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Desire by Brigitte Geisler

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The Veil, Jean-Baptiste Duret http://flickr.com/photos/eschraiel


Editorial Ready To Get Your Change? by Jean-Baptiste Duret Email for inquiries and submissions wisp.ezine@gmail.com Cover artist Brigitte Geisler Design and publication Éric P. Lemoine Contributors to this issue

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K.C. Anneken (KY, USA) James Arteman (USA) Judyette Clarke (USA) John Cullen (Canada) Rick Daddario (Hawaii, USA) Jean-Baptiste Duret (France) Juanella Fontanot (LA, USA) Brigitte Geisler (Germany) Bill Ingle (USA) Jeremy Key (USA) Melissa K. Lane (FL, USA) Kenneth McSween (FL, USA) Tracy Marshall (Spain) Sharon Mendenhall (NV, USA) Bill Michaels (USA) Lee Muir (New Zealand) Bill Pate (TX, USA) Melissa Marie Wells (KY, USA) Debi Yoachum (USA) Hayley Youngblud (Canada)

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ave you noticed how often we try to get prepared for the road in whatever little adventure or journey we intend to do? I had to post a simple letter the other day, a bit heavy as there were pictures inside. I took some change with me and even some stamps in case the queue was too long, or the automatic weighing machine would behave like a black hole as it already had… As the weather was not so shiny, I also took my raincoat just in case, I checked the address on the envelope one last time and I’m ready to go. On my way to the post office, it wasn’t raining and I was looking at the people around: some were seemingly prepared as I was with their umbrella or their raincoat, and a few of them were only wearing their usual summer clothes. At the post office, as I had imagined, I saw a very long queue — it is always like that of course. Oddly enough, the machine was free though; were people wary like me, did they have the same experiences I had twice? Not getting their money back, or even stamps for that matter… Well, I had my stamps prepared, all I needed was to weigh my letter.

We would love to hear from you Want to react on a published article, or submit your own? Contact us at wisp_ezine@yahoogroups.com No part of this magazine may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. The views expressed by the contributors are their own and do not necessarily represent those of Wisp e-zine.

Outside the post office, it was now raining. So much for satisfaction… I could wait here until it calmed down, if ever, or choose to go back home in the rain using the raincoat I was wearing. Once again I took a look at the people around collecting data. Some, as prepared as I was, were waiting sheltered under the front porch; some were in the rain with their umbrella or their raincoat, and some of them were wearing their usual summer clothes and braving the rain,… or were they? Maybe they were living nearby and it was not such a big deal for them. I chose to go and accept that it could rain on my way, that I could handle this kind of shower even without a hood or an umbrella. Gradually the rain dropped away and then stopped. I took my hood off and noticed that, though the “danger” was over, other people were keeping their “shields” for much longer than was necessary.

An inscription was blinking on the screen:

http://wisp.focusphere.net

Curious as ever, I put the coins in. Surprisingly it worked! And I didn’t have to pay or take more than was necessary, though I was prepared to do so and maybe I was expecting it. Now I could start my journey back with a sense of satisfaction.

“this machine gives the change”.

This experience gave me the opportunity to readjust some prejudices or re-scale them. Preparations are often helpful and can facilitate the process when we are living the journey itself.

Would you trust it after the black hole experiences? Many thoughts rushed in my mind at that moment: if I want to use my credit card I’d have to buy some more stamps; but then, the price indicated for the letter is cheaper than if I use my own stamps; blah blah blah…

Are they always necessary? Do we always need to be prepared for everything in every situation… while at times preventing what could happen?

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Inside Editorial, by Jean-Baptiste Duret (p.3) Sand Art, by Tracy Marshall (p.5) Cancer, by Brigitte Geisler, Éric Lemoine & Tracy Marshall (p.6-7) Message In a Bottle, by Melissa Marie Wells (p.8) Woman in The Brown Dress, by Bill Michaels (p.9) Whisper Zone (p.10-11) Innocence, by Debi Yoachum (p.12) Co-Incidences, by Sharon Mendenhall (p.12-13) Meredwen Story, by Tracy Marshall (p.14-15)

Granny Mosca, by Elikozoe (p.16) How To Handle Contractors, by Rob Arteman (p.16) The Haunted Château de Combourg, by John Cullen (p.17) Billy Johnson Head Report, by K.C. Anneken (p.18-19) Romancing The Stone, Obart & poetry by Kenneth MacSween (p.18) The Russian Man, by Hayley Youngblud (p.20) Colourful Summer, by Brigitte Geisler (p.21) Art Trading Cards or ATCs, by Wrick D. (p.22) Leftovers, by Bill Pate (p.23-25) The Hidden God, column by Bill Ingle (p.26) Catching Cupid, by Gozen’s Love (p.27)

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photograpy by Brigitte Geisler - http://www.flickr.com/photos/bridgy2008

Pyramid Meditation, by Lee Muir (p.15)


Sand Art

photography by Tracy Marshall

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lli was beginning to really appreciate being dead and the freedom it provided to create whatever she wished at a moment’s notice. She’d enjoyed being a shape shifter while she was alive, often changing into a rather odd cat-like creature which was one of her favourites. She’d had tremendous fun over the years, confounding people with that one! Is it a cat? Is it a person? Is it a goat? A mongoose? hahaha what fun she’d had! Illi surveyed the long glittering white beach on her paradise island. There must be a million billion grains of sand here. I think I will conjure up some sand sculptures, fill the beach with fantastic magical creatures… Illi picked up a bambu cane to use as a magic wand ~ not that she needed a wand in order to perform magic, but she rather liked waving a stick around. Abracadabra the magic palabra, fairies and goblins and sprites! In an instant the beach was full of sand sprites, a veritable sea of impish little figures as far as the eye could see. Hhhmmm, though Illi, they are all so small, I’d like something big I think, for contrast and added dimension. Abracadabra the magic palabra, centaurs and unicorns and giants! Lordy, the giants had flattened whole tribes of sand gnomes. A few less giants, I think! Illi waved her magic wand of cane again, and disappeared all but one of the giants. RaFa the Giant, you may stay on my beach, Illi graciously declared to a kindly looking character of monstrous proportions who had considerately appeared at the very end of the beach so as not to flatten the sand sprites.

Sand sculptures made by Thierry from France and Marek from Slovakia, spotted on Sabinillas beach, Costa del Sol, Spain. The sculptors will be there for one month of ephemeral art...

On impulse, Illi found herself chanting the spell again… Abracadabra the magic palabra, DRAGONS appear on my beach! Four splendid sand dragons appeared in the shallows of the lagoon, sensuously serpentine in appearance, and sparkling in the tropical sun. Becky Vane Wrick ~ Circle of Eights Story #219

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Cancer T

June 22nd ~ July 22nd

he constellation of stars forming the sign of Cancer is not only part of the Zodiac but as well associated with the Labours of Hercules. It was believed by Ancient Greeks to be Carcinos, a giant crab (or lobster depending on the version) who was living in the swamps of Lerna. When Heracles (Hercules) was sent to free the swamps of Lerna of its nine-headed monster, the Hydra, it is said that Carcinos appeared at Hera’s bidding to prevent Heracles from accomplishing his Second Labour. Undeterred, Heracles crushed the creature under his foot. For its efforts Hera granted it the privilege to have a place in the sky, however in a group of stars noted for their faint magnitude (Cancer is the faintest constellation of the zodiac). The constellation is surrounded by Leo to the East (the Nemean Lion, Heracles First Labour) and Hydra to the South. The Cancer constellation is also believed to be the home of the Moon, where it was supposed to be at the creation of the world. The tropic of Cancer is the latitude on Earth where at the summer solstice, the Sun is overhead at noon. It is named after Cancer, because in the past, the solstice occurred when the Sun was in Cancer.

