Chapter 19 – in which Josh fixes a broken vase and much more

A crackling fire and the smell of – not incense – dried leaves that have been cast into the flames... more than a smell – it reaches into the mists of time, it reaches into the depths of consciousness and recalls me, bit by bit, strand by strand, back to body, into mind...

“Who am I?” I ask no one in particular.

I hear some light, merry chuckling nearby. There’s nothing unnatural about this laughter – it’s as if I’ve always known it, always taken it for granted, as if it’s as much a part of me as my body is – which is why I’ve never really noticed it before...

The smell of burning leaves continues to weave itself through my mind, or what would be my mind were it not full of emptiness at this moment... and perceptibly the smell changes as different leaves are added, touching a different branch of my conscious-awareness, stroking, massaging me back to self, back to me.

A woman’s voice singing. I hear it not with indifference but again, with knowing that this voice is as much a part of me as anything else might be, and so not the least urge there is to question it – just to accept and enjoy its healing sounds. And at this moment it’s the voice of an old woman, rasping, hoarse, chalk and pumice stone, and the sun comes from behind a cloud in my mind, and the wind blows across the wide open steppe, a squall and we retreat to the yurt to shelter from the elements, drinking warm kumis, fermented mare’s milk, then back into the great open, riding our small powerful horses to the summer pasture in the highlands...

Her voice changes – now it’s a young woman – sweet, plaintive, seductive... and the visions shift to another branch of the winding stream... a young girl walking in the forest, looking for her brother, soldiers nearby, houses set on fire, screams and then silence as the hammer falls; a lover’s hand reaching into the darkness, caressing her brow, wiping away tears, dancing in the firelight, dancing to the sound of drum and flute and mandolin... sounds and sensations filling the night with emotions, filling the night with longings and yearnings, the fragrant jasmine, an onion dome in the moonlight, a minaret, snatches of visions and shards, fragments of the shattered vase.

Still she sings, now the voice of a young girl, bubbling like the mountain stream, telling of fairies, of angels, of woodland elves and pixies, magic lands behind the mountain’s facade, another land within the lake, another in the sky when the sun shines on the clouds that mass around Mount Abora, dancing nymphs, tree spirits, all of nature alive with the elements of fire, water, earth and air, the stars in the firmament dancing in tune to the song of life itself – the same song that brings me into this world, that still can be heard when I tune my ear and feel my deepest nature... and insects, and wild beasts prowling in the shadows, closing for the kill, the trees and plants with their spiralling ways into other realms, into lands where they, like the stones, are fleet of foot or flyte of wing, the wonder of the child’s delight at seeing and sensing the least that is most, the magic in a grain of sand, in a breath, in the bead of dew on a blade of grass in the early morning light – a rainbow fairy light suspended in green the grassy night, and endless dreams that weave their way throughout, that teach me how to see and feel the allness unfolding within appearing without.

“Dorothy” – I hear myself say, calling her by name, or one of the names she goes by, “tell me how I come to be here with you this day... tell me who I happen to be on this occasion.”

More faery laughter, both fragile as frosted glass yet powerful too, with sinews of oak and hide of wilderbeast... “and where would you happen to be my young friend?” she answers with a question of her own, and strange to tell, I notice where the mind would normally be, where now there is only lightness and fragrance, rustling leaves and clouds scudding across the sky overhead, a stream of images, shapes and forms tell me everything I would know, instead of mind the inner vision – a seeing and a knowing without the need to think and process “what” or “not”...

“Ah!” I hear myself exclaim, part delight, part surprise – the astonishing tale of how I happen to be here at this moment with Dorothy, whether faery queen, child, or hag, mistress of the quantum stream, keeper of the keys of consciousness, sweeper, maid of honour, housekeeper and cook extraordinaire, she has always been there with us in Story holding the other side of the dialogue, making it seem Real which is not.

