Weltanschauung

The Philosopher’s Stone

zenothestoic@protonmail.ch

Tag: Meaning

  • What is the purpose of Art?

    What is the purpose of Art?

    Why does there need to be a “purpose”?

    It is. Just like we are. That’s probably about all you need to know.

    A better question perhaps is “what does art do for me”?

    Now there is something worth exploring. Given that our universe in all probability just “is” it is down to us to make our own “meaning” – if meaning is what we feel we need. If meaning is necessary to our soul, our life. Our happiness.

    Perhaps that is why we invented god. Alongside art. When the earliest known cave paintings were scrawled on stone walls some 100,00 years ago, why did the cave man do it? Or cave woman.

    Or non binary person. There! How modern I am!

    I suggest it may have been a search for meaning. A statement of meaning perhaps. The earliest religion is thought to have arisen perhaps as long ago as 300,000 years.  Shamanism and animism, it is said. The juju man, dancing around the fire, waving smoke in your face, casting spells and exhorting spirits. Probably daubing the walls of his hut or cave with paint, likely as not making crude trinkets and charms.

    And so forward to Sherborne Abbey, the magnificent gothic church pictured above. By then the juju man has acquired a more formal code, but he still waved around holy smoke and incanted his magic, his powerful ritual.

    All these people had discovered their own meaning where before none such had existed.  A god who has made the world and shoved us in its epicentre. Animals and spirits who conjured the tides and the weather. Who make the crops grow or dispense terrible famine in retribution for man’s shocking sin.

    And so back  to today – and in particular to 21st Century England. A shit hole if ever there was one. William Blake must be crying out in pain to see that his land is now covered in dark satanic mills from it’s very head to the tip of it’s sooty, grime ridden toes.

    So perhaps these days art continues to play much the same role as it did in the days of ancient shamanism. Now, our terror is not thunder or famine, but the hideous mess we have made of a formerly green and pleasant land. Endless concrete, endless noise, the hammers and anvils everywhere. No peace to be found, no beauty.  And the whole ghastly edifice about to collapse on top of us, as global warming comes home to roost.

    So now more than ever art is needed. To show us a better way perhaps. Or to mark out descent as we reel and grope our way to our end.

    Tracy Emin – her lurid concentration on her own body. Fair doos, as they say. A way to express the terror of her own shocking existence. Anish Kapoor – perhaps endless wealth was not his aim. Perhaps he too was expressing something of his own anxiety. Or disappointment. Or fear. His weird structures and conceits certainly seem to express fear, as well as curiosity and wonder. A ghastly second coming. The end, the last judgement.

    Art as self expression – perhaps I am getting somewhere. But maybe art also as seeking – seeking beauty and god in the case of Sherborne Abbey. Beauty certainly exists, although presumably in the eye of the beholder. And god too, because he is your creation and your refuge.  Both god and beauty may be an escape from the bestiallity of the real world of hatred and killing, of suffering, poverty and privation.

    I think it is time that I concentrated on art. On my own art as well as the creations of others. Art as poetry perhaps, or music. Even writing prose can be seen as powerful art – it is certainly as creative as any other art form.

    I am seeing art as part of a retreat from a fearful world. Fearful in so very many ways, the mere expression of that fear is terrifying. Lack of meaning is the hardest to come to terms with – the fear that this whole ghastly melange of terror and beauty, of hatred and violence, of love and cruelty just “is”. Just grew, just festers and, one day will just fizzle out.

    So have your day in the sun. Pick the flowers while you may. Glorify and bless your existence with gothic masterpieces and exquisite poetry.

    Splash your genitalia all over the canvas and hang it out for all to see.

    Paint, sing, dance, build, create. Because you can. For a while at least.

  • Tracy Emin and her visceral vulva

    Tracy Emin and her visceral vulva

    We are all self obsessed, none more so than Dame Tracy.

    To have risen to a place of great fame and position in the British establishment by endlessly painting her own vulva is really quite an achievement.

    She is, apparently, regarded as one of the most significant and influential artists of her generation.

    I am all in favour of art speaking loudly, and Ms Emin certainly does that. Were I to attempt to emulate Tracy in putting my pain into art, my style would be that of Munch and his Scream.

    If Ms Emin seeks to shock, she certainly succeeds. But her greater achievement is to portray life in all its vileness through the lens of the daughter of a less privileged family from a dismal seaside town on Britain’s south coast. Destitute is probably a better description of her family’s state – following the collapse of her father’s hotel, her mother was left alone to bring up two young children in extreme poverty.