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Heracles and Carcinos, photography Tracy Marshall


Emo crab, by Éric P. Lemoine

photography — Éric P. Lemoine

Bali Crab by Brigitte Geisler

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Message In a Bottle

Melissa Marie Wells

lone in the night she hurriedly scrolls a note Knowing her life is to end upon a boat She prays that her love for him he’ll know As she drops the bottle in the water below Tears of fear and of dread She sees the memory of the day they wed Calming her senses she embraces her lot Though she dies today, she fears it not And as they sink she prays for her love To the merciful God up above A lone man walks along a beach Mourning the love he was denied to keep From the water a bottle does appear Closing the gap he draws it near From the bottle a message he unfolds His lady’s last words it proves to hold Tears run down as he reads of her devotion His heart swelling up with deep emotion Long he stares at the precious slip From a love he lost upon a ship All the time her words were kept Floating along as he wept God who brought their lives together Saved this message from tumultuous weather From a dieing woman and her one last prayer For her love to know it will always be there Even though her embrace he no longer can feel The memory of her love will help him heal Because of it their love will always be Despite her life lost upon the sea

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Illustrations — Gozen’s love


Woman in The Brown Dress by Bill Michaels

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hope you all know what a spirea bush is like, and the flowers it produces. They, along with lilacs were a favorite perennial with the old time settlers of this area. They are in bloom now, white, delicate, lacy, and looking like an oversize snowflake. There is an area the size of a small house bordered by four large oak trees which had been left standing when the rest of the trees around them were cleared on the farm where I live. There had been a stone about as heavy as one person could lift along one side of the area, before I had moved it. The spot has become an asparagus patch from roots coming up through the decades. I always “knew” that someone was buried there, and that it was a woman. There is sort of a peaceful aura about it. Yesterday while cutting grass, I noticed that the short spirea bushes were in full bloom around one of the trees, and I stopped to admire them, and as soon as I had done so I was so overcome by a feeling of sadness that I was on the verge of shedding tears. Puzzled by the strength of this emotion, I concluded that an unseen being and I had become temporarily connected by either love and appreciation for the spirea bushes or else their image. It was a very hot day, and perhaps my brain was somewhat scrambled, but while I was thinking about who planted the bushes and loved the flowers, a clear picture appeared in my mind of a woman in what is now called a “prairie dress” (one piece, long sleeved, buttoned in front, and with a pleated skirt) and a deep bonnet. It and the bonnet were a little darker than chocolate brown, with no accessories showing. It was either brand new or freshly ironed. I couldn't remember her face, but her features were either blurred or deformed. She was of pale complexion and I believe her eyes were blue. I am not sure if I saw any of her hair, but if I did it was as brown as her dress.

Why the sadness? Were her loved ones buried there? Why was she here, was she just visiting or is she “earthbound”? “When” as we tell time was she from? This farm was “homesteaded” during Andrew Jackson’s presidency (which ended in 1837). This part of Indiana was swampy, and very disease infested. It was quite common for diseases such as diphtheria, smallpox, or scarlet fever to decimate pioneer families. Even the “modern” Indians of the time avoided it, although it was heavily populated a millennium or so ago. Flint and stone knives, axes, and hammers are fairly plentiful, clearly made by people who enjoyed enough leisure to allow them to express their love of beauty. Judging from the finish and proportion of the stone artifacts, I would like to have seen their perishable objects of bone, wood, and feathers. They had a “swamp economy” using cattails and “pottery grade” clay to make their homes and baskets, and lived (at least seasonally) off the birds, frogs, and grass seeds. They had no fired pottery, however. I had previously found the remains of a woman’s high top shoe put together with wooden pegs; the beauty of proportion and the fine workmanship still evident. Was it hers? Did a dog or raccoon take it and cause it to be buried in the mud? Was it sucked off a foot while wading in the edge of the swamp possibly to rescue a child? Surely It had created a great sense of loss. If it had been discarded, it would have been burned in the cookstove. There had been a cabin nearby, and her sour cherry trees still remain, along with a white mulberry tree of the kind whose leaves were used to feed silkworms. Cabins built by poor people had no iron or glass in them, and what few nails or hooks used were salvaged when the cabin burned or was abandoned. Anyway, I don't plan on trying to contact her, but I will not be able to help thinking of her whenever I see a blooming spirea bush.

New Moon, photography Brigitte Geisler

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A Poem for You Judyette Clarke

A stranger on my doorstep a promise to myself I’ve kept to put myself outside myself and look both right and left There’s surely someone in the world who’d like a sweet but blacksheep girl who wouldn’t turn away at strange who knows that life is ever change

Each moment turns to something new always fresh and fun to do a world away from what you’ve known a stranger sure, two steps from home.

Shadows call, night envelops, painted clouds swirl in; past and present collide, a vision calls to me, and I reach out, seeing you, feeling you, touching you, yet,

Whisper

you are not there.

hi

W

I whisper, “Come to me.”

sp

er

This realness touches me, holds me, captivates me, the longing crying out, never wanting to let go, yet, you are not here.

Zo n

e

Bill Pate

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Illustration Gozen’s Love

Atlantean Greenhouse by Melissa K Laine

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n Atlantis, nothing seemed totally solid. It did not seem like you had to walk, like you do now. It looks like gliding from place to place, with thought projection as your navigator. I see what looks like a greenhouse, inside there are many attendants. There are all types of botanicals, herbs, trees with flowers (for flower remedies) trees with fruits, etc. Some plants were hooked up to an extractor that collected fluid to be used for various purposes. The containers that housed everything in the greenhouse had various stones and crystals, so that the particular, tree, plant, etc., would absorb the properties of the stone or crystal’s energy, and they were also an Atlantean “plant food”.

Photography Éric P. Lemoine

The water source was that of liquid light, in various color hue’s. The Moon and the Sun kept everything in the greenhouse in perfect balance.

I met a woman yesterday... who adamantly had a lot to say She smiled at me, then stared a while and promised in time to make me smile She touched my hair and said “So nice...” then licked my lips, not once, but twice. I met this woman yesterday JuanElla Fontenot She came to me with much to say She said, “I want to be your friend... but only if and only when... I am your best friend in the world. I must be your favorite girl.” I met a woman, can’t you see I call that special woman... Me.

My New Best Friend

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Innocence

Co-Incidences by Sharon Mendenhall

You sneak into my heart My most treasured place And you feel good there When it turns dark, You stay You don’t understand But you stay A life spent Wanting to trust people With expectations left unfulfilled I tried to trust no one And find it’s not my nature I learned to not feel On purpose So I wouldn’t feel hurt Then I learned No pain = No pleasure No risk = No surprises And I feel 12 years old again Wanting to be mature To be grown up To know everything Locked in combat With innocence That does not want to leave me My heart tells me It would rather keep the innocence Than the maturity Being too grown up Kills the wonder Of the child in me And that kills both our pleasure Of holding you in my heart…

Debi Yoachum

R

eality and existence, as we know them, have a mysterious nature, a vagueness that permeates and causes us to question those coincidences that happen ever so often. Since I was around six years old, I was fascinated by coincidence. I saw it as threads that wove through my life and connected me with other people through incident. And those incidents were many, each more inexplicable, each more intricate. I definitely was the center of my own universe, as we all are, but I could connect myself with anyone else, anywhere else, by just willing it so. Actually it was more like wishing it so, but not even that strong. Sometimes a casual passing whim of a thought was the most effective. If you think I'm trying to tell you that wishing makes it so, in a sense you are right. I knew I could do it, I’m just not sure exactly how I do it, nor am I the only person who has ever experienced the enigma. Mark Twain was not only a famous American author, he was also a complex and intriguing personality. Although writing was his profession, it didn’t come easy. He found writing to be very painful, and would consistently put off writing letters because it was arduous for him. In those days letters were the main basis of communication and an absolute necessity. Eventually, after much procrastination and deliberation, Mark would finally sit at his desk, compose his thoughts, scribe his letter, fold it, place it in the envelope, address the envelope, affix postage and mail it. But he began to notice a curious occurrence happening over and over. Much too often to just be written off to simple coincidence. He would receive an answer before his letter had sufficient time to reach its destination. The letters would cross in the mail. Mark Twain coined this anomaly ‘Telegraphy,’ and took it very seriously. But, of course, being Mark Twain, the eternal humorist, he would have to play with it just a little, partly because he was fascinated, and partly because he intended to bottle and sell it. So he simply changed the last two items in his normal letter writing routine, he did not affix the postage and then he placed the letter in his desk drawer, feeling the letter was effective whether he mailed it or not. And he could also save the cost of postage. According to his own writings, he proved himself correct, the letter did not need to be posted. When Mark received the written answer to his un-mailed question, he had a member of his family open the letter and read it silently to themselves while he gave them a verbal synopsis of the contents. The results were astonishing, but like me, Mark knew he could do it, he just didn’t know how. If he had perfected his method, thought mail would now be as common as email. I’m sure everyone has casually given thought to someone else and almost instantly that other person calls, writes or visits in person. We all can do it. It’s something to do with focused concentration combined with the casual, relaxed aspect. Maybe it’s ambiguous intent. Hard to define, much less bottle.

