Tag Archive: fiction


AT THE EDGE of the park was a hole and above this hole was always a cloud spectrum of vibrant curing colours. This hole looked like a big rabbit hole but it was not a rabbit hole. Everyone thought it was a rabbit hole but you see, Sam knew all about the rabbit hole secret. It was not for rabbits. “Listen carefully,” he whispered to me, “for I can only tell this story about the mystery of the sea to you once.” So, I listened carefully. In fact, I grew into an excellent and eloquent listener because of my great gentle friend and storyteller, Sam. The angel of the park.

“Underneath this secret hole dwell the powers of the purple and golden waters,” Sam told me with an urgent violet look in his eyes. Sam was always wearing something blue and something purple. I learned from him that a colour has an essence and a vibration and that purple has the highest vibration in the visible spectrum.  But back to the sea story of Sam. “The purple waters lead to the golden sea where one will find the deepest part of the earth’s ocean, the place of the powers,” he said. He also explained that this was surprising because the deepest part of the world’s ocean had been charted as the Challenger Deep located in the western Pacific Ocean with measurements placed at 11.03 kilometers. “But you see, my dear Elizabeth, nobody knows that there is a seafloor with a greater depth than the Challenger Deep: the Golden Deep, my dear, the Golden Deep,” he repeated. “The deepest portion of the Golden Deep has been placed at 30.03 kilometers. But nobody knows. These waters are uncharted!”

Sam told me that the powers in these waters were extraordinary and that they were only known to those who lived inside the waters and to a very special select few who lived outside of them. “Who live inside these waters, Sam?” I asked as I clung to him imploringly. “Oh, very extraordinary spirit people, Elizabeth. The lights of love live inside these magical waters,” said he.

The lights of love! Oh, my big full eyes beaming now with curiosity. “I will reveal it to you, my dear Elizabeth, the lights of love who live inside the waters do not come from ordinary spheres of reality but from higher ones. They have special powers that extend beyond themselves and rise into the spirits of others because the depth of their love comes from this other vibrant higher water world.”

From that day forward Sam anointed my life with some of the greatest love stories known to earth: Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Orpheus and Eurydice, Paris and Helena, Héloïse d’Argenteuil and Peter Abelard and so many more. Fiction or non-fiction, it did not matter, to him the spirit of unending love could be found in all rivers that run to the same sea. And all these great lovers even after death were still living as light colours inside the Golden Deep.

II

SAM also explained that I could access the powers of the waters when I would be older and all grown up. “There will come a time when you will have a need to rekindle your childhood dreams, like you would need to rekindle an inner fire,” he told me. But I was only seven years old so I did not fully understand what he meant by ‘a need.’ I had no need to rekindle my dreams then, I was always dreaming, dreaming with my eyes open and dreaming with my eyes closed. Dreams were my higher reality, my golden appearance. “But someday you might not dream. Someday you will live in ordinary spheres of reality and no longer in the higher spheres and that might cause you to suffer and make your eyes loose their shine. You will be you but you might wish you were not. You must come then to these waters,” said he.

“You must sit here by this rabbit hole for three hours but only in the spring. After three hours, the waters will wake and out of this space will rise a force so vibrant so bright that all the cells in your body will illuminate with light. And then you will never be the same again.” “Why, what will happen to me?” I asked hesitantly yet urgently. “The law of nature will touch you. You will change! Your need will change into the face of love that will make you weep with love, and then Elizabeth, you will acquire a new visual perception of life and of love. Your spirit will be filled with a vibrant spectrum of curing colours and you will perceive your life in entirely new ways! And this extra power, which was waiting all your life in life after life for a chance to live will rise and shine.”

III

AFTER 30 years, I went back to visit the rabbit hole with my daughter who is now seven years old. We found it underneath a bunch of branches and leaves. It was the very spot where Sam’s body was found when he died from his drinking problem during the same spring when he gave me the knowledge of the great golden waters. As I was reaching for the rabbit hole, I was deeply reminded how Sam loved me like his own daughter whom he never saw after he started living in the park as an alcoholic. It was my own daughter who said that day that I had an obligation to write down this story in the hope that Sam’s daughter will read it and see the face of love in the face of her father. “And perhaps, mommy,” my daughter said, “she is in need of the purple powers because she is suffering, and her eyes have lost their colours and their shine.”

I am older now and all grown up and it is clear to me now why Sam graced me with this colourful story. He talked a great deal about colours. In fact, he was a colour philosopher who believed that the interplay of true, deep, and unending love was the interplay not of two halves of a whole but an interplay of great spectrums of lights. When he spoke of the lights of love he spoke of the nature and interplay of colours. He explained that if people could truly wake up to their own innate vibrant colour system and embrace both the light and the darkness fearlessly within, then they could acquire a new depth of knowledge, a golden knowledge, of the nature of love in the physical world.

