Excerpt for Don't Think by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Wisdom of the WindWalkers 4 0f 4

Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

(in collaboration with Sha'Tara EarthStar)

Copyright (©) 2018 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Chilliwack, B.C. Canada

Cover picture bottom by: Christer Rønning Austad

All pictures found on

Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

Next Series: What the Street Taught Me

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.



A Bear-Foot Summer

A Touch Of Home

Back To God Again

A Black Cloud


Don't Think!

Follow The Mermaids

Giving A Gift

Good And Evil Right And Wrong

Grandfather's Dream

I Awoke

I Meet Up With An Old Friend

I Remember A Young Girl

Illogical Mind

Is There A Cure For Cancer


No Weed In God’s Garden

Prayer Of The Innocent

Is Our Universe Shaped Like A Globe?

Speak To Me Or Do Not

The Crossing

"The Move"

To Vote Or Not To...


Train Of Progress

Windwalker's Magic Talking Stick

Word Mechanics

Who Is Retarded?


These books represent a varied collection of remarkable "outside the box" thinking (and subsequently, writing).


If you are one of those trammeled and importuned by strong beliefs that won't let go, this could be your chance to break free.  I'm not asking you to believe what is written therein—I can't say I believe all of it myself—but it makes for an interesting "other than" perspective.  Reading these books can be compared to  painting by numbers.  You have this standard picture outline and between lines are colour numbers.  You match the numbers to the colours and eventually you have a painting.  It's not great art, of course, and everybody knows that but it gives you the impression that you did it yourself.  We all know that is how the System operates.  It gives us a number of colours and our life is laid out and numbered, from cradle to the grave.  There isn't much we can do about it, it seems.  It's the System. 


Ah, but there is something we can do about it.  We can ignore the numbers.  Use random colours and mix them.  If "3" is green, we do pink on one of the "3" sections and arbitrarily use orange on the next, and so on.  Pretty soon the System doesn't know us anymore and guess what?  We discover what real freedom can be.  It begins by breaking the rules; by daring to violate those imposed beliefs.  Here's one for you:  Did man ever land on the moon?  Of course they did, you will say.  You saw it on TV, or you saw the videos and read the reports and documentaries, right?  Ok, fine.  But that is not the point since landing on the moon or not did nothing to change the way people interact with each other.  So the point?  The point is to paint a different colour on the "moon landing" section of your life's canvas.  A "fake moon landing" colour.  Now really go into this idea.  Break the template here, convince yourself it was all faked in some studio, for whatever political reason.  Then proceed to prove to yourself that it was so.  Study this bit of history; look at the clues.  What happens in the end?  In the end you realize it doesn't matter at all whether they landed on the moon or not.  What matters is, you dared question it.


The material in here questions "taken for granted" ideas, sometimes seriously, sometimes with humour.


You know, it's hard to think these days, when everything is handed to us via TV and the Internet.  Everything tells us how to think, and does so in the blink of an eye.  We don't have to wait for the President's state of the union speech, or the preacher's rant on a given Sunday.  We Google! 


Can a mind atrophy?  You bet.  Look into these booklets and think about thinking.

A Bear-Foot Summer

(or The Tale of Hugga Bear,

the Great Runner)

On a long and winding path

I encountered Mr. Black Bear.

wearing Nike Air running shoes.

“Why runners?” I thought.

Surprisingly the bear replied:

"To run faster and not leave paw prints

for annoying Earthlings in clown suits

and toting very dangerous guns:

They are so careless with those!

But I must say, one of them was kind enough

to donate these shoes, huh!

I guess he’d want me to have his gun too

and his wallet stuffed with credit cards

but they taste yucky.

(Grimacing and patting his stomach.)

“Did you know bear gallbladder is worth lots of money?

I know because my brother died recently

and got very posthumously famous in China.”

The bear went on, mumbling to himself:

“Human meat is so tough and cheap.

has little or no flavour,

and goes bad shortly after you kill it;

Don't worry, I won’t eat you.

Come here, I’ll give you a bear hug!”

“Oh no!” I said subdued

when I realized he meant it literally

as he ripped my clothes off!

I hope this is just a dream...

Pinch me! Pinch me!

A Touch of Home


"Beautiful day, huh?"  The slim brunette in the sleeveless black pantsuit doesn't even look at Steven as she pours the coffee into the ornate, obviously home-made mug and hands it to him, taking his "toonie" and two quarters for payment.  He waves the change and walks to the window, to the only small table left unoccupied.  He sips the hot dark roast and scans through his paper.


As many experts at reading the bulky commercial dailies will tell you, there's a certain art to this, one I've never bothered learning.  You don't actually read news or stories.  You go through it page by page taking mental notes of relevant items to get into later.  You skip the fashion, cars and trucks, and entertainment or sports sections if these are not your thing.  Later, during your next break or back at home, you attack the pieces you hope will hold your interest long enough to provide a "shift" or a time of forgetting.


"Mind if I sit here?"  A tall man in a grey suit points at the only seat left in the entire Java Hut coffee house.


"Not at all."  Steven points to the empty rattan chair.  "I don't own the place although at the prices they charge here I should have shares in it by now."


The tall man sits down, puts his paper cup down.  "If you don't like these prices why don't you go to Tim Horton's down the street?"


"And do line-ups?  I value my time.  Beside I like to be able to taste coffee, not just hot water and sugar."


"Ah, the very reason I frequent this establishment.  Interesting mug you have there.  Your own, obviously?"


"You're either a lawyer or an investigator, sir!"


The grey suit laughs.  "I do a bit of both actually; lawyering and sleuthing that is.  I have a traffic case at 11:00 today as a matter of fact.  Can't really discuss it, you understand.  But that mug is fascinating.  It has a story: I can almost hear it speak."


"A touch of home, sir, uh, ah?"