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By glancing over the inclosed bundle of rusty old manuscript, you will perceive that I once made a great discovery: the discovery that certain sorts of thing which, from the beginning of the world, had always been regarded as merely “curious coincidences” — that is to say, accidents — were no more accidental than is the sending and receiving of a telegram an accident. Mark Twain in a note to the editor prefacing the manuscript of Mental Telegraphy (first published in 1898)

Whether we remember our dreams or not, it is a required element of this physical life. I personally believe the rich symbolic and visual language of dreams should not be ignored. There is much to investigate and much to learn, and the process of self examination is so simple and available. Like our day reality, dreams are exactly what you believe they are. The symbology is personal, and cannot be defined in a ‘dream book,’ although such books are often helpful tools. It is what you feel, and requires individual intuition. You define the symbol and you determine the message.

In my twenties I began to seriously investigate all aspects of what I thought was metaphysical, checking out books at the library and reading most anything that pertained. Finding little gems of knowledge like the Mark Twain ‘Telegraphy Story’ was a personal triumph. I have a special interest in science and psychology, in the conventional sense, and a basic distrust of most organized religions. Pondering the spiritual, whether it be from a scientific viewpoint or a religious viewpoint is a special passion, and each volume I read contains both answers and more questions. I had begun to notice the similarities in theory and felt that there must be some ‘basic truths,’ but for the most part, reality is an illusion, and a very convincing one at that. It is, for each of us, EXACTLY what we believe it is, and that is what makes it so convincing. Every one of us is speaking his/her own particular truth, thinking that what is the true reality is for one, must also be the true reality for all. But each of us are only entitled to one, and only one personal perspective. Until we realize on a collective basis, that each perspective is as valid as the next, that every perspective should be respected and honored, and that there is no right or wrong, just perspective, will we be able to live in harmony in this great ‘shared dream,’ called reality. I have always had vivid dreams. Technicolor, stereophonic dreams. Upon waking, if I concentrate on remembering, I can record the previous nights experience. It wasn’t until I began to place major importance on the contents of my dreams that I noticed the prophetic quality of dreaming. Another existence, the nightly reality, exists not separate, but intertwined with my day reality. Human beings can exist indefinitely in the dreaming state, for example, those in a coma, but humans do not function if deprived of their dreams. Dream deprivation leads to psychosis and physical dysfunction.

From my personal perspective, I view both realities as being equally significant. The dreaming process is the same as the day reality with one major difference, it is not as rigid. That gives us lots of room to experiment without the constraints of time or physical space, and it can be pure delight. If you have a nightmare, or feel out of control, simply wake up. I think the procedure is two-fold, as when the waking state becomes a nightmare, simply wake up spiritually. I think our culture is spiritually deprived. We are too engrossed in the material aspect where everything must have a scientific basis. Even religion has become scientific. We have taken every aspect of life, viewed it under a material microscope, and defined and dissected it. We examine all the pieces in magnification, name all the parts, describe it in full detail, all the while ignoring the essence of living it. It is the essence that is the spirit. We cannot learn about living by dissecting the dead. We must embrace the spirit of life without trying to destroy it in order to comprehend. Society craves the essence of life and cannot find it by any conventional means. It is the essence that provides the meaning and everything else is just a drill. I find it curious that science turns its back on the innuendo. Suggestion is intangible, therefore not subject to scientific dissection. But a true scientific analysis uses the double blind system. One group gets the true item being investigated, the other a placebo, to prevent the power of suggestion [that elusive, evasive, prerogative] from taking effect. Sounds like a contradiction to me. Shouldn’t we just investigate the power of suggestion instead? Investigate the power of our own beliefs, or is it just too hard to get suggestion to hold still under that materialistic microscope? Even quantum physics leads science right back to the fact that everything is exactly what each of us expect, what each of us believe from our own individual perspectives. Perhaps it’s just too simple, or perhaps it’s a sort of taboo because science can’t jam it into a bottle, label it, and sell it at an inflated cost, anymore than Mark Twain could. And Lord knows he tried.

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Meredwen Story by Tracy Marshall

I

t was Day of the Dead when I first noticed it. I might not have noticed it at all if I hadn't recently been reading about the Italian pyramids1 online. I was accompanying a friend on a house hunting expedition on November the 1st, 2005, in the Andalucian mountains. We had several houses to view in a particular valley, a valley we had both considered buying property in a few years previously. “Wow, look at that strange hill!” I said as soon as we set foot in the garden of what was to become my friend’s new home. Directly behind the house was a large mound: a pyramidal meadow and tree covered hill. I was intrigued. Having spent the previous six months devouring the Seth material and Elias transcripts, I decided to see if I could access some information myself, meditate on it, perhaps channel a few snippets or clues from any friendly essence willing to tell me, hoping I’d hear it, and not distort it too much… I heard the word Fantak, and didn’t pay too much attention, thinking perhaps I had imagined it or made it up, and then heard ‘Fantak’ in a louder voice, followed by ‘Yes, Fantak, write it down’. So I wrote it down. Gathering my wits, I remembered to ask a question. When was the first time I was at Meredwen? ‘Longer than you think’ I heard, ‘147,000 years ago.’

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Sure that was an error in my translation, I asked again, and then a third time for confirmation. Yes, 147,000 years. Fantak also told me that it had been built 14,000 years ago. Subsequent investigations revealed that Patual was the essence Fantak’s focus name 14,000 years ago at Meredwen, and mine was Shoshonire, and that we knew each other then. Fantak later told me that Meredwen was the name for the pyramid at that time, and that the people were called the Andwenden. In March 2006 I had my first Elias session2 by telephone, and asked him for some confirmations and clarifications. He confirmed all of the above, and explained a bit about my presence there 147,000 years ago: “You have an energy presence there in that time framework, an actual focus would be later.” I asked him if the two pyramids (there is another one in the next valley) are actually pyramids and he replied: “They are not the type of pyramid that you are familiar with in association with other physical locations and physical structures that have been built, but they are a type of pyramid, for they have been generated in this form in association with a collective energy.”

1 http://www.realitytest.com/gcpe/2004.htm 2 Elias is a non-physically focused personality channeled by Mary Ennis.


Meredwen Story, continued from page 18

In one of my first meditations to explore Meredwen, I had encountered a blockage of some sort, that almost felt like a warning, not of danger, but of caution. I was unable to proceed until I had assimilated some kind of wordless understanding. I asked Elias to clarify and he said: “It is associated with the energy of the area and what formed these types of pyramids and in that you can actually tap into that energy and it is quite powerful.” I was thrilled when some of the folks in my online meditation group expressed an interest in it, which led to several group meditations. Each one provided a wealth of interesting new information to add to the picture, with an interesting connection to Egypt.

Pyramid Meditation by Lee Muir Seth: The point of power is the present

I

stand outside the ruins of a pyramid, it seems I am dressed as a tourist and in the present time frame. I run around the outside of the pyramid, stopping to pick some wild flowers and feeling the power of the place. A Mexican wearing a large sombrero comes up to me. He is grinning at me. We sit down together on the ruins and he invites me to talk to him. I look down at my feet like a little kid and play with my toes.

