Jun 302015

bookcase_3If one goes deep enough in atomic physics one ends with a situation of pure chance *


The witness sighed, deep in thought, and approached an overloaded bookcase standing against the Eastern wall of Mysteries’ upper room, near to the point where horoscopes were cast.

Dazzling sunlight rendered a large cross-section of the case invisible with its blinding rays, while the lower parts were swathed in darkness, forming a vivid chiaroscuro on the rich mahogany canvas.

The lovingly burnished bookcase was home to a myriad esoteric masterworks and timeless classics. Ancient volumes interspersed with lavishly illustrated fairy tales and poetry written in the green language were stacked two-deep in places and upside-down in others.

It would not be a simple matter to extract from all of this the book that the witness had in Mind. Indeed, at that moment in time it would prove impossible.

Scanning the shelves intently, following the words on each well-worn spine with a neatly-nailed forefinger, everything but the item sought was readily apparent.

The shadow of a home-spun dream catcher – hypnotically swaying above the wide open window – crept inexorably along the ceiling like a spider’s web as minutes passed by into an hour of fruitless seeking. Church bells began ringing in the middle distance, heralding both an end of day and onset of night, bridging twilight with their other-worldly call to evensong.

Tension swiftly mounted in the upper room, causing a very mild sweat to break out on the witness’ furrowing brow. Thoughts from what was by any standards a wide-open brow chakra permeated the charged atmosphere with a note of concern.

Where on Earth IS the magic book?


* John Fowles, The Magus

Jul 062011

Each fairy tale is a magic mirror which reflects some aspects of our inner world, and one of the steps required by our evolution from immaturity to maturity.

For those who immerse themselves in what the fairy tale has to communicate, it becomes a deep, quiet pool which at first seems to reflect only our own image; but behind it we soon discover the inner turmoils of our soul – its depth, and ways to gain peace within ourselves and with the world, which is the reward of our struggles.”

Bruno Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment

Mar 212010
Sotheby's Collection

Giuliano Brooch

I recognized the atmosphere immediately; the cobbled, sloping streets and brooding blue air were strangely familiar.  I stopped and looked around.

One of the huge main buildings was not very far away, in a southerly direction from where we were standing.  The tawny stones of its massive structure shone brightly in the strong summer sunshine.  It was a forboding edifice, dramatically radiant with distinct sort of power that was in a class of its own, bordered with immaculate formal shrubbery.

Even more amazing than the building itself was the sheer blazing light suffusing the entire scene.  I had seldom seen another place with walls so bright, they gleamed without ever failing, as I recalled, be it by the sun, moon or stars, resplendent with cool, classical beauty….

For the first time on our quest I felt slightly uneasy and struggled to remember something that was eluding me for the second time.  I looked and looked again.  My companion was by now by my side and I haltingly confided to her, hoping to jog my memory and perhaps arouse in her some sense of recognition. Some secret she might of know about why we were really there.

Once before had I seen this place – exactly as it seemed at this moment – but then it had been a dream.  Many times before had I seen a place that now appeared to have been its image. It was strange, almost perfect, the enigma of architectural enlightenment, but I had an unmistakable sense of unease.  One could not help but feel that the atmosphere was potentially restrictive to a free spirit. 

Was it possible, that if they saw us, we would be imprisoned?

There was a definite suggestion of dark and hidden corridors, both without and within the actual buildings.  If it were all a fairy tale, there would have been a gingerbread house on a side-road somewhere, a place where witches entrapped wandering children of earth and starry heaven.

I had a distinct feeling of possible exposure and wished not to approach those inner walls, lest they should bear down and became a prison of knowledge, for all of their glorious appearance.  Once stuck in a position of learning, it might be extremely hard to escape honourably without first renouncing individual intelligence.

I could see that potentially dangerous secrets were being guarded within and that I was able to discover what many other students (or clones, as they appeared) never comprehended – the depth of knowledge actually in situ – except of course for the gilded few who by birthright were trusted by the establishment.  I realised for the second time that there was a conspiracy but could not fathom the mystery that I longed to understand.