    Margate, I used to think, has its charms.  The funfair, a beautiful beach, delightful and outdated seaside cafes. But as a son of a wealthy middle class family which at that date seemed to lack for nothing, it is hardly surprising that I saw a different side of the place.

    While I have never lacked money, suffering is not something I have managed to escape. It’s just that I have never been able to describe it as efficiently or brutally as Ms Emin. Nor have I been able to turn it into great art or great wealth.

    I can see that what she has achieved is in many senses wholly admirable. She has pulled herself up by her own bootstraps by expressing her grim suffering.  Her art exposes vulnerability and raw psychological truth, allowing viewers to connect deep emotional resonance to her work. She shows a life of poverty, sexual abuse, heavy drinking and severe illness.

    I think part of art’s remit is to shock. To tell how life really is.  My own temptation has always been to run: Tracy’s is to stand firm and shout loud about just how grim her life has been.  And for that I salute her.

    Do I “like” her art? I do not. Do I like her story? I do not. Do I admire her: I do.

    I sat halfway through her exhibition at the Tate Modern in front of another wall full of her body, sometimes mounted by that of some British youth, sometimes not.  I had passed her bed and taken in the empty vodka bottles and other detritus and by now I could take no more.

    She had done her job. I got the picture. Her job is art, and if art’s job is to show human life as it is for so many, she has done it exceptionally well.

    She is not a comfortable subject, nor is her work.

    But bravo Tracy. You have survived, you have won through. So many do not.

  • ebook Download

    ebook Download

    A Weltanschauung

    A Weltanschauung – 291 Downloads

    The download button above enables you to download a free ebook in epub format to your own device (PC, Tablet, Mobile Phone). You will see the file’s name is A-Weltanschauung-Zeno-the-Stoic.epub and the file size is around 6 mb.

    I haven’t written a fancy introduction or included any further comment at all. Its simply an ebook version of this website for those who find, like myself, that it is a great deal easier reading an ebook than endlessly scrolling through websites.

    As I have often said before, my only real purpose in writing was originally to explain the world to my own satisfaction. My essays have become my garden. Like Candide, I have ceased to wander.

    These days I like to imagine my plea for peace and meditation may make some small mark on a troubled world.

    The front cover features a painting by Poussin – Et In Arcadia Ego. A momento mori. A suitable reflection on the transience of earthly life.

    The ebook contains every post on this website from its inception in March 2018 up to and including 3rd March 2026

    Each post has an image and the text of the post. I have not included the comments made on posts (if any) nor clutter like menus which would have greatly increased the file size and made the book far less readable.

    The total number of posts is 380.

    EPUB (short for “Electronic Publication”) is the global industry standard for digital books. Unlike a PDF, which acts like a static “digital photocopy” of a physical page, an EPUB is designed specifically for screen-based reading.

    Key Characteristics

    • Reflowable Text: The most important feature. The text automatically adjusts to fit any screen size, whether it’s a small smartphone or a large tablet. You won’t need to “pinch and zoom” to read.
    • Customizable Layout: Readers can change the font size, typeface, line spacing, and background color (e.g., switching to “Dark Mode”) to suit their preferences.
    • Open Standard: It is a non-proprietary format maintained by the W3C (World Wide Web Consortium), meaning it isn’t owned by a single company.
    • Technical Structure: Under the hood, an EPUB is essentially a “website in a box”—a ZIP archive containing HTML files for text, CSS for styling, and images.

    Compatibility

    • Supported Devices: It is the native format for almost all e-readers, including Kobo, Barnes & Noble Nook, Tolino, and PocketBook.
    • Kindle Support: While Amazon previously ignored EPUB in favor of its own formats (MOBI/AZW), modern Kindle devices now support EPUB files sent via the Send to Kindle service.
    • Apps: You can open EPUBs using free apps like Apple Books, Google Play Books, or the Libby app for library loans.

    See the following link to download the file onto your kindle:

    Send to Kindle

    It works very well. Kinde is the only ebook reader I use and I have not tested the file on other devices but it should work fine.

  • Purpose in a Meaningless Universe

    Purpose in a Meaningless Universe

    You are unlikely to find it, unless you provide it yourself.

    In the endless years I have wandered the world’s sacred places, god has always kept himself well hidden.

    It is true that I have spoken to the dead on several occasions. That I have heard voices and music in an ancient and remote former public house in Devon. And that my lifelong habit of sitting quietly in contemplation has often provided a sense of the numinous, a quiet joy.

    I have several times asked entry of the gatekeeper to a hidden kingdom. Sought to cross the boundary between the worldly and the transcendent.