He nods and grins and takes my hand and we go into a door which has appeared on the side of the pyramid. It is dark but feels nice. We go down some stairs, come to another door and there are more stairs going down. The Mexican tells me to count with him from 20 down. He is holding my hand and I feel safe.

Pirámide del Sol, Teotihuacán, México (Gorgo, wikipedia commons)

We count down and come to another door. It opens and we are in a huge underground space. There is a large bed at the end of it and as we draw near there is a very very old lady in the bed. She seems very weak and flutters her hand at me to sit down. She is very compelling and I feel a bit scared. The Mexican stands to one side. I sit on the side of the bed and take the old woman’s hand and wait for her to speak. She indicates a book on the bedside table. I go and get it and she tells me to read it. I open it and the pages are blank. (at this point I am vaguely aware of a wall covered in shelves and full to overflowing with books, some old and falling apart. My book is nice and clean and new looking, with a hard cover and bound) “Write” she tells me. “Write, write your story. Write it as you want it to be”.

Note from the Editor: As we pondered about this space which was left empty, an interesting synchronistic event showed up in the news on July, 3rd.

She gives me a pen. “Now write” she says. So I start to write. Just simple phrases, positive things. My dreams. As I write the old lady starts to sit up in bed. She is getting stronger with each word I write. The Mexican is chuckling in the background.

A cave buried beneath a Mexican pyramid has recently been re-opened by archeologists. The cavern, which has been sealed since its discovery in the 1970s, is situated on Mexico’s most ancient archeological site.

As I am writing my dreams I feel some pain for others. I notice there is now a ball and chain around my ankles. I ask to understand it and the ball crumbles and waves of energy come out of it. The energy is magic. The magic energy waves becomes the shape of a mirror. As I look into the mirror I understand that everything is a reflection of me and that all I need do is focus on myself.

The Aztecs who discovered the Teotihuacán pyramids around 1500 AD, just before Spanish explorers arrived to Mexico, called it ‘the place where men become gods’ as they assumed it to be a mythological place. The cave network, buried 21 feet (6 meters) underneath the giant pyramid called Sun Pyramid, may reveal information pertaining to the sacred practices of the ancient society having built it.

I continue to write my dreams and as I do this the old lady gets stronger. The old lady gets out of bed. I know that she is no longer sick and weak and alone. She smiles at me and dances out of the room. The Mexican takes my hand. We go back the way we came, counting the stairs up this time. We come out into the light.

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W

How To Handle Contractors

In fact, when you were coming from the new macadamized roads encircling the mountains, it could almost pass unnoticed. But when, like Granny Mosca, you knew the paths for having worn countless shoes walking on them, you could no longer ignore the towering presence of this place.

by Rob Arteman

hat really was Aljez’s mound? For most people around this valley, who had forgotten about the old times, it was nothing more than a rocky and steep piece of earth, barely good enough for Barbary sheep and piglets.

For her, it was a magical realm, a doorstep truly. Granny Mosca was the official owner of this place, though she preferred to think of it as being the gatekeeper. She kept a few animals up there, and went everyday here to feed them, pacing up and down the treacherous paths despite her old age. Something you couldn’t really realize until you first reached the top of the mound was that the mound was at the center of the valley, giving an impressive view miles and miles around. In that land of mountains, it could be just another peak among others, but when you were here, you knew it wasn’t.

A

guy came to my door this morning. He told me that he was a contractor and was in the neighborhood doing some work for my neighbors and thought he’d stop by and introduce himself. He asked if I had received a letter from our home owners association in regards to painting my home? I said “Yes, but I hadn’t decided how I would have it done.” I asked him if he’d done any painting for any of my neighbors? He said “Yes, quite a few.” I asked him “What style was the most popular? Portrait, landscape, or if anyone asked for a cartoon caricature?” He said, “No No No, we apply the paint to the house!”

Granny Mosca had felt it many times, this surge of energy, almost as if there were streams flowing down the surrounding slopes, up to the top of Aljez’s mound. At special times of the year, it was like you could feel the dwellers of the past moving around… At this very spot where almond trees were now growing.

I said, “You mean like a mural or graffiti?”

Those tourists who came a few days ago where funny. Especially the blond woman, with the high-pitched laugh who had come a few times here already.

He went on to say that they did landscaping as well. “You’ve got a few weeds in the front yard and I’d be glad to send a team in to take care of them.”

For sure Granny Mosca didn’t fear that they would discover anything, as the place had known how to shroud itself without her for ages, even before she was born. In fact, it was the contrary. She was willing to share some of the secrets to people daring enough and open-minded enough to crack some of these nuts of wisdom. The land would tell them… That is… unless they left the bag of almonds to the dogs… Elikozoe ~ Circle of Eights Story #1431

“NO!” he said, “See this wall of your house? It is painted a color. We can re-paint it the same color or something different if you like!”

I said, “Isn’t that a bit over the top? Sending in special forces or a SWAT team to take out a few weeds?” He shakes his head and appears to be a little frustrated. He asks, “Is there anyone else home that he might be able to talk to? Perhaps someone with an I.Q. greater than 7?” I got a little excited and fired back at him saying “I loved that movie too! But I’d give it a 10 not a 7. Walter Matthau, Meg Ryan, and Tim Robbins. What a great movie!” On the side of his truck it said that they do painting, landscaping and restorations. He began walking away when I hollered at him asking if he had a business card he could leave with me. Just in case I decide to be restored to a more youthful time in my life! He turned and either flipped me off or was indicating that I need some roof work done as well! At this point he just walked away mumbling something about me not having any kids and hoping the gene pool didn’t spread.

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The Haunted Château de Combourg by John Cullen

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here was something very familiar about the engraving when I first saw it. The towers were so well pronounced and the trees seemed like something out of a Dracula story. I had to read the French text that accompanied this strange little engraving, for I knew something of interest was bound to be there. The castle was first built for the Archbishop Guinguené in 1025 but he left it with his illegitimate brother Riwallon. Then, in the 1700’s it was the home of a slave-trader whose son was François-René Chateaubriand (1768-1848). He slept in one of the Towers, listening to the ghost with a wooden leg trudge along the stairways with his cat. Their sounds and the melancholy of the place he was raised in drove him out into the nearby forest.

Château de Combourg, John Cullen

Considered to be France’s first Romantic writer, Chateaubriand had many copy his style. He travelled to North America for a few years, was a politician and statesman in France and loved the wilds of the bush. His best work was Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe “Memories Of The Death”. His story is an eventful one, and his burial even more interesting. His grave, at his request, is situated on a small island off the coast of France at Milo, where he was born. The grave, with a remarkable site, is only accessible at low tide. The Lake Tranquil, beside Combourg and the village, became his hideaway from the heavy shadows of the Château. I have found beauty and power and longevity in this Château. It will always invite me to its secrets and I long for a visit there someday. It is still owned and maintained by relatives of Chateaubriand, open for visitors nearly every day! What mysterious tales of the wooden-legged man and his cat lay there to be discovered, and to possibly find my strange connection to this wondrous edifice in Brittany in all its restored beauty. The Great Hall seems so familiar to me. Was I one of its occupants at some time in the past?

Château de Houlbec, Jean-Baptiste Duret

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Billy Johnson Head Report The Kentucky Connection - Bluestone & Companions Arrive in the U.S. In continuation of previous reports by Tracy Marshall, where she wrote all about being chosen to receive the Billy Johnson heads. You can find more about the story in previous issues of Wisp.

After its stop in the Spanish Andalucian Mountains, the bluestone carved head from British artist Billy Johnson is sent to continue its trip to the Area of Enchantment in Florida, USA. Here follows an update from another Time Bridger member in Kentucky, USA who is involved in this project.

t 3:00 p.m. today 12 June, my doorbell rang, and that’s how simply and magically Billy Bluestone arrived at my home. The postman was not my usual one, but I was so excited, I told him he had brought me genuine treasures from Spain. I felt only a little bit silly telling him about the brightly colored golfballs. I signed for the package and asked if I could take his picture for the [weblog]. I had to run into the house twice to get camera and new batteries. He didn’t mind at all. I had to give him back the package, and poor Blue was in there wanting to get out!

by K.C. Anneken As I took the picture, I told him all about what else was in the package from Tracy, where the carved bluestone head had been and where it was going next, and then I told him about Oba’s area of enchantment in Florida, that we were burying items to be discovered in 2163, and that some things had already been found! The whole time, you can see how he was smiling!