"Sorry.  Al.  My name is Albert Delisle, attorney at law and at large."  He laughs again and extends a strong tanned hand, impeccably manicured.  Steven extends his and the handshake is firm, almost too eager; the grip of a professional golfer.


Steven continues, "I've had this mug for twelve years now as of yesterday.  My daughter Katherine made it in a pottery class she was taking as an extra-curricular activity in her last year of school..."  Steven stops talking and holds the fading white odd-shaped mug with both hands, hands of a man old before his time.  Tears begin to flow from his eyes and the lawyer touches his arm.


"Sorry to stir up painful memories my friend, uh... no, don't tell me your name.  You must be Steven Baillie."


Steven appears shaken and startled by the mention of his name from someone he's never met.  "That's right.  That's my name.  How did you know...?"  


The lawyer stops him.  "Sorry to startle you as well as upset you.  If you tell me the story of this mug I'll explain how I know your name."


"Ah, yes.  Twelve years ago my wife Jean went to pick up our daughter Susan at school to take her shopping for a grad dress.  On their way home after shopping a drunk driver ploughed into the mini van.  His vehicle, an old Ford 4x4 was totaled but he was thrown clear and didn't get a scratch.  My wife, they said, died on impact.  Susan lived for one month of pure agony afterwards but the burns were too deep...  The only thing that survived from the wreck and the inferno of the mini van was this mug.  She was bringing it home for me after cleaning out her locker."


"I'm so terribly sorry sir,"  says the lawyer.  "The driver of the other vehicle, his name was Gerry Felton?"


"Yes.  That was his name.  But how can you know this, or remember these details after such a long time?"


"Research.  The man I'm defending today is that same driver.  He's charged with running over an old woman crossing the street in the dark, killing her instantly.  He was driving while under the influence of alcohol and a mixture of prescription drugs.  These details are in your paper." 

"I know.  That's an article I've been reading every day for twelve years." 


[Note: a "toonie" is a Canadian $2 coin]

Back to God Again

The God thing still eludes me:

what is God, I wonder

with all pretensions removed?

Is God a person? A concept?

A saviour? A judge? A creator?

Is it really the origin of all that is?

Everyone has a different idea

of what God is or should be.

Matters not if I enter a church

or seek answers on the street:

I’m sure to get an earful

of mega confused thinking.

Most people believe in God

but find two people

who completely agree

on what the concept really is-


How about a narrower concept:

A God of love, perhaps?

Yet those who believe this

are often the worst offenders

against the law of love.

Is God everything?

Good and evil equally?

Is God separate, but in all things?

Is God apart from what is marred

by the passage of evil?

Is every intelligent entity

equally God as is now claimed?

Preposterous, all of it, I say

God is that which foolishness

has put forth to hide itself

from itself.

Do I need God? Yes,

if I refuse to live the law of love

or fail to live my integrity.

A Black Cloud

Judy woke up and pushed her big tomcat off the bed, shut off the alarm and mechanically tuned the radio to her favourite morning station, CKRY. She had thought how funny the acronym was at first, but got used to it, and the jokes that went with it. She slipped a sheer nightgown over her tall, slim frame as she smelled the freshly brewed coffee. She enjoyed her simple, uncomplicated, automated life. Her job paid little more than minimum wage, but she had few problems in her life, especially since she finally got rid of Mario. For a moment, a black cloud filled her mind, and her heart constricted, but the feeling passed and she fed Tiny his morning allowance, enough to satisfy a hungry Rottweiler.

It was still and cold outside. Frost covered the windows of her car in the condo parking lot. She liked her one bedroom pastel decorated apartment in the condos in a slightly elevated west part of town. A few large evergreens gave a feeling of privacy. Her neighbours were quiet and she hardly ever had to speak to them, except at the monthly strata meetings.

She sipped her coffee and she combed her long blonde hair, her left hand alternating between the cup and a bowl of fruits and cereal she was pensively mixing. Everything was so normal, so wonderfully normal. She vaguely heard a comment on the radio about an accident in town, as she waited for her music, the old love songs of the Sixties and Seventies she enjoyed so much. It seemed the interruption lasted longer than usual, but again, she wasn’t interested. Her job was only a couple of blocks away, at a small distribution company, so she never drove or took the bus. Road problems seldom caught her attention.

She enjoyed her walk to work, and often, another woman, Samantha, who worked at the local paper further down the block, would walk with her as far as her office. The women sometimes invited each other over for coffee, or for dinner. Both of them were now avowed singles, having bravely fought their version of the battle of the sexes... and won, or so they thought. For the time being, men were off their list. They had discovered that cats, especially tomcats, made much better, warmer friends, had a good deal less expectations and were definitely less expensive to maintain.

“...It wasn’t until four this morning that a work crew discovered bodies wedged down a sewer manhole at 7th and Balsam. We advise commuters to avoid that area, as police and other emergency crews are still there, cleaning up and investigating. ... and now, for more of your favourite songs... this is CKRY, YOUR GOOD MORNING RADIO... “Bridge Over Troubled Water, I will lay me down..” Judy smiled through her morning preparations for work. She deliberated over her day’s dress, and makeup. She liked to change her appearance and paid a great deal of attention to her mood swings. She followed these with her own body artistry so she wouldn’t feel ill at ease, or out of sorts with herself for the rest of the day. She petted Tiny as he rubbed against her leg to make him understand he’d have to spend the day outside. Of course, he loved it outside, but he had to pretend he didn’t. There would be a lot of complaining as he finally jumped through the opened window onto the patio.