And effortlessly everything falls into place – Story reconnects and immediately, without pain or fear I know exactly who I am and why I’m here... I see the entire thread from beginning to end, and how these threads can be connected to and exchanged for others, now that I’m no longer bound by fear, now that I’ve come home to Faery. Like changing an outfit, I may pick and choose – and there are threads that bring me anywhere I may desire to be for they span the entirety of creation like a great spider’s web with criss-crossing strands. I may choose my entry point and dive into Story, whichever version, and spin it with delight, with abandonment, spin it for all I’m worth, now that I’m unfettered by fear – for truly nothing is created or destroyed, each version of story attains its rightful end in the allotted time. As I write one strand of story code, all the others adjust in accordingly. As long as I am guided by beauty, inspired to create whatever is alive, the whole of creation shines and vibrates with the song of all being well. Only when I get bogged down in fact of the matter, in fearing the worst, in routine and what matters as opposed to what is, does the story sag and the entire web sinks down into the darkness of nothingness. As I gaze into the web, deeper into the threads I can see every greater detail – the beings down there in story battling for survival against all odds, desperately hanging on, trying to save the day, convinced that their life depends upon it, little suspecting that they and I are One, little suspecting that we are all co-creating the magical isness of Be – the faery tale. Caught in the action, the characters I be all assume that it’s for real, that they’re alone, and unconnected to everyone else.

I pick up the web, with Dorothy’s blessing, and carry it over to a nice shady spot by the stream. Something tells me that here it will be easier for us to rebuild our world, reconnect with our dreams, and I watch as the web adjusts to its new spot making itself fast to the branches and stems I hold it near. Where there is pain – I feel it emanating like a knife from parts of the web, there I fly down with a legion of faery folk... down... down till we find ourselves among the action of a world on fire, a battlefield. We do not enter the fray as humans – what would be the point – we cannot pretend it is more real than it is – but as magic spirits we set about emergency repairs, helping the beleaguered souls to feel a something else, a something more, that their eyes and numbed minds cannot reveal to them, helping them to sense that the tale they are in can change with a change of heart, no matter how dark or desperate things may seem. The whole tale can spread its wings and fly back into the magic of Faery.

“Gnomiki, gnomiki” I call, as we leave the battlefield behind. “Let us open a window, let us share a vision with the people of this world...” and what do we see unfold? There was a place of such darkness, of such fear and doubt that no one could leave it who had entered therein. It was like a dark star, a black hole, and throughout the ages souls had been lost into it. It was even visible here in Faery, even as Dorothy walks among the trees and flowers, along the stream, she senses the darkness and wonders what will happen – for there is no way it can be stopped.

“No way?” you hear yourself say to her: “I know a way. I shall descend into Story but a new kind of story – one that is completely cut off from Faery, one that is completely wrapped up in its own logic, that sees only things as real if they are things, if they can be measured empirically, that rejects the very isness of be, the Conscious Mind that we take for granted...”

But why would you do that Daniel? What can you hope to achieve?

“Don’t you see Dorothy? In isolation from all that is it will be possible for us to tunnel down to the dark heart of matter, for there what matters will seem to be real. We will experience things that you can’t even imagine here in Faery: pain, death, horrors, but also love and joy too. Endless bitter sweet, and eventually we will arrive at the bottom, a place so far removed from Faery that none accept or believe in it. That is the place where our friends are trapped, are ensnared. That is the place that can only be reached by heading into the Seem of is.”

But how will you manage this? No one can do this?

“We will be none the wiser. We will agree to enter a closed loop of Story – me and any other volunteers who choose, and this closed loop can only be entered if we agree to I-mind/what matters protocols. Little by little, generation by generation we will be more and more bound up in matter and a mind that makes it more and more real by identifying with all that seems and nothing else.”

But how will it end? How will you escape?

“There would be no escape if it were truly real. It would lead forever into nothingness, but that is not possible, as you know. Nothing cannot be reached or attained unless it is something – end of story, and so we need a something that is the equal and opposite of the shadow you have seen and felt here in Faery. This is easy enough to create, using the limitless power of Story. And thus, we set Story to meet the shadow by creating a tale that reverse engineers itself into nothing, but which in fact ends at the precise moment when it enters the shadow as 0=1. We will do this with time, for the closed loop being an artificial construct will need the spin of time to hold it together.”

And Story can do this? It can tunnel down to the shadow and bring it back into the narrative, bring it back to the light.

“You know it can Dorothy. Caught in the closed loop, we will find ourselves sinking ever deeper into a world of darkness and shadow, with no idea why or how this is happening. We will assume it’s our fault: that we are doing something wrong, that we are evil or sinful, when in fact, we are being taken there by Story, which like spaceship is delivering us into the otherwise inaccessible shadow.”

And what makes it accessible if you say it’s inaccessible?

“Because we’ll be unconscious of it – and being unconscious means we’ll be able to penetrate shadow’s defences. Only when we’re completely within will our pre-programmed story unravel as time will run out of spin, delivering us like an injection directly into shadow as 0=1, and there you have your alpha omega moment – Story will ensure that the two fuse for otherwise you would have a less than 0 or a more than 1. All things being equal, the shadow will guide us right to its very source in the same way we shall guide it in reverse back to its source...”