Romancing The Tone Autumn in A time of otherness Gracious resolve, Heart’s endeavor. Modeled in light In water, in darkness Evading all trace Of solemn convention. Elements whisper In shimmering voice Displaced by infusions Of gestures in essence Brushing between The sound and its surface Compelled to remember What’s yet to occur.

Oba - Kenneth MacSween

Healing Winter (oil on canvas by Oba - Kenneth MacSween)

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The Russian Man by Hayley Youngblud

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his morning, while walking through a small park, I passed a man I’ve talked to once or twice before, sitting at a picnic table, but I didn’t recognize him at first. In fact, I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone so I just kept walking, but one of my dogs approached him and his cocker spaniel, Elton, who got up from under the table and then I walked over to say hello. Then I recognized him as a friendly foreign man from the neighborhood. After the usual small talk, I asked what country he came from. Russia, he said. I thought so. As a teen we had a Russian boarder for a while, and I had to learn some Russian from her in exchange for free room and board. I hated those lessons but my father insisted. Anyway… The English version of his name is Leo. In Russian, his name means ‘lion’. I took this as a sign that it was no coincidence that I met him again. Lions have been in my thoughts quite a bit the past three years. I made friends with one at a sanctuary, and sometimes “practice” on him1. Leo comes from St. Petersburg, formerly Leningrad. A mechanical engineer. Told me in an almost humble way that he held a “high position” in his chosen field. Been here 28 years. Impeccable English. “I didn’t have to search for a job; the work found me.” I asked if he spoke English prior to emigrating. No. He spent 4 years taking English as a second language at night school at a community college. “My sister died yesterday.” Oh, I’m so sorry. “She was very old, 95.” That surprised me because I didn’t put him past 65. He said how old do you think I am? I politely said, oh, I dunno, maybe pushing 65? “I’m 82”. Then he went on to tell me about life in St. Petersburg. Most people there live in apartments, large very old buildings of beautiful Old World architecture. “You don’t have that here.” Well, today being Canada’s birthday, I note that we are only 141 years old, and Russia has been a civilized country for centuries. He said in Canada people live in houses with lots of parks and green space. In St. Petersburg the population is condensed into a smaller area, mostly living in apartments, so not as much green space, but the parks they do have are lovely. “Russia is a very beautiful country. The architecture, the churches, the parks.” He stopped talking for a while, and we watched the Canada geese.

1 a type of Reiki practice, as explained later on.

“My brother-in-law was a remarkable man.” Oh, yes? How so? “A great humanitarian. Everyone was drawn to my brother-in-law. He died a few years ago. He had a beautiful singing voice and in his younger days he sang in concert halls all over Russia. He was actually Ukrainian, not Russian. Ukrainians have wonderful voices, you know.” He got quiet again, lost in thought. “I miss them.” “Why did you emigrate?” “Oh, have you got a few hours?” And he smiled. “It was always a dream of mine.” Friends of his who had emigrated before, also engineers, urged him to come over. Also it was thought that his wife, who has a bad heart, would receive better care here. And she has. His daughter and grand-daughter also emigrated. Life has been good. “I followed my dream.” This struck me as a wake-up call and suddenly I realized this chance encounter was arranged by my friends and helpers who guide me from Non-physical reality. So much so that I took a moment to silently thank them. I have a dream too, which I’ve been actively pursuing in the past year. I’m learning about Animal Communication, and a new interest in Reiki as a means to assist in animal communication. I’m taking workshops and courses and practicing on just about every animal that I come in contact with, and starting to have small successes. There are now so many learning opportunities out there that I can tap into, that for me weren’t available before the internet and Amazon brought a new direction, new goals, into my life. Elton and Vero were getting a second wind and starting to play-fight. I asked, “Why did you name him Elton?” “Because to learn and understand English, I practiced by listening to the radio. One of Elton John’s songs has a line, ‘I finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick road.’ I knew what that meant to me.” Ah. Another message from my non-physical friends. “Do you miss Russia?” He stared ahead and watched the Canada geese picking at the grass. “Sometimes.” “But I had a dream. I knew the Soviet Union would collapse some day. We all knew it, my family, my friends. It was inevitable. And we knew it would get worse before it got better.” I told him about a friend whose parents came from Russia, who went to visit relatives in the late 80’s, or thereabouts, and her impression was that life was “suppressed”, with no outside influences. He agreed. “In this country there are so many resources, so many opportunities.” Little did I know when I started out on my walk this morning, that on this day, Canada Day, I would be reminded of that by a friendly old Russian man and his cocker spaniel, Elton. He went on to compare East and West, but I was thinking of personal goals and the freedom and opportunity to pursue what I think I’ve been waiting for my whole life. Now it was me who was lost in thought.

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Colourful Summer, Photography by Brigitte Geisler

Careful readers of Wisp may have already noticed her work heavily featured throughout our pages, and for good reason. Bridgy’s gallery of photography on ickr will make you discover marvels of nature you never knew existed. Be sure to check it out: http://flickr.com/photos/ bridgy2008

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Artist Trading Cards or ATCs by Rick Daddario Artist Trading Cards (also known as ATCs) have become a very common format among many artists and especially popular among Mail Art groups.

One of the things I like about ATCs is that anyone, all ages, backgrounds and levels of experience worldwide, can create an ATC and swap with them.

he idea behind ATCs began as a way for artist friends to remain in contact and connected. With ATCs they could share with each other what each was doing in their larger works. The original idea was that ATCs would never be sold or bought. They were only to be traded. From that beginning ATCs became a way to establish networks between artists, develop new contacts and exchange ideas. It has expanded now to where ATC swapping is a world of its own.

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Eventually those who wanted to be able to sell their “small works” chose to call their “small works” by another name yet still work in the 2.5 x 3.5 inch format. They began to call their works ACEOs, short for Art Cards, Editions and Originals. This issue is still uncomfortable for many throughout the artist community. Currently there are many examples of both philosophies going on all over the net and world.

There are a few rules that all ATCs follow in order to be considered an ATC.

If you’d like to get an idea of just how big Artist Trading Cards and Art Cards, Editions and Originals have become, enter either term into a search engine and watch how many sites come up. Then click on Images and take a look at what is out there.

1 - ATCs are always 2.5 x 3.5 inches (6.35 x 8.9 cm), which is the same size as a standard USA playing card or most “Sport” trading cards like baseball cards. 2 - ATCs are never to be sold. They are to be traded only. 3 - Most ATCs have the artists name and a way to contact that person some place on the card, often the back. That’s about it. Additional information can be added to an ATC of course. Many people like to include a title, date, and a specific swap or group if that is why the ATC was created or even who the ATC was intended to be given to in a swap. Other things may also include materials used and how many were made if it is part of a series, or if they are all made the same way or if they are multiples or duplicates. ATCs and Mail Art in general has embraced a lot of multidiscipline groups and people around the world. Artists, crafts people, writers, scrapbookers, other individuals and just about any other discipline you’d like to include all create ATCs to swap. As this might suggest there are many techniques and materials that can be used to make an ATC. There are also many different ways that ATCs are swapped too. There have become categories for ATCs, a drawn and/or painted ATC is not usually considered in the same category as a duplicate of a drawn or painted ATC although both can be swapped. Digital drawing/painting and/or photos are another category. After a time ATCs became so popular that they were no longer swapped just between friends. They became a way to make new connections establishing communities around the swapping of ATCs. Some ATCs became sought after and desirable to collectors. This collecting issue became a heated topic when along with collecting came a desire to purchase ATCs.