There would be birds to watch at the feeder the neighbours so diligently filled every morning. Who knows, maybe a careless one would provide some extra protein today, and the woman next door would chase him angrily off her own balcony, providing some excitement... Birds could be so incredibly stupid, and humans so entertaining when properly motivated. He stretched and meowed loudly. When Judy saw his claws dangerously near her wooden rocking chair, she said “No!” and “OK boy, time for you to go out.” Tiny could have shrugged as he smiled inwardly... a very sarcastic cat smile. Yes, humans were predictable. One only had to know how to move and guide them to do what one wanted. After all, why do they have those hands and feet, processed foods, sliding windows and warm, soft laps, if not to serve cats? Tiny had learned, early in life, the incredible power he possessed in his long, soft grey fur, his deep voice and his well-groomed claws. He believed he could move mountains with these, and he did: mountains of human emotion. Hah!... Meeeeoooowwww!

Today would be green. A light green dress, sheer green pantyhose, green shoes, green scarf, and her green coat, which was a darker shade, but that didn’t matter. She topped herself with a wide green woolen toque and felt quite ready to face the world. “... Teenagers looking for a place to have a smoke on their way to school discovered bodies in an abandoned warehouse at the east end of town near the river. . Three men and two women were bludgeoned and left to freeze to death on the floor of the old building. Police are now investigating in force as fear is mounting that a crazed killer, or gang of killers, are loose in the town.”

Again, Judy paid scant attention. This was a big city, and things happened all the time. This had nothing to do with her, though it probably meant that Samantha would already have been called to work to deal with the news. Oh well, she would call her later and find out how it all went. Quarter to nine, and the pale sun was just rising over the city. It would be a still day, no wind and only a few white, wispy clouds. Good. She hated walking in storms anyway. “...Stay tuned for more news as our roving reporter brings you the latest in the killing rampage... this is CKRY, YOUR GOOD..” and she turned off the radio, picked up her bag and left the apartment. She locker her door carefully, set her alarm and went out into the cold morning air. She smelled the usual smog, the mixture of exhaust fumes, sulfur and other unnatural substances which always assailed her nostrils until she got used to them. She heard some distant sirens of emergency vehicles somewhere, but gave them no heed. In the still, cold morning, everything was so, so, normal.

There was excitement at work over the night’s happenings, but she couldn’t get into it either. Why should she? It had nothing to do with her, absolutely nothing. She turned on her computer and began to tally, add, subtract, make sense of the orders, send letters, receive e-mail, and pass on the messages to the various department heads. It was a small trucking firm, so her work load was not so much heavy as it was varied. She often thought of herself as a girl Friday in that place.

“Hey Judy: did you hear about last night? They’ve found at least nine bodies by now, all killed in the weirdest ways. The funny thing is, there’s no rhyme or reason to the killings: they’re not prostitutes, or street people, or people of any particular category; they’re just people. One of them was a young boy, about 12. Most of them were just people driving home, or walking on the street, or so it seems. What do you think of that?”

Well, Frank was always one to ask questions. For a brief moment, she wondered why these “killings” had no effect on her, why she didn't care, absolutely didn't but quickly dismissed the thought. After all, she had her own life, her own problems, and had to remain aloof in order to keep it together. She had worked hard to reach this point of semi independence, and she wasn't going to let anyone or anything rob her of her accomplishments.

“Look Frank, I don’t care, OK? It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s just one of those freak things that happen in big cities, and this is a big city, Frank. Why don’t you take care of that order for Friesen’s Deli instead of wasting my time with speculation on accidents and the like? They have people paid to do that: newscasters, analysts, shrinks, preachers, columnists, lawyers, the government... They won’t fill our orders, so let’s do our job and let them do theirs.”

“Hey, who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?”

“No one. I just can’t get personally involved in other people’s problems, OK? I’ve got work to do and a life of my own. Why don’t you get one!”

Crestfallen, definitely resentful, Frank left. She felt so much better. Men! They think they can come on to a girl by frightening her and offering protection. If she falls for it and lets the fear of being alone get to her, she may accept the not so innocent offer of an escort home, or an offer of a date... yeah, right. Well, not this girl. Been there, done that! Definitely don’t work!

From there on, the day progressed normally. The news spread, and there were more versions all the time. The favourite one was of alien abductions and experimentations. Organs were missing from the bodies, and they had all been killed in mysterious ways unknown to the experts in the field. Another was of an Oriental gang of trained martial arts experts led by a madman who wanted to take over all the cities of the west through fear and blackmail... There was one that talked of the return of count Dracula and vampires.

“Ridiculous!” Judy thought as she put on her shoes and coat. The weather had not changed. Everything was so, so still. The smog seemed a little heavier at the end of the day. She walked home briskly, hoping to meet with Samantha, but did not. She was surprised, when she came in, that Tiny was not at the window, but he would be. She changed and prepared dinner. She set the table, looked out and called Tiny, then called Samantha. No answer. Strange. Oh well, life goes on. Tiny is a tomcat, he’ll return. Samantha is probably working late at the paper. I know, I’ll call the paper. If she’s not there, I can leave a message.

A man answered her call: “Citadel News Room, Jerry speaking. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if Samantha was still at work?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Her friend, Judy Simpson, from the condos”

After a long pause, the man spoke: “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, miss Simpson, but Samantha was one of last night’s victims.”

“Oh!” and she hung up slowly. Tiny was scratching furiously at the window. She noticed her hand was shaking a little as she let him in. She sat down to finish her meal. She would run a nice hot bath after the dishes were put in the dishwasher, and everything would be normal again... Absolutely everything.



the tall!

stately majestically

waving cone-filled

branches dark-green

old growth Douglas fir:

sways its rugged head

in the rain-soaked breeze

the salty ocean breeze

the breath of a thousand years

ages when the land spoke of life, simple,

when the salmon ran heedless, free

up fast flowing rivers of crystal rains

translucent greens reflected

a million times upon wrinkled mirrors

that sang past sands

where beaver tails left trails

where tiny twin-hoofed prints laughed

into the new day:

before the campfires

and children's laughter

stood the tree

tall and proud

sure time-less

home for bird

and beast

above its head:

the home of

the gods

the chainsaw

came one day

leaving only

a bleeding stump

a homeless eagle

five dead squirrels

and the ageless tree crashed!

to its side across the mountain side, dying:

the river, the reflections, the breath of God,

footprints in the sand; the fish;

the old ways which intermingled in the forest:

all died that day

Don't Think!