    Once I saw a knight in black armour, standing proud somewhere above exquisite Gothic tracery, white stone framing the deep hues of ancient stained glass. I asked to be let in, I assumed he guarded a sacred portal, entrance to the eternal. Did he answer me? Did he use words or was I just left with a silent impression that the door would not be opened to me. Or perhaps, on the other side, there was not that which I had long sought.

    I remember speaking to some wise men once, in a waking dream, who seemed to have answers. Were they gods, I asked. It appeared not, and I stumbled on.

    The mind is a curious instrument when used properly, capable of conjuring wonders a plenty. Do such visions have their own reality, do such conversations take place anywhere other than in what we call the imagination.

    How can I tell?

    William Blake walked the streets of London talking to angels. Countless mystics, East and West, have met their numen, their desired end point. And found unshakeable certainty.

    But in our post Gallilean era, we demand such standards of proof, we labour under such a heavy evidential burden.

    If I feel anything out there, it is because I want to. I can not say with any certainty that these visions and conversations have any reality, except within the narrow confines of my own mind. Much as I would like to believe they do.

    Meaning is not given to us. We can not open our windows on a fine sunny morning in spring and expect to greet a wizard, a mage with a tall pointed hat and a long staff. Who will make it alright. Who will give us purpose where there is none.

    Gandalf would do me just fine. He is more than halfway there, with his magic, his wisdom. His triumph over the black curse of Saruman and his evil master.

    Even a real elf would be welcome. Or a hobbit come to that. And Reepicheep of course – what would I not give for a conversation with that mighty mouse.

    These days we have serious grey men in white coats who tell us they have seen black holes at the centre of the universe. In the old days we had men in long black clerical garb warning us of Satan and his henchman Beelzebub. But these fictions are mere weaklings when put side by side with monsters light years across, gobbling up all and sundry and never letting it out again. Once upon a time Cerberus guarded the gates of Hades, letting no one out, but these days hell is guarded by an Event Horizon. Just as fierce and, we are told, horribly effective. Quite a lot better than a dog with several heads.

    Today’s guardians of rectitude tell us tales of black energy and dark matter. Which apparently are to be found everywhere but can’t be seen.

    A bit like god then.

    And today’s high priests tell us we do not exist at all. That we are figments of our own non existent imagination with no free will, unable to do or feel anything other than that for which we were programmed at the very dawn of time. No power of governance over our own desires or actions , no thoughts we can call our own.

    Modern man has replaced Satan and his fiery domain by something just as vile.

    At least the old priests had a carrot as well as a stick. If we behaved ourselves we would find our reward in a vividly coloured candy world called the after life. God may make life hell on earth (for reasons only apparent to those deeply familiar with His ways) but if we tell him he’s the tops and ignore all the competition, we will get loads of virgins and lots else later on.

    Today’s Priests of Scientism can only come up with a stick. No carrots at all, let alone heavenly virgins. That’s not a great deal of fun – put up with ethnic cleansers, earthquakes, and Donald Trump and then you die.

    Is it any surprise then that those of a more discerning nature refuse to bow down to any priest, whatever the colour of his robes or the object of his devotion. Neither priest, old or new, seem to have much on offer in the here and now. And as to later, well, a bird in hand as they say is better than one in the bush. And a lot more nourishing.

    So close your ears and your eyes. Shut out the priests, along with social media and the newspaper.

    But what of Gaza, I hear you say. Or the Ukraine. How can we allow such slaughter, how can we ignore it. Well yes, quite. The old school gods delighted in bloodshed and it was all for our own good. The gods of science say none of it means anything anyway and evolution has made all of us savages to ensure our survival.

    Who and what are you to believe. All of it, none of it. Who cares. Had I Gandalf’s magic staff I would wave it and peace and plenty and prosperity would be for ever and ever.

    Sadly, I seem to have misplaced it.

    And so, in a meaningless universe, where must I seek meaning. Where am I most likely to find purpose, peace and content.

    In my own thoughts and my own actions. Within.

    If there is no absolute right and wrong, no good, no bad, then I will make my own.

    A lifetime of wandering thought has taught me that if I want to find peace, I must live peace within and without. Do unto others. I’m really trying these days, although I think I’m very probably the only beneficiary of my efforts. Since I don’t go out much.

    On the rare occasions that I venture out of my front door, I am making a big effort and that certainly makes me feel a whole lot better inside.

    I can not tell you what the universe is made of. Or when or by whom or what.

    I can not tell you whether Yahweh or Vishnu, Mara or Satan are out there somewhere. Or Odin, Zeus or the Jainist Jinas.

    But I can tell you that quiet contemplation makes me realise I do not need to know. That I do not really care that much. That all I need to do to obtain peace is to let go.