The ATCs I’ve included with this article are samples of my own work, mostly created in the last couple of years. I’ve also swapped with and collected ATCs from around the world as well as local artists in my area during this same time period. When I create ATCs I like to do several at a time although each is created individually so there is variation from one to the next. This practice allows me to keep a collection of my own work as documentation and as resource and inspiration for future works. Some of my working methods include drawing, painting, digital drawing/ painting, collaging, photography and a number of other techniques and processes that may occur to me at any time. Digital and photographic ATCs can of course be created in multiples. There is no set way to create an ATC other than to be considered an ATC it must be in that 2.5 x 3.5 inch format. Most swappers and swapping sites stress quality and/or quality-of-effort when creating ATCs whether you are a beginner or an experienced swapper. If you’d like to start making ATCs and swap them there are many dedicated sites and groups as well as individuals around the world you can easily get involved with through the net and in many cases locally too through galleries and other local groups. Creating ATCs and swapping is still an evolving area in the world today. There are some well-designed projects focused on large works that involve ATCs. More are being considered all the time. Swaps other than local swaps and sometimes even those, often go on through Postal Mail. ATCs are small and that makes them a great format for Mail Art. For successful swapping at any level, commitment to see the swap through and communication are important. It is fun to make and swap ATCs; once you start you may not want to stop.

In many cases artists do not make much money even if the price tag on their work looks high. In some cases artists who were making ATCs began to be asked if they would sell their ATCs to people who could not create or swap on par with an artist. “Why not?” became one side of the issue, on the other side of the issue was the original intent of an ATC.

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Watching/Dream Feather Watercolor, Ink and Stamp


Leftovers a short horror story, by Bill Pate

Turning left, Jerry dragged the trash to the dumpster, and as cold as the night was, Jerry could feel a slashing line of sweat roll down his back. Lifting the lid to an upright position, Jerry filled the trash, grunting as it was extremely heavy, turned it upside down and felt the weight lessen quickly. Dropping the empty barrel, Jerry was about to shut the lid, when he heard a strange noise. Jerry whipped his body around to see if someone might be behind him. There wasn’t anyone to see except for the trash dumpster. Turning to go back inside again, the same strange noise, almost like a grating sound, but it came from behind him again. Turning to face the dumpster, he realized it came from inside.

About being a writer, Bill says: I believe that every writer should delve into every scope of writing there is, no matter the genre. It helps to broaden the horizon of what a writer can become. Use the mind, make it work, stretch beyond normal every day life. I choose to take that which seems mundane at one point and spin a new or different twist. With poetry, I reach into the guts of human experiences and try to bring about a sense of purpose and meaning readily lost in life’s daily nuances we tend to shove aside. If I can evoke a memory in someone, or have someone feel they have “been there before”, then as a writer, I have done my job. My advice to writers… write what you know, what you feel. Delve into the unknown, make it fun, enjoyable. As a writer, I get to live out every word I lay onto paper… and that is something worth doing, and being.

http://danceinsilence.multiply.com/ dishwashing area and placed the broom and mop in the storage area with the chemical supplies. Reaching up on the top shelf, Jerry grabbed a box marked ‘Toxil’, a heavy white substance designed to kill rats and mice once they nibbled on the grainy material. “Have a safe night, Jerry. See you tomorrow.” “Same to you Mr. Kenmore,” Jerry said to the night manager, who locked the back door as Jerry stepped into the alley. Jerry walked to the dumpster, raised the lid and threw in four blocks of the poison into each corner. Looking at the mixture of odors, Jerry smiled. “Eat all you can, while you can. It’ll be the last meal you munch on.” As he was about to shut the lid and go home, he heard that grating sound again. “Noisy little critter’s.” Closing the lid, Jerry started walking away, then changed his mind. Turning back, he decided to raise the lid to see if he could spot a rat scurrying around. The wind whipped harder around him, sending a shiver through his bones. “Feels like its going to snow,” he chillingly chattered. Those were the last words he spoke.

“Probably rats,” he mused. Grabbing the empty barrel, he started for the back door. “Before I go home tonight, I’ll get some of that rat poison the boss bought last week. If there are rats in the trash, I’ll throw some of that stuff in there and really give them something to chew on. Damn rats are the last thing the boss wants to hear about. Ain’t good for business.”

Unable to scream, his face muffled, trying to pull away, gasping for air not found, Jerry was being smothered in all the garbage from the last two days. The corn, mashed potato’s, gravies and Critter’s ribs, took on a hazy, warped appearance. Jerry felt himself being lifted from the ground, legs kicking madly, helplessly. Jerry could feel wetness between his legs that felt wonderfully warm, but like the night, became bitterly cold.

Two hours later, Jerry finished sweeping and mopping the kitchen floors as well as his own

Between the garbage being impaled onto his face, Jerry was able to have a brief final

glimpse of his attacker. What he witnessed brought a sudden and violent implosion on his heart. Just as Jerry’s feet disappeared into the dumpster; he was dead. The cold blustery wind picked up speed and caused the lid to slam shut by itself. Inside, it was dark, and the smell was terrible. It couldn’t be seen, but if you stood close by, you could hear grating sounds as Jerry’s arms, legs, and finally his head was devoured. The grating, tearing and chomping from inside the dark green metal continued for hours until the attacker was content and filled with its meal. The wind beat against the walls of Critter’s, whistling between the cracks of man-made designs, and the cracks of the dumpster. The attacker settled itself below the garbage and rested. The wind was finally the only thing heard.

h The following morning, a motor grumbled as it lifted the dumpster in a high arcing sweep to empty the refuse from the past two days. Inside, the attacker who dined on Jerry, never found again (not even the bones), sensed dangers it couldn’t yet understand. Pressing its brownish-greenish form against the inside of the metal walls, it watched through its thousand eyes, combined with its thousand suctioning mouths and feelers, watched the waste rumble into a larger garbage dumpster. Within a minute, the dumpster was replaced in almost the exact same spot. The attacker, after attaching itself to the walls, slid back to the center of the metal flooring, appearing to be nothing more than residue. It heard the larger dumpster’s sounds become fainter as it roared

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Pumpkin Aura, by Jean-Baptiste Duret

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he cold wind blew scraps of discarded food in circular motions near the trash dumpster. Jerry, the night dishwasher, kicked open the back door exiting from Critter’s kitchen, a very popular eatery on the southwest side of Portland. Dragging a large trash barrel behind him, heavily filled with the discarded remnants of food left behind by customer’s who could never eat all the food served them. That was one of the things that made Critter’s popular. They know how to fill a dinner plate.

Bill Pate was born in Chester, PA., Oct.21, 1947. Graduated from University of Utah in 1983, BA in English, he started writing very young though began no serious interest until his late thirties.


Leftovers, continued from page 23 away until the sounds were gone completely. In the early morning light, the attacker was alone. It waited to be fed tiny scraps until another, such as Jerry, would wander too closely and it would feast as it did last night. Last night was the best leftovers it ever had.

h It was Friday night, nearly a full week after Jerry disappeared; the snow started falling earlier that day, sticking like glue, piling higher with each snowflake. It would be Monday before the dumpster would be emptied again, but the attacker didn’t know or care. Inside, the attacker had gained new life with all the scraps thrown inside. When the dumpster first emptied, it felt weak after several hours and needed nourishment. The scraps provided that strength. The foul stench from the rotting food filled its slimeridden form with new life. It wasn’t just leftovers that gave it life. Add the chemicals to those leftovers: salt, pepper, sage, dill weed, mustard and especially monosodium-glutamate (MSG), a crystal-salt used to flavor foods that was also medically proven to be a cancer causing agent. In this case, MSG helped in the spawning of this strange, but deadly attacker. On this wintry Friday night, an old man walked next to the dumpster long after Critter’s closed. He had no place to go and no one cared about his existence. Bundled in an old navy peacoat, a Giants baseball cap pulled over his ears, his body covered with three shirts and two pair of pants; the knees worn away from misuse and age, his feet covered by old, nearly bottomless tennis shoes, the old man sat on the snow covered ground next to the dumpster. Inside his coat, the old man reached in and pulled out a pint of brandy. Twisting off the lid, he took a heavy pull, feeling the heat from the brandy bring him some comfort from the freezing wind and wet snow. Then he heard a noise coming from inside the dumpster. His first thought was as Jerry’s. “Rats. What the hell, too cold to be sitting here.” Standing, he took another swig of brandy, put it back in his coat pocket, and lifted the lid leading into the dumpster. He started climbing inside. He knew he would stink to high heaven in the morning, but tonight he would be warmer than if he stayed on the streets. As he hoisted himself up and over the side,