They say humans

only use ten percent of their brains...

Well that’s too much already!

Too painful, too confusing!

Don't wear out that wonderful blob

thinking up thoughts about the world

and the mess it’s in:

just tune in a political speech

the latest news, the final score:

amuse yourself in mindless chatter,

but whatever you do,

protect your blob from accidental wear!

Do not try to reason

the why’s and wherefore’s

of the system’s nefarious ways:

someone else is bound to do it for you,

so why create more headache

with the unused portion of your anatomy?

The mess we’re in is inevitable:

that’s why you vote, isn’t it?

To continue the mindless game,

and re-create the problems

we so enjoy not solving!

It’s time to sit upon the couch again

and stare at the flickering tube:

Television, the great mind-saver,

babysitter from two to ninety-two

keeping the brain embalmed day after day,

night after night, saving an entire species

from wearing out its brains!

Follow The Mermaids

The land dries up like an autumn leaf

as freeways string their endless traffic

beyond a fading gray horizon

where once proud, shining mountains

wear a shroud of everlasting smog.

In rivers parched for water

fishermen trouble shallow currents

to snag helpless, passing, dying fish

cast from waterless spawning channels

as boats churn up what’s left

of the liquid mud upon the shores.

Wherever red eyes turn to stare,

the blight of urban sprawl extends:

no green field or rolling meadow

but high-rises, condos, malls and factories

raise their spectral faces from the maze

through thickening afternoon haze...

Once upon a time in the past

things did come to such a state

and hope, from desperation, heard

the mermaids calling from afar:

many were those who heard their song,

few were those who listened,

fewer still those who dared follow.

It takes a brave soul to venture forth

boldly upon the unknown,

following mermaids through the waves

to jagged, forbidding rocks jutting

just outside the edge of time

but what became of those who stayed?

They are but unknown statistics

of Atlantis crumbling into an ancient sea,

of Mesopotamia drowning below raging waters,

of Crete bleeding under its frescoed ruins,

of old Egypt sleeping under restless sands

where the Sphinx no longer speaks

and the mermaids’ song is but a whisper.

Giving a Gift

Walking beside a restless sea,

leaving boot prints on grey riffled sand

in the damp cold of an early morning fog,

while being mercifully spared the discomfort

of these unsurprisingly harsh elements

by felt lined boots and warm overcoat,

my thoughts turn to the concept of giving.

Two ideas jar my awareness

as I consider the idea of giving away my overcoat

to a poorly clad beachcomber I pass by,

only to realize before the deed is done

I'd been wanting a new coat

and this provides the perfect opportunity,

or does it?

Giving to someone however obvious the need

an old overcoat you no longer want

can certainly be considered a good thing to do;

and the act may even seem like giving,

but to justify buying a new one?

That's just another form of selfishness,

perhaps the worse kind for being self-justified.

What would be a true gift then?

Letting go of the coat

when a new one cannot be had

for lack of funds or opportunity,

learning to do without such comfort?

Would that be it?

I watch the waves run up the sand

and in the water's retreating hiss

comes the answer I was waiting for,

though perhaps, or more than likely

it isn't what I was expecting.

Good and Evil Right and Wrong

Playing with concepts:

good and evil; right and wrong.

Are these identical twins?

Can one set of concepts

interchange with the other?

What is “right” or “wrong”?

Isn’t this simply

awareness of consequences

for actions taken?

What about good and evil?

Isn’t it the same concept

as right and wrong?

It should be, but is not.

Now judgment is implied;

followed by condemnation

and gods meddling in the fray.

A right move can be repeated;

a wrong one can be corrected -

but when “right” becomes “good”

that becomes an institution.

When wrong becomes evil,

there you will always find violence:

witness man’s endless wars;

witness the end of the world

as predicted in the Bible!

Witness a “God of love”

becoming a heartless and cruel

judge of creation.

Better to let our “rights”

free to move around in our minds.

Better let our “wrongs”

free to endure correction

and not become

instruments of Devil worship.

Grandfather's Dream

I feel Grandfather’s spirit

in the wind that moves the branches,

that flutters leaves of broad-leaved maple.

I watch the sun rise over barren land,

that was Grandfather’s farm,

a farm he struggled to keep;

by taking a job up north,

by surviving with so little, for so long.

Heavy equipment carve up the earth,

fill the tranquil air with industrial noise,

uproot the trees I once played in,

destroy precious streams I once waded

and washed my hands in.

They build a “gated community”;

a prison for the wealthy:

was this what Grandfather envisioned

when he bought this land long ago?

Ruthless developers connive

to leave the remaining family

with empty pockets and broken hearts:

was this the work of the universe

unfolding as it should?

I will remember the years

I was connected with the life

that was this sacred place.

I will remember the simple things

that awakened me to greater knowing.

I’ll drift away from here

to dream a better, greater dream.

I Awoke

I awoke to the serenity of time,

as the sun rose over faraway hills,

I had decided to climb.

Filled with awe at the blossoming

of this new day, I thought:

Where does wisdom come from?

Then I saw a great eagle circling

as a reflection in the deep blue:

it seemed to speak to me then...

“Wisdom is not written in books;

it is not found at the feet of a great one;

it’s what one has become

through the lessons life teaches

one can now see and share.

For wisdom can not be imparted

with mere words, for words

are but the photograph, an image.

Wisdom must be demonstrated

and only thus can others decide

if what they see

may be beneficial to their life’s passion.”

