to eat of the fruit she offered him. Have any Adams and Eves accepted responsibility for their choices on any of the worlds You have peopled?”

Y’shua shook His head again. “As I said, it must be a necessary part of your growth as My brothers and sisters. Without that sense of separation, we could not have this conversation, and I could not learn Whom I AM. I would be the Singular One, with no sense at all of Myself.”

“And the universe as we saw it in human form—and even as we see it now—would never have come into existence.” Golanich looked as if someone had just hit him over the head.

“Exactly. In one sense, All That Is remains mere potential within the Singular One just before the instant of Creation. In another, All That Is has been completely realized and has again become the Singular One, only in full and complete self-awareness. Within the infinite and eternal Here and Now between those two states, the Tardyon Side of Light, implicit in the Singular One, became the seed bed for you, My brothers and sisters. Through each and every one of you, I could explore Myself from points of view as close to truly Not-Me as is possible within Me as the Singular One. Those of you who have grown to accept Me and your places within Me, no matter the Name you gave Me, are here. Those of you who chose to deny Me and your places in Me are here as well, but as what you call black holes.”

“As if they’d tried to find the deepest hole to hide in and pulled it in after them?” asked Golanich.

“You have quite a way with words, my dear Yuri,” agreed Y’shua. “Of course, a black hole only looks black from the outside, because the light that falls into it can’t get out again. From the inside, it is brilliant white noise bearing in on one in crushing agony—yet those who deny Me seem to prefer that agony to accepting My forgiveness. Fortunately, only a small percentage of you actually go that far. Many more of you make it here, either after death, or as now, in the Harpazo. And those that never reach true self-awareness simply return to the life of the whole, as the seed which fails to germinate is returned to its constituent elements.”

Y’shua looked up as General Tavistock approached.

“We’re ready to present our stories as You wished, Y’shua.”

“Thank you, my dear Arliss.” He hesitated, then turned to Yuri. “Have I answered your question?”

Yuri gave him half a smile. “That one and several dozen more. I’ll be thinking about them for a long time to come.”

“Then let us share the stories of those present—including your own, of course.”

“As you wish, Y’shua.”

The courtyard seemed to darken as the Heavenly Song faded to a memory. Yaroslav joined the others in turning toward a small stage in the center of the space. On it stood Admiral Wickersram, an acquaintance from the days before the disastrous reign of President Everest.

This, thought Yaroslav, ought to be very good…

The End 

[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental.]

Abdul

 

What an awful week, thought Abdul, known to the kefir as The Man, Mayor of the District of Columbia. And things looked to get worse—much worse—before they got better—assuming they ever did get better. With an effort he repressed a shudder. Though he didn’t doubt the Grand Ayatollah, seated across from him in the Oval Office, felt the same, it wasn’t meet to admit he was terrified.

The memories, however, refused to submit to his stern admonition to vanish. Again he found himself swept back to the previous Saturday, when the first hint of the disaster now bearing down on them like a desert sandstorm had caught his attention.

Then, as now, he had sat here in the Oval Office between mid-morning prayer and noon prayer, giving his report on the state of the satrap under his command. He remembered the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach he felt every time he had to make that report to the old fanatic. No matter how he dressed it up, there was no escaping the fact that the United Islamic States of America was little more than a desiccated corpse of the once vibrant nation that had been the envy of the world hardly 20 years earlier. The last president had made sure of that, with her draconian efforts to destroy everything accomplished since the initial settlement of the continent by the Europeans. Thanks to her, the power grid had collapsed nationwide, and no one had ever been found who could rebuild it. With no electrical power, the technological civilization he had so admired as a student at Harvard around the turn of the century had collapsed into dust kicked up by horse and buggy or ox drawn wagons.

The kefirs had coped. Many—the more intelligent ones—had gathered into a network of small villages content to engage in subsistence farming. They had produced enough for their own needs plus a tithe to the network of ombudsmen and enforcers he’d cobbled together out of the less intelligent kefirs. He’d thought the people of this once great nation would rebel against the imposition of Shari’a law, but they’d simply hunkered down in silent compliance. For all intents and purposes, there had been almost no contact between him and his folk and them beyond the uncomplaining provision of the tithe—the dhimmi tax—every week for most of the last ten years.