When the all becomes too daunting and too much, I close my eyes now and become a sleeping beauty in the last sunset that fades. My essence falls into the purple powers of the golden sea and I enter into a fifth season where I dream dreams that make me forget I am dreaming, just like when I was a child. These vibrant curing colours, they turn towards me as Sam said, and they spray me with eternal love, unending love, and with spring.

Sam is in a beautiful place, I know this now, he is freedom creating powerful colour spectrums inside the most magical of all golden seas.

~~~

I dedicate this story to Stephen Stymiest 

who died on January 20, 2012 in Precita Park.

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“I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days ~ three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”

~ John Keats, 1819 in a love letter to Fanny Brawne ~

January 12, Year 2037

~ Zaziwe’s letter of love ~

My dearest Hizkiah, 

Your letter. Your flesh. It arrived! Finally. I hold this precious piece of paper that has traveled past the stars here in my hand as I write. I am unable to let go of it. Unlike the paper, the ink has vanished though. All of it! Would you like to know where it has gone? It eroded away when the light of my own stars touched yours. The solid became liquid and slipped into me. I sipped and swallowed all the spaces where your fingers have traveled.

Downward now your words are spiraling where they are breaking down into smaller units and releasing their energy to form an entirely new star system within me. My spirit infected by your wonders, your words. Peaks of eternal light. Injections of oxygen and gravity.  My peace. The letter, the finest layers of your flesh, and the seventh element that makes up my own human body. So if you are missing your hand with it’s 27 bones, it is here inside mine in a power grip of tactile movements.

Oh Kiah, I am billions of years away from earth, more so now that I hold your letter. Incredible how light is being created on the dark side of the moon! Such inconceivable discoveries in new necks of the solar system. But do tell me how to walk here on this planet when your moon life is so immeasurably far removed from it? An alien now in my own atmosphere. A moon rock not on the moon but alone here on earth. I fell upward and then down into the void between moving stars of a foreign field. No here, there, before, or after. Life lost in uncharted spaces where earth life is unable to reach me.  Nebula now. A particle of the Pillars of Creation. Humans still see me because of the limited speed of light, but I no longer exist. I am thousands and thousands of light years away waiting to disappear into nothing.

It is your gift to discover the secret of the stars and powers on other planets.

But I can no longer stop wondering why you continue to stay wired to sustain the human race outside of it’s own planet. Why, when it means separation from the greatest forces of love and life here back home on earth for indefinitely.

If our species will cease to exist like any other species would cease to exist then let it loose its form, and perhaps it will find its way to continue in another one. Why must humankind continue as we have known it? Why do they think our safety is guaranteed on mars or the moon? Extend our life out where when our species is unable to protect and tend to the life-trees and earth’s expanding wonders and powers right here? If not on our own planet then surely we will not be able to sustain a life of liberty, beauty, and sanity outside of it. This lunar mission, I know where it will end. They are not remapping the moon. They are remapping you. They are remapping me.

I miss you. My love for you is greater than love, so how can I not long for you in all my hours? You are not a man whom I love. You are love in the form of a man. There is a difference. Abundance. Eros longing for Eros in an entirely new planetary system.

My love for you travels beyond my planets, beyond their dreams. All great poets of the earth were right. Earth, a necropolis without agape and eros. The world not a world without love.

I had a dream. It  lasted three days and my last three full nights. We traveled back in time. You were Keats and I was Fanny Brawne. When flesh touched flesh we transformed into butterflies. And then we vanished into meigetsu seifu ~ clear moon, cool breeze some 7000 light years from earth into the portals of life.

I write to you from a specular sphere reflecting uncharted colours in all kinds of cosmic directions. Because my love for you is greater than love, I look at the solar system and see you ~ butterflies everywhere. 

~ your Zaziwe

the dance of the soddy circles

I love you.’ In his letters, he never did quite write these words to me, at least, not in that order. Instead, he wrote ‘I place my love in you.’ He had a love for logic. The roots of love were active. They liked to engage, move, and place themselves inside inner circles where they could be activated multiple and multiple times. Yet, love had no logic. We agreed.

When he traveled he wrote long poetic ungraspable lovely letters. He was a mathematician and a poet, a sailor of structures, patterns, precisions, and symmetry of thought. His planet needed mathematics and poetry as much as our planet needs suns, seas, oceans, and moons.