It was a fair walk to those hills

so I started my day’s hike then

and as I walked

amongst a silent wilderness,

filling my senses with endless impressions

I realized, perhaps for the first time

that wisdom’s source comes from within;

from my own understanding;

my own acceptance of life’s flow;

from free will that is truly free.

I Meet up with an Old Friend

My wanderings take me to the hunting lodge of a local entrepreneur and millionaire, high on the Republican side of things.  Spiritually and mentally not a healthy place but beggars aren't choosers and I have to eat, and feed my child.  I thought I knew what to expect when I got there but I had an awakening, that's for sure.

"Hello Mary!  What are you doing here?"

That voice!  "Jesus!"  That's about all I can say.  There he is, as handsome as ever, looking dapper in his military fatigues, a semi-automatic casually held in the crook of his left arm - and how well I remember the feeling of being in that place! - surrounded by very important men and off to the side, hardly unobtrusive, a TV production van, equipment and necessary staff.  The sun is shining in my eyes so I move closer and turn under the shade of an overhanging roof.

"So, what do you think, Mary?  Is this me or what?"

"You?  You..."  I blurt out.  "I don't get this.  It's a  nightmare, right?  You're an actor... and don't call me Mary.  I'm Tara."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you babe, but no, I'm not an actor.  This is me.  I'm Jesus.  Aren't you glad to see me after all this time?  You're a sight, girl.  I'd almost forgotten how seductive you look.  I'm glad I made you immortal.  Excuse me, I have to pose for the cameras.  I'm doing a commercial with Lester McIntyre here.  He's donating five mils for that new super church in Washington.  It's the least I can do... excuse me."

I watch as they apply some makeup, take readings, laugh at some obscure joke, take their footage and wait for him to return to me.  I'm in shock and shaking my head trying to clear whatever cobwebs are clogging my reasoning powers.  But there he is, coming back to talk to me.  I shake his sleeve, angry at being made a fool of.

"What happened, Jesus?  Don't you remember your teachings?  About Money being the enemy of God and how the rich were all going to hell?"

"Tara, look around.  Money is God, can't you see?  The rich don't go to hell, they built heaven!  And remember this, my people, my followers, they've made me God now.  So I can change the rules if I want to."

"Well, what about that temptation with Satan when he offered you the world and you said no?"

"Those were the old beliefs, the old ways, Mary - sorry, Tara.  Times change, so do values.  Satan was ahead of his time.  I waited until I could own the world without owing it to him, you see?  I control resources, I'm God.  So I control whatever means men use to extract, process and move those resources... by default.  Who believes in Satan these days, huh?  Do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look at you.  You're still the same old girl you were in Palestine.  Still a prostitute.  Still wandering, lost, trying to survive, bearing children, changing your name with the seasons so people won't recognize you.  But I do.  And you know me.  You know you owe me for saving your life that time, don't you."

"I've wondered about that.  I remember the passionate times we shared afterwards as I hung around you, grateful and feeling safe.  I don't think you saved my life for my sake.  I think that was just another 'photo op' and you used my helplessness to make yourself look good and create a scene that would make some history books.  And afterwards, you used me, just like so many other men did.  When you went into your crusade to make yourself the Son of God, did you care that I was pregnant?  What did you do for us?"

"You have a saying on this planet, 'To make an omelet you have to break some eggs.'  Keep in mind I made you immortal.  So your child died (and incidentally went to heaven a rich kid, another one of my Nephilims).  Sure you finally got caught and were apparently killed as a prostitute, but after what I taught you, you deserved it, don't you think?  You didn't change.  No one did.  Nothing did.  But today there is change happening and it's real.  You thought I forgot my promise to return, didn't you?

"After I left on that ship, and you all watched me rise up in the sky, I did some thinking.  I hired that Paul of Tarsus to re-write the 'Word' so it could be easily used to undergird an institution.  Thanks to the pagans and Jews my people were given a name: Christians.  Then came Christianity.  Then came real estate and power.  Rome beckoned.  Sure, it was in trouble, but new institutions grow from troublesome times.  I was with Constantine at Milvian Bridge.  It was I who showed him how a sword and a cross can be easily interchanged.  Both draw blood; both kill.  Both lead to power."

"Hah, power.  I know about power.  You made me immortal and I should be thankful but I'm not.  Women like me suffer under male domination, under the power of male gods, under the tyranny of male systems.  Even when we believe in you, we are oppressed.  We are denied power to make life-honoring rules.  And I know why.  If we ruled things would change drastically.  You, my friend, would no longer be God.  You'd be just another of our deities perhaps, a lesser one.  You wouldn't be posing on a cross or riding a white horse covered in blood and brandishing a sword.  There would be no standing armies in our world and our priority would be to ensure our children are fed, clothed, housed and safe.  We would see to it that they are loved as they should be.  We wouldn't need money in our world, Jesus.  We would share the earth's resources and whatever labor was necessary to process those resources according to individual need, not greed.  What in hell happened to you - you make me so angry all of a sudden when all these long years all I did was believe in you and love you for the way you were, the things you taught us."

"I had an awakening, Tara.  I came back as promised, only the world wasn't ready for the really big show - I'm saving that - and I saw what my people had done with what I'd given them.  Billions of followers now, not just a few hundreds.  Many of them the richest men on the planet.  Amazing cathedrals and churches all over the world.  A whole world of art that arose just around my name.  Entire Christian nations conquering pagan worlds and converting them to my religion.  Armies, political power, my name an object of fear and terror to all who refused to believe in me.  It may have been a tough act to be nailed to a cross and pretend to die but it paid for itself billions of times over! 

"Look at it my way: I reasoned that so many successful people could not be so wrong.  I had to decide: either to publicly denounce this wonderful religion that was taking over the world, or join with it.  It was obvious.  If I denounced it, I'd be accused of 'demon possession' again.  I'd have to start at the bottom again, and where would that go? 