There had been no evidence of any interest in trade between the dhimmi and his folk, and very little even between their villages. He had charged his ombudsmen to watch for any attempts to foment rebellion, but there had never been any reports of suspicious activities. Not that he really trusted his network of ombudsmen to tell him anything that might reflect badly on them. The imams he sent around as circuit riders to keep an eye on the ombudsmen confirmed the lack of questionable activity, however, so he’d eventually come to the conclusion that the hidden kefirs probably didn’t have armed rebellion in mind.

But then, why should they, when they’d managed by dint of offering the only way for pilgrims to reach Mecca or visit relatives in the Middle East—at outrageous prices payable in hard gold and silver—to relieve a large number of his fellow Muslims of most of the precious metals they’d recovered from the ruins of New York’s financial district and elsewhere? He’d done rather well at recovering his tenth of the loot, actually, though what good that would do in an economy reduced to subsistence on the gifts of the Hidden and the meager harvests of the work farms he had no idea.

He had not commented on the fact that the Star of Islam Cruise Line had stopped taking reservations a month earlier. The Grand Ayatollah already knew that as he’d tried to book a trip to Mecca only to be told that there were no openings available for Ramadan as the six vessels would be in dry-dock for repairs and upgrades. Abdul remembered struggling to hide a wince at the tantrum the old man had thrown. He would definitely not appreciate the latest on that score.

Abdul remembered being in the middle of his report about his visit to the offices of the Star of Islam Cruise Line the previous week when a muffled boom had shaken the windows and startled both of them. A suicide bomber? he’d wondered at first. But then he figured it must only be thunder as the sound had rumbled on for some time, until it had finally faded away. Though the sun had been shining brightly beyond the windows…

He’d returned his attention to his report, and had finished just before the chimes sounded and the muezzin called the faithful to mid day prayers from the top of the White House. Dutifully he’d joined the Grand Ayatollah in spreading his prayer rug and prostrating himself as the strictures of the faith demanded.

Duty to Allah completed, duty to stomach led him and the old man out of the office that had once been the apparent center of power in the world and through the candle lit corridors to the main dining room. Here they found the rest of the old man’s staff and family looking about in bewilderment at the tables and chairs. Where he normally saw the best china and silver and crystal ware, with snowy linen, the tables stood bare and empty. Worse, the silent servitors who usually seated them and provided them with the noon meal had unaccountably abandoned their rigid duty.

Ice water seemed to run down Abdul’s spine. That muffled boom. That odd knowing look on the hatchet face of the kefir running the cruise line—who he privately figured must have been a high-ranking member of the now disbanded US Navy. Something long-expected must have happened, and the silent servitors must have been part of it.

He tagged a couple of the ayatollah’s enforcers and urged them to accompany him. It took awhile to find the way down to the housekeeping level, and more time to find the kitchen.

The doors had been wrenched from their hinges—not outward, as one might expect of a bomb, but inward. Other than that, and the fact that only a pot of soup stood on the wood stove, nothing seemed seriously amiss.

The savory scent of the gently bubbling pot only added to the quivering terror in his stomach. No effort had been made even to prepare the noon meal—save for the soup. He grabbed his courage with both hands and stalked over to the large pot. Half-afraid of what he would find inside, he lifted the lid with a potholder and set it aside, then stirred the brown mixture with the ladle. He recognized the pinkish meat floating amid the beans as ham, and made a face.

“What’s wrong?” asked one of the guards.

Abdul looked at him. “The kefirs have played a very unpleasant joke on us. The only thing they have prepared for our noon meal is this soup of beans and ham. And they have vanished into thin air, quite literally. I doubt we shall ever find them.”

He put the lid back on the pot, then went to see if there might be anything else edible in the kitchen. He’d been wondering for the last week at some of the odd combinations of food at their meals, so he was not surprised to find nothing left in any of the storage areas. Indeed, they had been cleaned out as if the servitors had desired to leave no evidence they had ever existed. He checked the garbage bin, but found only a few dry rinds of onion and wilted leaves of lettuce or cabbage.

“You, go tell the ayatollah and the others that their choice is to eat forbidden food—this soup—or go hungry. I must find out just how far this joke extends.”

He swept out, leaving the guards to fend for themselves.