Like the words of the great poets of the world, the force of his words bled into the caves of my soul bodies. His words counted for the echoes of my thoughts. He lived between raindrops so he could count them. I lived between the pages of his books.

He was a penman; there was no doubt about it. The pen was body flesh. Ink, the colours of humanity. He felt through the pen and wrote not to discover what he knew, but what he believed. The difference, I have yet to forget the look in his eyes when he explained it. They pierced into precision.

Mathematical beauty, freedom of inquiry, peaceful galaxies and planets, forces of wisdom in nature, facing the rivers, the sounds of G’d, and the eyes of the soul: he walked these worlds. Poetry was a colour of heart and hope. Poetry was Pessoa, Neruda, Whitman, precise as math, and other quantitative spirit-sciences.

He believed in the powers of handwritten letters and poems, even in the age of computers. In his pocket, he always carried 2 letters + 1 note + 4 poems = a total of 7 pieces of paper. ‘Seven: the number of completion.’ But, his favourite number was 3: ‘Thought, word, deed, complete the sum of human capability.’

The letters

  • 1. Flaubert’s letter to Louise Colet in which he wrote ‘Poetry is as exact a science as geometry.’ 
  • 2. The letter of Samuel Taylor Coleridge to his brother with the words“ I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the quintessence of Truth, should have found admirers so few…”
  • 3. And my words nested in a note ‘Before you do your math could you please clean up your socks! Should you forget, I will not be able to calculate them.’

The poems

  • 1. Pablo Neruda’s An Ode to the Numbers
  • 2. The Kiss Precise by Frederick Soddy
  • 3. Robert Browning’s poem called Rabbi Ben Ezra, inspired by the great Abraham ibn Ezra who lived during the Middle Ages. He was also called Abenezra, or The Wise, The Great, and The Admirable Doctor. He was a great master in multiple subjects including math and poetry. A crater on the moon was called after him, Abenezra. What I also found most interesting, was that the first words in this poem by Browning inspired John Lennon to write his song “Grow Old With Me.” We loved sharing these kind of stories. We loved stories. We loved Lennon. We loved songs.
  • 4. And, last but not least, he carried a poem in his pocket, which I wrote called  ‘A room of my own. You!’ -with no relation to mathematics what so ever.

These letters and poems were, he said, ‘just elegant and beautiful proofs of linking poetry to geometry, divine expression to grace.’

He was gentle. He was wise. His spiral way, he was able  to define it way before I was able to define mine. He loved me for everything I disliked about myself. Yes, it is true. His exact words: ‘Sometimes we need the other to show the one the billions of colours inside the eyes of our own.’’ He was my Soul mirror. I was his, ‘Earthrise. Earthrise.’

It was so sudden and so unexpected. But, when he lost his ability to count, I think he knew. His genius was tortured. His pen turned syringe. On the last night of his life, I curled up beside him. I took his hands in my hands, looked at his fingers and kissed each one of them the way I would kiss his poems. Then, I reached for his eyes with my lips and planted 3 white butterflies on the flesh of each lid. ‘10 + 3 + 3 kisses adds up to 7 kisses, the number of completion and the kissing butterfly circles,’ I whispered. In that moment, he became his last smile.

For the next 300 years, I lay there beside him in a fetish position. Assailed by an inferno of sadness, I lost my life after he lost his. ‘Oh my soul, how to survive this second world of silence? How to exist without existing? Oh, gift of death, why slice my soul and leave one slice behind? Take me. Take me!’ Take me never came.

Stories heal. We become what we believe. I believe in stories.

Why do the winds blow people towards us, only to rip them from our lives after some seasons? I now know I will never know. I will not be here forever, but I am here now. That is all I know. I know that he placed himself in every piece of my human more deeply and intensely than can any other human. Perhaps, he was not human. Perhaps, he was a sun spirit. A moonwalker. A wonder of a great love.

Twelve months later, I found a letter in one of his books. It was he to me. Clearly, it was a letter he wrote during his final days when he could barely write. But, I was able to read him. At night, I keep this letter under to my pillow, by day…between the pages of his book. The letter:

Oh my soul ~ Fanny ~

Promise me, you will not be afraid to create new worlds.

Where I go and where you are,

 I will still see the 3 billion colours in your eyes

And, watch your hands ~ create the dance ~ of the Soddy circles.

Radiate forward!

 I am your Soul mirror. You, my Earthrise. Earthrise.

I place my love in you, Fanny  ~ Jacques

~~~

  • His imperfections?
  • Well, he snored. We had our issues.
  • However, if all my body parts now ache to be cradled inside the songs of his snores, does his night music now add up to be the grand total sum of an imperfection?
  • ‘Precisely, Fanny, Precisely.’

Earthrise. Earthrise.