So I took my place at the head of this Christian Church and accepted all aspects of it as long as it bowed to me and I was its only Lord.  Don't you see the wisdom of that?  I gave these followers what they needed most: their Lord's approval.  Granted only the few immortals like us know who I really am, but does it matter?  Once I have control of a world-wide Media network I'll do that public return stunt.  There'll be great wars because there will be those who still refuse to acknowledge me as the only Lord of Earth.  I'll even do the four horses thing and the angels, why not?  Marvelous drama.

"Look, I'm a bit short on time here.  I have a dedication to do in Washington and a helicopter is picking me up and taking me back in about fifteen minutes.  I can get you a pass to ride back with me.  We're building a whole new hotel complex right next to our church and the staffing isn't completed.  Come with me and I'll see to it that you get a great job with great pay and full benefits.  Your kid will be able to attend the finest schools and who knows, maybe become President some day.  Maybe that's the day I'll pick to make my appearance.  What you didn't get in Palestine I could give you in Washington.  How would you like to be concierge of the glitziest hotel in the country?"

I can see the fire in his eyes, some fired by his success, and some by the old lust for my body.  I can't say the temptation isn't there, powerful and demanding.  I say to myself, 'You crazy woman, you're stupid to even hesitate.  Look at your situation.  Anything is better than this.'  But I also remember what we had built our relationship upon those frightening, exciting, vulnerable times two millennia ago.  What we had we called love, and not just love between a man and a woman, but love that took in the whole gamut of creation.  Love of, and for, God.  I remember what we suffered for the truth. 

I realize I can't go with him.  This is the end of the romance for me.  I'm a woman in a man's world ruled by a dominant male God who understands power but not life.  Perhaps I'll continue to ply my questionable trade to the ends of time but I'll not be another rich and sad slave in some power-mad Lord's harem, giving him bastard children he calls "Nephilims."  Why not come right out and call them what they are: monsters.

"Goodbye Jesus.  Maybe some day I'll be the one who will save your life my friend."

I watch the helicopter leave then I fix my face.  The emotional outburst is over: I have to work.

I Remember a Young Girl


I remember a young girl sitting on a rock overlooking the Fraser Canyon along the Trans Canada Highway on an August day, forever and a day ago.  A hot south wind was blowing and ruffling her sun-bleached unruly hair even though her mop was tied back with a faded sash that had once been a belt on a dress.  Typically she wore a tie-dyed loose blouse and a long jean skirt fashioned from a pair of jeans, the legs having been ripped open and sown roughly together.  The dry air was saturated with the scent of pine and sage and it made her drowsy.  She looked up at the cloudless smoky sky and noticing the sun beginning to drop towards the high rocky tops in the west, reluctantly got up, picked up her pack and returned to her place along the highway, sticking her thumb out.


She had come out from the east with a friend but they had separated at Cache Creek, the friend heading north to Prince George and perhaps beyond (she said), with a casual acquaintance who had given them a ride from Golden and was heading into the Yukon.  Now she was alone and not so certain about this hitchhiking business, but she had to get down to the Lower Mainland, to Chilliwack where a group of friends were renting or crashing together in a large old house near a small river whose name she knew to be significant but couldn't recall.  But she knew she'd find them because they had an impromptu band that got together downtown every Saturday night.  They called it 'Five Corners' and there was an old clock there.  That part was cinchy.


A dirty white Ford pickup with "G&F Logging" painted on the door rattled past her and stopped in a cloud of dust on a widened sliver of unpaved shoulder a few yards beyond. There were two men in the truck and one got out to motion to her to come with them.  She hesitated only for a moment, remembering how cold it can be in the mountains from a night spent just outside of Banff.  She hitched up her pack and ran to the truck.  The young man who had stepped out took her bag and put it in the back of the truck amongst a veritable dog's breakfast of cables, blocks, axes, pry bars, shovels and buckets.  The cab smelled of grease and sweat.  The seat and dash were covered in thick dust and splotches of dried mud.  She got in and sat as primly as she knew how between the two men.


"Hi, I'm Tim," said the driver offering her his greasy hand.  She shook it to demonstrate she was 'cool.'  "I'm Darcy," said the younger one on her right.  He stared into her face but did not offer his hand.  Instead he let his eyes wander down the front of her blouse where the missing button revealed some cleavage and the nipples against the thin fabric showed her to be braless.  The truck jerked off and down the highway.


"Where you headin'?"  asked the driver.


"Chilliwack," the girl replied.  "Oh, and my name is Suzanne."  It was Susan, but she loved the song and changed her name accordingly.


"Chilliwack... you live there?  You don't sound like it."


"No, got friends there.  I'm from back east, Ottawa actually, but originally from Moncton."


"New Brunswick?  From sea to shiny sea, eh?  How long have you been on the road from Ottawa?"


"Just a couple of months.  A friend and I took some waitressing jobs along the way.  Needed the bread.  I had to sell my guitar in Calgary just to get a motel room and a place to clean up.  How far down the highway are you guys going?"


"We're going down to Hope, to Cascade Supplies for new chokers and Hope Machine Shop to get a couple of tail-hold blocks welded up before Monday.  I'm afraid we aren't going as far as Chilliwack, not this trip."


"How far is it from Hope to Chilliwack?"


"About thirty-five miles.  But it's going to be late when we get to Hope.  I wouldn't recommend hitchhiking then, not on a Friday night.


So the conversation went.  They reached Hope and she stayed with the truck as they hauled their supplies and dropped off the blocks to be welded.  She was uncertain now what to do, confused.  The men did not make her feel uneasy, but the thought of going back on the road alone, and at dusk, for the first time frightened her.


"You could stay with us, if you want," offered the driver.  "We got rooms at the Hope Hotel, compliments of G&F, cheap bastards."