You mean back to Creation.

“Exactly... back to 0=1.”

And what will happen to all those beings in the terrible closed story loop?

“Well, apart from being in Hell – a hell they volunteer to join, they’ll experience that which otherwise could not be experienced by the Universal Mind...”

Which is?

“They’ll experience separation from you and from all this. They’ll experience a state of being that is, in fact, wholly without foundation, and yet which seems completely real.”

The seem of is... so that’s how it is done. I heard tell of it once, many years ago. And there is no other way for us to combat the shadow and return the lost souls?

“No Dorothy – only Story can take us into that which is not...”

But will it not hurt these beings, these volunteers?

“Of course it will, but they will always know at their zero point – in their heart, that it is not what it seems, that they are not, in fact, victims of some terrible conspiracy, that their closed loop reality is in fact a powerful engine that they can harness directly, and knowing this changes everything.”

How so?

“Knowing their world is unreal deep in their heart, this will enable them to open another branch of Story – those who will – for Story cannot be limited, and thus they too will be able to create worlds within their world, narratives within their narrative, and doing so, will be able to transform, transmute the shadow, the darkness they are heading into, and this will be the sweetest sensation, the greatest joy, their true delight.”

You mean it won’t have to be suffering and pain?

“No, it will depend on their choice. The I-mind/what matters protocols will ensure it is hell, and necessarily so, unless they are able and willing to connect with the deeper truth – the Isness of be – and doing so, they’ll discover the power of Story waiting within. Even as their spaceship humanity hurtles into the blackhole, the abyss of what not, they’ll discover the wings of Faery that can lift them into another dimension, that will enable them to use the shadow as the very source, the very fuel for their creativity. And thus they will rebirth themselves and rebirth Faery from the darkness of complete ignorance and fear, into the light of knowingness and Be.”

And you think they can do this Metatron?

“Of course they can – for thus it is – whatever can be conceived is guaranteed to become real somewhere, somehow in Story.”

From Metatron back to Daniel, then back to Josh... talking with Dorothy, here beside the quantum stream, watching its million threads winding and twisting, entangling yet never truly so. The shattered vase of my mind is all but reformed as story’s thread once again comes together...

“How will I spin gold from the straw of things that do not yet seem to fit together or make sense – a patchwork quilt of semi-digested happenings?” I think aloud...

“The question contains the answer...” – I continue, and Dorothy smiles at me with liquid love, warm sunlight filling my heart, my mind, me.

I will take you back into the world I have left behind, dearest Dorothea. Dot dot dot, I will be your champion, your knight in arms, and I will weave a story, the story that I have dreamt of weaving – the only possible story that can recombine, reconnect, make sense of all the broken threads, the pain, the dislocation, the darkness we have experienced. I shall spin it with my doings, thinkings and sayings, with the breath I breathe, and conscious-awareness. I shall weave that thread into a garment, the bridal gown that I shall present you with when all is said and done, when tale is told and Story complete – and you will become the maid Nerys, and my beloved wife.

Suddenly Dorothy looks bashful and shy. She shifts into her role with perfect ease and grace. “Go then,” she says, “back to the world. Rejoin the narrative. I will head back into formlessness of the void, and if you succeed in your quest I shall emerge as Nerys, your very own wife – with a soul in perfect harmony with yours. Thus we shall complete the circle and weave a golden web of sense and meaning from the soul defying emptiness of what is not.”

“Your name – Josh – I feel your name has changed, so let it now be Josh the Jubilant to mark your reawakening. Go forth merrily, in joy, and seek my love in anything and everything you may encounter along the way – for that is the only place you will find it, the only way you will be able to complete your quest; feel my presence and spin the Story thread that reunites us with all that is. This world is yours – use it wisely and enjoy its many marvels and wonders, for only by taking the path of joy will you discover that Nerys is seated here beside you, gazing deeply, lovingly into your eyes.”

The next thing he knows, Josh the Jubilant is watching a trolleybus on the garden ring where Georgiy Menshikov is deep in thought as 1,300 years pass by – precisely the time required to connect Josh with the precise version of reality he has newly chosen for himself, in which he is destined to find love anywhere and everywhere in a world full of wonders and marvels, in which dot₃ the feminine disconnect of quantum indeterminacy works the miracle of Story, extracting life and love from the vacuum, giving Josh, and every one of us, exactly what we need, when we need it – for how else could Story be told and sense be made of all that is I am?