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the odors had already filtered into his stuffed breathing passages. He shivered more from the smell than from the cold. Standing for a moment, he reached for the lid and closed it over himself as he began kneeling down. With the lid and himself halfway where each were supposed to be, that’s when he felt his right leg being jerked lower into the dumpster. The heavy pull caused him to let go of the lid and it slammed shut, putting him in complete darkness. The old man’s thoughts ran in two’s. “Either it’s a very big ass rat, or somebody’s in here with me!” Just as those thoughts ran through his brain, he managed to scream once as he felt something cover his face and draw him lower. The attacker’s slime. When he felt the greasy, slimy film coat every part of his unwashed skin; his final thought was that this wasn’t man or beast. Before he died, before his eyes were sucked from him their sockets, he could see thousands of eyes and mouths, watching as tiny feelers ripped him apart, and this thing started dining on him; the old man’s last thought: INHUMAN.

h The attacker dined on this body as it did Jerry’s. It sorted out its own pattern of ideas and sensed this leftover was not as enjoyable as the first one. Nevertheless, nothing was left of the old man except for a half-empty bottle of brandy. The attacker stretched its distorted mass, its edges bubbling under all the other leftovers and settled down to a night of contentment. Hopefully, better than this one.

ing inside. He went back inside Critter’s after dumping the garbage and then went home. The attacker wanted more of what it found to be great leftovers; humans. It also sensed that tonight it would be without again. The hours passed and the attacker waited underneath all the garbage atop it, Waited and hoped (if it had emotion to hope) with a craving for fresh leftovers. When it appeared nothing would come into its lair, the attacker slithered to one corner to give itself rest.

h Just past four in the morning, the coldest night of the year, two men, one in his mid-twenties, the other late thirties, walked briskly into the alley next to the dumpster. Inside the attacker heard their approach and groped upward in its own personal anticipation. “How much, Crocker?” “Same as before, Danny. Fifty a pop.” Danny reached into his heavy coat pocket and gave Crocker five one-hundred dollar bills. In return, Crocker handed over a plastic bag with ten hits of acid. Taking the bag, Danny reached inside and popped one of the tabs of acid under his tongue. Within a couple minutes, he could feel his senses “coming alive”, as he would say. “Good stuff, ain’t it, Danny.” As Danny was about to speak, the attacker began its grinding noise, getting the attention of both men. “What’s that?” asked Danny.

h Saturday night brought nothing more except leftovers from inside Critter’s. The new dishwasher hadn’t come close enough for the attacker to grab, and had to settle with what was available. The new dishwasher figured all the noises coming from inside were mice or rats, but as he said when he went home that night, “I don’t get that much to worry about getting rid of them. If the boss wants them dead, he can do it himself.” Sunday night was more of the same. Once, the grating noise from inside, caught Rob, the new dishwasher’s attention, but he didn’t want to venture too close or even think about look-

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“How would I know? Probably just rats, maybe the wind blew something over, or some old drunken fart is sleeping it off in the garbage. If it’s rats, I got something for them. If it’s some old man in there, he’ll wet his pants when he sees this.” Reaching inside his parka, Crocker pulled out his Ruger P95, lightweight but deadly. He walked to the dumpster and raised the lid. Crocker’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness, and pulled away from the fetid odor. “Smells like the inside of an outhouse, know what I mean, Danny.” “Must be my ex-girlfriend in there,” Danny chortled. “Maybe, but I don’t see her or anyone in here.” Crocker aimed his Ruger inside. “I think


Leftovers, continued from page 24 I see one of them rats.” Crocker fired three times, believing he killed a rat or two. The attacker felt an object rip into its form but felt no pain; it only knew this leftover would be his. Moving up the side, Crocker lowered his arm and fired two more rounds. Crocker’s face took a sudden twist to shocked surprise as he felt his hand, then his arm being dragged into the darkness. Danny watched as he took another tab of acid, seeing Crocker crawl into the dumpster. “You must be crazy, going in there just to kill a couple rats, man. C’mon, dude, let’s get outta here. It’s getting way to cold to be standing around here watching you get your jollies off dusting rats.” Crocker couldn’t respond even if he wanted. He was dead. Danny walked over to the edge and peered inside. His eyes widened in disbelief. There lay Crocker, or what was left of him, covered in a brown-greenish slime, being torn apart in small pieces, being devoured or disappearing before his very eyes. “Damn, Crocker, this is some good stuff. I better slow down, dude. What I’m seeing can’t be happening!” Backing up to catch his breath, thinking about what he had seen, trying not to throw up on himself, Danny walked back to the opening, looked inside again, thinking he was seeing things. This time he didn’t see Crocker at all. Danny reached down and sifted through the top layer of trash. “I knew I was seeing things. Hey, Crocker, wherever you are, come on out, dude. This ain’t funny, man.” What he couldn’t find, found him. It wasn’t Crocker. As Danny was being hauled inside, his last thought before he felt something sucking on his brain, “… this acid is too much, dude.” The attacker sank back below, feeling great satisfaction as it felt the extra treat of a second leftover … two in one night. If it could have smiled, it would.

h Monday morning rolled around and with it came the motor as the trash dumpster was lifted high in the air and the attacker glued itself to the sides so it wouldn’t follow the path of the rest of the debris. When the dumpster

was lowered, and the truck was gone, the attacker deposited itself in the middle of the metal floor and waited.

h Monday afternoon, the lid was raised and the attacker felt water sprayed all over its mass. When it first heard the lid open, it prepared itself to begin feeding, but never expecting this. Looking upward through its thousand eyes, it saw a man holding a green tube with water gushing from its tip, cleaning away the odor that built up over the past three weeks. It was three weeks ago the attacker first felt signs of life. The man holding the green tube disappeared, went behind the dumpster, bent over and turned a valve to an open position. Inside, the attacker watched as water flowed out a small hole and could feel itself being sluiced away with the water. Suctioning itself against the walls, it was able to pull itself free, but the man came around to the front and sprayed more water, covering the sides as well as the bottom once again. It felt itself being ripped away, and if its thousand mouths could have screamed, it would have brought down buildings. As it began to dribble through the opening, it laid on the hard packed snow. After the man who hosed the inside was satisfied with the washing, he felt better knowing when the Board of Health showed up, he wouldn’t get any points taken away for having a sanitation problem. Walking to the rear of the dumpster, he saw what debris were flushed out and continued to wash it into the street where a small stream formed and the attacker was washed away until it fell through a storm drain and was gone from sight. Later that afternoon, the Board of Health came by, inspected Critter’s, and gave the most popular eatery in the city a clean bill of health for the next ninety days.

h The night was quiet except for the wind whistling through the cracks in the sidewalks, between the bricked walls of Critter’s, and the slight spaces around the dumpster.