Before she could answer Tim ventured, "If you're hungry, I'd like to buy you a meal.  If you like Chinese, we usually go to the Canyon Restaurant on Fridays.  All you can eat smorgasbord.  Nothin' like it with a few beers.  You smoke?"






"Oh!  Huh, yeah, yeah sure, if I can get it.  Can't afford it though."


"We got some, eh Tim!"


"Sure do.  Stick around girl.  It's going to be party time tonight."  He winked at her, but didn't leer.  She surprised herself by nudging him playfully with her head. 


It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what came next.  She slept with both men that night and enjoyed it.


Was that really me?  I wonder what made me remember.  Darcy was my first husband.  Both my kids are from him.  We had good times and rough ones.  I got smacked around a few times when he drank, but I think I evened up the score on occasion.  Josh was thirteen and Libellule (that's French for dragonfly - I'd been toking and drinking when I named her) was sixteen when we split up.  He moved to the Island with his girlfriend and I ended up here, on Sylvester Road in Mission where it rains ten months of the year, or so it seems.  But it's OK, I got used to the rain long ago and living with a dentist means we have disposable income.  Acreage, so I keep a couple of horses.  I learned to ride and now I like it.  The kids went with Darcy for a while, then came back to live with me but not for long.  Too soon, they 'hit the road' as I had done, only they used jets.  Libby is a curator in Montreal.  Josh makes movies.  I think he's in London these days, though I'm never quite sure where he is.  We aren't close and he's not good with email or phoning. Doesn't matter, I let them have their own lives long ago.  Libby visits at least once a year, or she flies me to Montreal and drags me all over.  Her life seems to be little else but high talk and parties, but not the kind of parties I remember, although these have more sophisticated drugs, and more of them.


I like it here.  I got to meet and know my neighbours.  They're good people, old school farm folk who also remember those years when we were so sure we were going to revolutionize everything and make the world a place of nothing but love, love, love. Flower Children, that's what they called us then.  Now?  We're Yuppies on the outside.  But inside?


Let me tell you about inside.  We are in pain.  Why?  Because we blew it.  We 'rebelled' against our parents' conservative and stifling ways, but we did not catch the true spirit of our time.  We were soft.  We thought that if we wore non-conforming clothing, sang together, talked about love and handed out flowers, had lots of "free" sex and did benign drugs like pot, the feel good we got from it would be enough to push the change globally.  We thought the whole world was in it with us.  We didn't know then that we were the spoiled brats of the world, a tiny minority, that the majority would not even hear of our ideas, except derogatorily.   We were idiots, perhaps innocents as well, but accomplished nothing our parents' didn't do better any day of the week. 


I remember sitting on that rock, that August day in the canyon, looking down at the River snaking far below.  I remember wondering if I should throw myself off the edge of that bluff, see if I could really fly.  I know now I would have died of course.  Because in order to fly you need wings.  And there is nothing more painful in life than the experience of growing wings.  Love, sex and childbirth, they give you the template.  But not the wings.


Remembering the young girl I was, and the bits and pieces that happened until today, I think I'm ready for the pain of transformation.  I want my wings now.  It's time.

Illogical Mind

The logical mind

seeks to be considered

the one and only provider

of human identity:

but is this not a misconception?

For a complete human

is body, mind and spirit

(some would argue this:

fine– I can’t offer proof

except for one point –

can a mind “love”?

With apologies to Mr. Spock,

meditation, contemplation, prayer,

(a waste of time

from logic's point of view)

allows the stressed and tired mind

to gently and quietly recall

images of the spirit's journeys

into the dream time;

to unravel the history of one’s life;

to bring forth understanding;

to mould and shape the thoughts

that become what one is.

For we are not known only

for our attributes and abilities –

we are mostly known

for our daily choices.

Is There A Cure For Cancer

While hiking in the high mountains

I got to wonder if there really can be

a cure for cancer?

A magic formula, a wonder drug

out there somewhere hiding

in some dark corner of the world?

An eagle is circling high in the sky

below a bank of fluffy white clouds,

and it seems to speak to me:

“cure for cancer you ask?

May I suggest a starting point:

Know that evil begins with judgment.

Remove all forms of judgment

from your thinking process

and watch what happens

to your understanding about healing

not only of cancer,

but all that hounds you, all that kills you.”

Shaken by the power of this vision

I vowed to put those words to the test

and once I got back to the city,

to tell as many people as I could

about this new-found wisdom.

But is it “new found” wisdom?

Have we not known this all along

but from fear and laziness, come to expect

that professionals knew better;

were better equipped to deal with our problems

and chose to trust in them, submitting to their power

letting our minds and intuition atrophy.

But where has this got us today?

Are we nearer to a cure - for any disease?

Is it not quite the opposite?


Behind gloomy thoughts

hidden by darkened shades

no light penetrates

into my brooding silence.

Depression greets me,

morning after grey morning,

each day as dark as the next.

From the hallways of my mind

I hear cries and moans

as if the whole earth

was in mourning for a loss

nothing can ever bring back.

What is going on? I cry

and a sheet of wind-whipped rain

slashes at the window pane;

in the yard of this dingy place

a bare tree twists in agony

as wind and rain

tear through its upraised limbs.

The telephone rings:

a friend has met with

sudden misfortune and calls

and in one moment

doom, despair, depression


in the awakening of compassion.

No Weed In God’s Garden

If it were God’s garden

methinks it would not have weeds:

for weeds are considered nefarious,

a danger to the good things,

taking up precious space

and eating up nutrients in the soil.

No, God would not tolerate weeds

in his garden

for the Bible makes it clear

that at the end of time

the weeds will be harvested

and thrown into the fire.

Oh well, I have one question:

where do weeds come from?

(I mean, who created them?)

Earth has weeds, many weeds

so I guess Earth

isn’t God’s garden!