    To abandon pretense and vanity, to be decent to others if I can. To remain good tempered, good natured if I can mange it. To cause no harm and to bring joy and comfort where I am able.

    No wonder Buddhism has always attracted me.

  • Credo

    Credo

    Too often have I pronounced upon that in which I do not believe.

    Better by far to renounce negativity and to declare instead that in which I do believe.

    I was told over the weekend that I am a believer by someone who has been kind enough to read much of what I have written over the past few years and who knows that I have often struggled with impenetrable blackness.

    We were talking more probably of belief in meditation, rather than faith in general. And yet for me meditation is an inextricable part of the route towards meaning. It always has been but of late I have been more diligent in my practice.

    I have been puzzled by the trend towards Mc Mindfulness in our secular age. It may “work” for some, yet I find its emptiness an arid detraction from what for me is without doubt a search of more serious intent.

    The truth is that I have always been a mystic. Somebody in search of the face of god, reality or meaning. I have never been one to follow anybody’s path but my own, and most of those with more conventional faith may well question my beliefs and practices. And yet if they read me correctly, they will see that our paths are not so different. Nor our core credence. In uno deum may not be for me, but for those who really look, the paths of mystics east and west are identical, as are their objects and goals.

    And so, Credo. But in what?

    Well firstly I have come to believe in the efficacy of meditation to heal both body and mind.

    My long time guru John Butler uses such techniques on his own behalf and that of clients to undergo surgical operations without the use of anesthetics. He expresses a conviction that the mind governs the body in a far more powerful fashion than most believe. And hence can procure much of what is needed in a physiological and indeed spiritual sense to secure and comfort both mind and body.

    I have never seen meditation as a mere tool for medical use, but rather as a guiding light to navigate through doubt and darkness and to arrive at a state of gnosis.

    How grand this sounds (pompous perhaps) but as always I use language in a poetic and metaphorical sense to convey my meaning. Perhaps because a bald and more prosaic description can not get across the strength of my feelings or indeed what it is that I do feel, that I do believe. Language can be a poor tool to describe the indescribable but try one must – it is the tool we have at our disposal to convey inner thoughts and meanings which are not readily susceptible to an exactitude of words.

    I know that there will be some who read this post and will strongly disagree with most of what I believe, but to such people I would say these are my beliefs and they can not in any sense be said therefore to be wrong. For me, for my own subjective reality. Yes, you may not share them or indeed like them. Your reality may take on a different hue to mine or you may be a materialist who denies any possibility at all of a god or of meaning or purpose in this universe.

    I can respect all such views, honestly held. And would expect therefor that people should respect mine. I have no desire to argue. Equally I have no desire whatsoever to persuade or convert or proselytize.

    I believe that god is within. Or, if you so choose, reality, Brahmin, nirvana, call it what you will. I believe with utmost conviction that those who seek quietly within themselves, whatever their race, colour or creed, come to a somewhat similar conclusion. Or at least such people would not take objection to my own feelings on the matter.

    I do not need to read or consult books of learning or faith. Time spent in quiet repose gives me such answers as I need. Other of course will have different needs, other requirements. They will have strong conviction in revelation, in an external force who gives tablets of stone or dictates books of law to his prophets and disciples. But at heart they are unlikely to come up with answers so very different to my own.

    What is it that I discover within? Above all that there is meaning, a goal and that we should head towards it.

    De Chardin’s Omega Point. Frank Tipler’s if you prefer a less ornate version.

    And that despite the views of the materialists, there is right and wrong – at least so far as sentient beings are concerned. We think, we feel, we are. Consciousness has emerged (never mind where from) and it is a nonsense to deny its reality. Whatever it may turn out to be.

    So there you have it. I believe. I may struggle to live up to my beliefs (are there any who do not?). I may not serve the poor or give comfort to the oppressed, but I stand in admiration and support of those who do. I believe that I know the difference between right and wrong and as far as I am able I will try to head towards the former and away from the latter.

    Credo.

    I believe there is meaning.

  • Vanity Fair

    Vanity Fair

    Who treads the path and why. And those who do not, those who prefer Vanity Fair, what is their fate.

    Is there meaning at all in the universe, right or wrong, up or down. None, says the physicist. All is an illusion, even consciousness itself. No free will, all choice mere fanciful thinking along a harsh and desolate path of deterministic rigour, our route set as firmly as a locomotive on rails of steel.

    No choice is truly made, no change possible say those brilliant minds which describe and measure the physical universe. And yet such minds can tell us nothing of intrinsic meaning. Assuming that any such concept can be said to exist.

    Is he wrongheaded then, our pilgrim. No heaven no hell. The path mere conceit, leading nowhere. Was John Bunyan’s hero on a road to nowhere, or can the seeker find peace and meaning.