Since the dumpster had been cleaned, five trash barrels had been dragged from the kitchen and dumped. Each barrel was full of discarded scraps of food left behind by customers who could never eat all the food served them. Critter’s knew how to fill a dinner plate. It also contained salt, pepper, dill weed, mustard, as well as other spicy ingredients, and especially … MSG. I would take another three weeks before it would happen again. On the first night, there was a faint grating noise coming from within. Waiting.

h Two days later, cross town, at the home of Lisa Montgomery, the police were at her home investigating her sudden, if not mysterious disappearance. The neighbors thought it strange. Usually, twice a day, she could be seen sitting on her front porch, snow or no snow, rain or shine, waving hello to the kids in the neighborhood, the passing mailman, or one of the neighbors to find out the latest gossip. “She rarely leaves home,” said one neighbor. “Usually she leaves her house twice a month when her kids come to take her out shopping or for a drive. She can’t drive, you know.” Lisa Montgomery is eighty-seven and in a wheelchair. The wheelchair was still in the house. This one as well as eight other mysterious disappearances have the police baffled. No fingerprints, no blood, no nothing. One officer, walking around the house, entered the kitchen, thinking maybe a large knife might be missing. Upon searching, he couldn’t see or find anything out of the ordinary. Like the others, no blood. No signs of a struggle. “This is the damndest thing,” thought the officer. While he stood in the kitchen, against the sink area, a rumbling from the pipes, like a grating sound could be heard.

h

The End

Wisp e-zine

JULY 2008

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The Hidden God by Bill Ingle http://www.realitytest.com/doors.htm This article was a response to Robert Ritchie’s Regime Change in Heaven blog on The Guardian’s Comment is Free found at http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/jun/10/religion Ardent materialists, firm believers in the applicability of the scientific method to all questions, abound on CiF.

T

he God imagined in previous ages, an earthly potentate writ large, is entirely suitable for humorous depiction.

Such depictions don’t necessarily improve the odds that skeptical and ego-bound Westerners, convinced of the infallibility of the scientific method, will gain any clues as to the nature of what could be termed the “hidden god,” however. This latter being is no thunderbolt thrower, judges no one, and has no interest whatsoever in ruling those on earth; the imaginary god is, to a large extent, a great and mythical distortion of this being. Temporarily casting aside the ego is one way to fathom this being but this is much easier said than done — the techniques for doing so aren’t at all difficult, but what’s lacking in the rational mythos is any motivation for doing so. (Elsewhere, simple and basic curiosity is sufficient.) Once this is accomplished and periodically practiced, the hidden god is revealed as no big deal, really, simply a very basic (but largely forgotten) essential and foundational feature of existence. There is no repeatable scientific experiment that can reveal this hidden god, so there is no point in searching the databases of peer-reviewed journals for it, but anyone — even those who are not scientists — can explore its nature. (No expensive education is required, either; just the learning of some variation of the above basic techniques.) One way to picture the situation might employ the idea of overlapping and fully conscious minds. This is greatly simplified but, basically, you have the overall mind of All (the hidden god), within which are found souls, entities, essences (different words for the same beings); our conscious minds (and selves) are expressions of these last beings, “larger” and more expansive versions of our usual day-to-day selves. (There is no need to confuse this picture with any religious tenets or theologies, even though connections can be made.) We tend to view all of existence from the perspective of a single self, separate from all else and delineated by its skin, rarely conscious of anything beyond the contents of our conscious mind and that which our physical senses reveal. Our science (and, earlier, our religions) reflects this extremely prejudiced perspective.

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A photo of an elderly Scott on a bicycle — he commuted from his home to his Manchester Guardian office on a bike even past the age of 80 — which is frequently displayed on the CiF site.

Meanwhile, C.P. Scott posts to CiF, too. See his most recent comment at http://www.guardian.co.uk/users/cpscott What we can read there: I’m dead but can post comments, however imperfectly, by temporarily merging my mind with that of a present edition. I can’t prove this, but then could you prove who you are without any official identification?

A greater (and “real-time”) vision, not at all based on this “separation,” is obtainable by quieting the conscious mind and stilling the physical senses. This is really so very simple, yet even such a basic explication frequently meets with great resistance and skepticism from those completely unwilling to even try such simple methods. Why is there such reluctance to discover what lies beneath waking consciousness? What is there to fear in exploring what is presently called the subconscious and the (allegedly) unconscious (for this can be said to be the “location” of the hidden god)? Possibly, beneath the shallow surface of many waking minds, lie great fears left over from olden times, fears of thunderbolt throwing gods, demons, and what-not, these fears covered up with rational beliefs. Possibly, too, it’s much easier to pretend that the surface explanations of the nature of reality offered by modern science are nearly complete and 100% legitimate; anyone with such beliefs may believe there is no need to question them. In that regard, they aren’t that different from religious believers.


Catching Cupid by Gozen’s Love Easing into this relaxing with your partner, as I see it, requires a balance. I believe that it’s more than possible and practical that one can maintain that intensity of chemistry and connection with your partner regardless of the influence of passing years. A hopeless romantic till the end? You can bet on it.

Love

LOVE.

Romantic love.

T

he kind of feeling you get when you first meet someone, flirt with them, think of them non-stop and want to spend all your time with them, is said to be fleeting and temporary.

I've heard the words “Such a thing is not meant to last”. For many, the dilemma in romance isn't so much catching Cupid, but keeping him in reach once caught. Or maybe it's not so much Cupid himself that we've been catching, but his arrows instead. Either way, we come right back to the perception that the intensity of passion and excitement found within the prospects of a new love isn't long-lasting. This is something so many of us have come to accept as the reality of the matter. I say, we go directly to the heart of the situation, as Cupid’s arrows would. It's only there, in the inner sanctums of our heart-of-hearts that we may search for insights as to why romance can be fleeting. Many have given up on fairytale love due to one heartache or another. It’s this surrendering that leads me to think that maybe, during the course of a relationship, each person becomes relaxed and more comfortable in not trying so hard as they may have in the beginning. See, I feel that the slacking off or fading of the initial thrill is directly connected to this relaxing in becoming more comfortable and familiar with our significant others. Some become so familiar with their lover that the lover begins to blend into the routine and fall away into the familiar surroundings. Some, not all, start to lose interest when one grows too comfortable. Some start to take what they have for granted and fall into that trap of no longer appreciating (fully) the other and what they contribute as they had earlier. At times, after the relaxation and comfort sets in, the desire to express like in the beginning can rise to the surface, but depending on the state of the relationship after time, can lead to a filter through any experiences that may have been rocky and negative. This may lead to a disinterest or may surface, yet take a different form: one of anger, fighting, as well as other “negative” expressions. The intensity may still be there in these cases, yet appear in a form unlike the intitial passionate excitement.

Having examined a few of the motivations and reasons for the fading of that fresh, new excitement at starting a relationship, we can more accurately understand how we can prolong or renew that spark of an intense, intimate love. You can relax, yet still inspire that romance that so many don't believe possible. It’s a matter of trying to stay in the moment and not so much occupy your attention with things that aren't directly influencing the moment. Once your attention drifts, those passionate, romantic yearnings can become covered over, ignored, recessed, or may be channelled into other, different areas of expressing. The intensity and experience is there, though many forget how to bring that screaming into the present —leaving those feelings locked within a distance of time and memory, lost to fantasies of yesterday… Paying attention, genuinely to your partner and conversations, experiences, taking the time to evaluate your interests and do something together even if it's once a week, may just bring your attention to the moment, to your partner, and unclog those channels and remove the filters that redirect those intense feelings to allow them to emerge, invigorating you each with passionate excitement and intrigue once again. Find something new to do together, create things to explore and discover in new ways, even, than those you know. This may bring out things in yourself and in your partner that may very well trigger that fresh, new feeling you had in the beginning of your relationship. The power of discovery and venturing into the uknown together is a part of that thrill many neglect or didn’t pay attention to why they felt that thrill the first time around. Once its gone, some don't understand what it was while it was present, that they don't know what to look for or how to get that back or create it again. When we fall into love, so many of us don’t pay attention to what we may have tripped over or where we were at before finding the fall to love. Maybe it’s the search for Cupid that keeps us from seeing exactly what is right under our noses in this perfect present. And Maybe, if we are continuing to believe this “phase” of love to be fleeting and swiftly escaping, then it becomes no surprise that Cupid remains just out of reach…

Wisp e-zine

JULY 2008

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We would welcome any kind of personal writing, artistic works, poems, essays, etc. Find previous issues and all published stories on our website...

http://wisp.focusphere.net Wisp e-zine — Issue #3 — July 2008 No part of this magazine may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher

photography, by Brigitte Geisler

The intention of WISP is to provide a place for personal stories; inspirational, light, humorous, challenging or anything in between… and beyond.

Wisp #3  

Third issue (July 2008) of Wisp e-zine See http://wisp.focusphere.net/wisp/03

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