OK, let’s forget how they got here:

what we do know, or are told

is that Earth grows the weeds

and knee-jerk reactionary angels,

as cops in marijuana fields,

harvest these illegal substances

and throw them into hell,

to burn forever.

There ain’t no “weed”

allowed in God’s turf - case closed!

You say you were created a weed?

Too bad for you.

Better luck next time -

oops, sorry, no next time!

- Next!

Prayer Of The Innocent

Old man in broken shoes, stinking rags;

back bent by harsh, cold years:

What are you telling me,

when you shiver on cold nights

barely kept at bay by dirty damp blankets;

your exposed skin stung by drifting pebbles

in drafty spaces under a railway bridge?

Old man, why do you pray? You say:

Please, all I need today is enough money

for a warm meal and a smoke.

Who do you talk to, Old man?

What sort of crazy are you?

Was it a mother who taught you such foolishness?

Like a hunchback of old, he walks away

and a gang of kids eye the raggedy shelter.

Their laughter is harsh: they speak of thrashing

the meagre belongings; burning the blankets,

destroying the collected treasures

carefully packed in Safeway shopping bags

when unexpectedly, one of authority says,

“Wait! Could be one of us some day, huh?

leave him some spare change

instead.” And curious,

they hang around for the old man’s return

but what they hear and see

shocks even these wingless pavement angels

for the old man, childlike kneels down with tears,

and thanks his God so naturally.

And I wonder at this miracle, this foolishness

of a man and his God...

Who is this God? Who answers such prayer?

Is each one of us “God”?

Each capable of stunningly amazing things

just not aware, too scared to dare?

To be that which we always were?

Ah, soul! I pray you be re-made

in the image of a real God of love:

dare I believe such a prayer? Can it be answered?

Is Our Universe Shaped Like A Globe?

I had a vision

that our Universe

is shaped like a globe,

same as our planet, or sun.

Whatever we 'see'

of galaxies, black holes and nebulae,

are but 'whirlpools'

on the surface

of this enormous globe.

The planets, the suns;

passing comets and flashing meteors

scattered among these spatial vortices

are as running, laughing, sleeping children

which these whirlpools created

over the aeons; and I wondered:

if people had this vision

they would see how the Earth

has created them too!

Speak To Me Or Do Not

Speak to me of compassion

if you would speak at all

and do not speak of love

for love (as has been said)

covers a multitude of sins,

or should I say, hides them well.

Many terrible acts are committed

in the name of love,

but never out of compassion

for compassion cannot lie.

If you are to speak to me

of compassion,

yet know nothing of sorrow

then waste not my time

with your drivel

for compassion is found

deep within the well of sorrow.

Such knowledge is not

a popular flavor in the dish

of written new age spirituality

where uninspired corn

meets its twin flakes!

The Crossing

Why did Jesus die on the cross?

Was it, as claimed by religion

for our redemption from sin?

However one looks at this,

doesn’t it seem a bit preposterous?

So, why death on a cross?

Since ancient times, a cross

always represented a crossing:

a passage into, through, and from.

And so we have the symbolism.

With such a passage, it seems to me

he sought to achieve mastery over death.

How does one choose death

when death is always the one who chooses?

To answer, one must define death.

Death is not the loss of one’s body,

but the loss of one’s attachments in life;

the final separation from all one loves

all the known; all the familiar

all that one sees as being complete.

And so, as a test or example?

This self-styled son of god dies

to all that he knew and loved

and even his “God” abandoned him:

a necessary passage.

Thus achieved, death is not an end

but entrance into a new life;

into a “resurrection body”

similar to the old in looks

but of a totally new substance.

That was the point; the whole point:

that’s all there is to it, folks!

"The Move"

"They'll never know." voice intoned. "They must never know."

"Some suspect..."

"Hypothesis; conjecture -- we've always encouraged that. We've also encouraged the opposite: belief that physical proof is necessary to acceptance. They'll follow the pattern. Those who do not, who "see" will be disparaged and disbelieved."


Council dissolves.

In their private chambers, Orthon and Agria discuss the matter.

"We are manipulating their minds, Orthon. This goes against the Teaching."

"This is a very primitive race, Agria. We must prevent global panic at all cost."

"The move will create great disruptions, as the Council has been made aware. The tips of the spirals will overheat and some of the smaller worlds will be burned up."

"The Generators are working on the psi shields, are they not?"

"They won't be ready in time, and there is no way to test their resilience to such a move."

"Erthe is a minuscule entity. Surely we can produce a powerful enough effect to shield it while it is being moved?"

"We... ahh, hope. Why is the Council so concerned about Erthe? Why not let it burn? The Biologons from Elgir scanned it and found nothing remarkable, except for two unalterable facts: one, it contains the greatest diversity of life forms anywhere and two, the Erthes are destroying their own living space on it. Why would the Council want that world spared, particularly?"

"It has deep reasons, Agria."

"Convince me, Orthon. Impress this truth upon me."


"You have my trust, Agria. I will share with you."


And as Agria opened herself to his mind probe, she began to sense why the Council would be duly concerned by Erthe's fate. Deep under one of her oceans the Biologons had recorded the existence of an Anomaly. The recordings described an intelligence unlike any other on Erthe, expressing from within the magma. The Council had attempted to have the expression analyzed but every available transponder/decoder had failed to translate the anomalous expression. It remained the only unreadable expression emanating from any of the known Universes. Even the great Lotharias Logos could not make any sense of it. In fact, when the recorded expression entered its logic fields, the Logos temporarily froze.

But the times had come. The Galaxy had to be moved to a new location or it would fall prey to the black hole caused by an imploded star know as Sol Dallin. The ripple effects were spreading as more and more matter-beings were sucked into its giant maw. Soon the entire Galaxy would be beyond saving. But if it could be removed from the vicinity, the danger of a Universal melt-down to anti-matter posed by the black hole could possibly be averted. There were no alternate options in the mind of Council.

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