***

His investigations over the course of the weekend had revealed that fully half of the slaves on the work farms had vanished, leaving the other half severely injured by what looked uncomfortably like radiation poisoning. He’d barely managed to force down a late afternoon meal of thin vegetable soup at one camp. Even worse, the harems kept for the reward of the best workers and the overseers had lost even more of their residents. Those females remaining had also been severely burned and probably wouldn’t last out the week.

By Monday morning, his usual day for visiting the cruise line offices, the magnitude of the disaster had begun to sink in. He was no closer to learning where the missing kefirs had gone, though his initial image of them vanishing into thin air best described it as far as he could tell. His quivering terror seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his stomach. As he pulled his carriage to a stop beside the large gray building, he noted all six vessels had been moored side by side along the broad quay. Not only were they not in dry dock, there was no sign of activity anywhere about them.

A shudder ran down his back. It took all the courage he could muster to climb down from the carriage and make his way along the concrete walk to the main entrance.

Last time he’d been here, this whole side of the building had been paneled with fine wood and fieldstone, with plants of various kinds in large ceramic pots. Now all the finery had vanished, just like the kefirs. Even the entry door had disappeared, to be replaced with what must have been the original door. The depressing gray only fed his terror.

On the door, a poster had been attached. He moved closer, battling his reluctance with every step. What new piece of nastiness was he about to find?

The bottom half of the poster caught his attention first as he recognized the Shrine of the Qa’aba in Mecca, only the drapes had been drawn to reveal the Rock usually hidden inside. It bore a distinct resemblance to the most private part of a female—not that he’d ever cared to pay attention himself, only that as a young man at the madrasseh he’d shared quarters with several others who’d had an unholy fascination with such things, and the filthy magazines to feed it.

Above this disgusting profanation of the Holiest of Holies, he now noticed that what he’d at first taken for a representation of the sun was actually the head of a male lion bearing a golden crown and a stern expression. Rays streamed out in all directions.

His shudder began again as he finally noticed the words beneath the image of the shrine. “If you worship a deaf, dumb, and blind rock, you deserve what’s coming to you.” In both Arabic and English, these words had clearly been chosen to grind home the joke. Even worse, this excrescence had been created and signed by a female styling herself as Lt. Lydia Hargrave.

Only with the greatest of difficulty did Abdul manage to keep from punching or kicking the metal door—and risking grave injury to hand or foot. Instead, he tried the handle, but as he’d figured, it had been locked. No doubt he would find the inside looking quite as if no one had ever been there, just like the White House kitchen two days earlier.

The more he thought about what he’d seen and been through the last two days, the harder he shook. What force could cause people to vanish into thin air—specific people, not everyone by any stretch of the imagination—and leave everyone in their immediate vicinity with every evidence of severe radiation poisoning?

This poster suggested the Lion of Judah—the god of the Jews and Christians—had somehow done this. Moreover, this taunt about getting what was coming for worshipping a deaf, dumb, and blind rock only fed the growing terror inside concerning what might be coming.

He ran back to the carriage and threw himself into it, startling the horse. With the last shred of control he could manage, he refrained from whipping the horse into a gallop and guided it at a trot toward the gate through which he’d entered what had once been a Navy base. He still didn’t know how he had managed to make it back to the mayor’s manor.

Although he’d managed to regain a semblance of self-control by the next morning, the word trickling in from the outlying regions of the satrap threatened to unravel it again. For lack of any kind of communication faster than a horse, the headmen of the outlying districts had begun arriving at City Hall starting around dawn, wanting to know what to do about the suddenly emptied villages of the Hidden. He’d told the guards to let them into the council chamber, then had trembled on his prayer rug for nearly four hours before he could gather up the courage to find out if all the headmen for the entire satrap had arrived. He’d prayed as hard as he could for enlightenment about how to deal with this growing disaster—but the memory of that horrible poster kept getting in the way until he wanted to scream.

With a resolute effort he finally managed to shove the whole memory into a closet and lock the door on it. He could guess at what the headmen needed most—an air of confidence and a few crisp orders—and decided best to order them to occupy the now empty villages of the Hidden. They would have to manage the harvest, and spring planting—if they all survived that long. There would be no excuses for failure.

And so he had told them once he’d managed to calm himself to the point where he could function. He had refused to take questions, because he had no answers. They would have to find their own answers. Perhaps the Hidden had left a few clues about how to run a farm, along with the necessary equipment and seed. If not, there would be mass starvation. As he’d swept out of the chamber, he’d decided if it looked like starvation were imminent, he’d find a way out, even if it meant no virgins in Paradise. After all, what need had he for females of any kind?

Now he sat here with the Grand Ayatollah in the Oval Office lit only by the sunlight streaming through the curtained windows. Words still seemed so unnecessary—even if either of them could have found words to describe the disaster looming over them like the biggest sandstorm anyone had ever seen.

True, they still had food to eat, though not much of that, and what little they had was either burnt or raw because the toadies pressed into service as cooks had no idea what to do with it. But for how much longer? The traveling imams reported that the kefirs who had moved onto the abandoned farms clearly had no idea how to do anything related to farming, and that the stock animals had also disappeared. Worse, the original residents had made no effort to provision even themselves for the coming winter, as if they had known they wouldn’t be here. Even when the missing villagers had still been here, they had only provided the tithe of what little they had bothered to grow. There had never been enough left over to put any in storage, even if there’d been any storage space capable of keeping the food from spoiling.

It looked to be a long, hungry winter. Abdul looked at the old man seated across from him and saw the same thought in his dark eyes. Together they rose and Abdul bowed to the ayatollah.

Then he turned and walked out for what he knew would be the last time.

 

[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental.]

Jamal

 

Jamal hated his job. Yeah, he had a fancy title—Ombudsman for the Patuxent District—but all that meant was he had to spend five days a week on the road picking up the trash for the District Headman. He hated horses and wagons full of bushel baskets of corn, beans, and squash—whatever the villagers saw fit to give him—and especially he hated the villagers. Snotty a**-wipes who pretended he didn’t exist, and certainly wouldn’t give him the time of day. They left their wares out by the road for him to heave into the wagon by himself, if you could believe it. And he couldn’t just throw it in any which way because the Headman would have his head on a platter if any of it got spoiled. After all, the Headman and his gang had to eat—and they had to send their tenth into the County Headman—and so on up the line.

He liked eating, but he hated working for it, especially when he got so little for what he put into it. Worse, whoever did the cooking didn’t seem to care how well it turned out. Half the food he got was burnt, and the other half raw. And the villagers never gave anything except vegetables. They kept the meat for themselves. Though come to think of it, he didn’t recall seeing a lot of meat animals, just horses and oxen. Not that he’d ever been allowed into any of the villages to see what they might be hiding.

He’d tried, once, during his first year on the job. Even now a shudder shook him at the memory of the three big dudes on horse back blocking the drive and waving their hands at him in some mumbo-jumbo as if they’d all been deaf. They’d never looked like they were threatening him—but they obviously weren’t going to let him in, either.

With a sour grumble, he realized he’d nearly reached his first stop on his Monday route, that same village full of deaf mutes he detested so much. They actually had a kind of stand by the road, with the bushel baskets usually neatly lined up on the shelves. Today, however, the shelves were bare, and the gate, usually closed, stood wide open. Jamal frowned. What was this all about?

He pulled the horse to a stop, then climbed down and checked the borrow ditch just to make sure the weather hadn’t removed his take into the weeds. Nothing. His skin tightened in spite of himself. If he didn’t bring in his take, there’d be hell to pay. He looked at the empty stand, then at the open gate. Finally he climbed back up onto the wagon seat and urged the horse onto the drive and through the gate. He noticed it had been neatly tied back, so it wasn’t open by accident.

As he drove the wagon along the gently curving graveled drive, he looked around for any sign of people or animals. All he saw were birds flitting from tree to tree. No horses grazing in the pastures. No people in the fields. No nothing.

The drive soon brought him to a collection of houses forming the actual village. Most of them were mobile homes of various sizes flanking the original farm house. Each of them had a small yard with a vegetable garden. Some had fruit trees and little patios. The drive took him between the original farm house and one of the mobile homes into a common area of some size, with an old-fashioned bandstand in the middle. All the mobile homes actually opened onto this common area. What he’d seen earlier were their back doors.

Each of the houses had been lovingly kept up, with still more flowers and trees in the door yards facing the grassy commons. He followed the graveled drive on around the commons toward the barns and other outbuildings arranged behind the village. Only the birds going a