    The world over, seekers follow the same path. Whatever their race or culture, the means are similar and the end identical. Called by different names, the discerning traveler shuns the narrow dogma of priest and the guardian of orthodoxy, and seeks out nirvana, peace, god through a life which becomes ever more silent. Contemplation tells them that the physicist is wrong.

    It is clear to such people that consciousness does exist. If that phenomena is merely subjective, in objective terms most would agree that this ghost, this ephemeral and fleeting flicker, is at least a shared illusion and therefore undeniable whatever its “reality” or otherwise.

    There comes a time when our traveler has read enough, having listened diligently to the conflicting noise of the opinionated and self anointed. He has studied at worthy and ancient universities. He is no stranger to Wittgenstein and Erasmus, Confucius and Lao Tzu once influenced his thinking.

    Or there again, the traveler may be a man of no education, unlearn-ed even. No one is disqualified from the search for meaning.

    But all eventually find that the path leads inward and that Vanity Fair offers no lasting reward. And certainly no peace.

    Such men will not care whether good and evil can be said to exist objectively. It exists for them and that is enough. The great men of learning who deny meaning can be safely be ignored. For those who seek, a god will be found to exist – even the atheist will find something wondrous and immaterial to believe in.

    As to himself, he neither worshipped a god nor washed the feet of the poor. He sought sanctity in no one’s eyes, least of all his own.

    He supposed, if and when he thought of the matter, that the external world was beyond the pale, let alone a god who encouraged Jew and Arab to slaughter each other’s babies and invented evolution. Or didn’t.

    The world never changed, nothing new under the sun and probably never would be. So forget worship – if a creator did exist he was either a very poor programmer or a vicious sadist. Perhaps both.

    But callous our pilgrim was not, nonetheless. If there was sanctity it was to be sought in right thinking and the eradication of suffering. It’s just that he was not up to the job of bringing about the latter.

    And so his own path was to mind his own business and try at least to do no harm. For he knew he could do no good.

    And so his path led inwards into silence and meditation.

    It seemed to him highly probable that merchant moguls, kings, emperors and politicians were, for the most part, unlikely to be skilled in such arts. Those who “do” in the world, especially those who “do down” don’t spend much time in self reflection or questioning.

    If they did, he suspected the world might be an altogether better place but on the whole he remained convinced the world would go to hell in a handcart and he determined no to go with it.

    There is a reality to meditation and meditation leads to reality. Or to put it another way, we humans do not as a species see the error of our ways and fail to see the futility of our customary pursuits. Nor do we understand that less is often more.

    Meditation has a curious effect, practiced daily and diligently. It sorts the world out, it sifts the chaff from the wheat. It cures the soul and in and of itself seems to lead to right thinking and an appreciation that reality is not as simple as it seems.

    And so for some, it becomes pointless to think more, to read more, to listen more. Shut out the Tower of Babel, switch off the talking heads. Think right thoughts, even if you do not have the inclination or aptitude to pursue right deeds.

    And it reaches the point where you look at the collective madness of our species and simply resign.

    If that sounds selfish it is certainly better than succumbing to the insanity of killing babies, screwing the poor, or entering politics.

  • The Door

    The Door

    Talk continued in the Chapter House, as rosy fingered dawn peered in through the leaded windows surrounding those at the conference table.

    “We will help” said Eustace. “So we will” said Polly, although neither had any real vision as to what their adventures would encompass, or how they could help where these all powerful creatures had so far failed.

    “Thank you” said Rosalie and Aliénor in unison. “We must set off immediately” said Aliénor, the younger of the two sisters, although the Mage had by now laid out a generous breakfast after a long night of talking, and no-one really intended to move while such splendor filled the tables. Almond croissant, pain raisin abounded and finely chased silver coffee pots gave off the most delicious aroma. Hot chocolate was offered too, in steaming earthenware jugs and every variety of fruit juice was to be found in crystal flasks. Muesli and thick creamy yoghurt, honey and jam, toast and marmalade and a host of other delicacies were placed before the guests, and conversation took a more jovial turn after the long council of war which had lasted the whole night.

    It was generally agreed that the trouble in the Northern Lands seemed to emanate from the Great Wall of Time, built forgotten eons ago some distance north of Dunholm, to keep out some long forgotten evil. And yet the Wall still served a purpose and somehow evil had not until very recently plagued the realm again.

    Details of the Wall’s construction were long lost and yet it had possessed the power to stabilize the whole country, even if it no longer formed a strictly physical barrier between the cold and mysterious north and the warmer climes of the south.

    It held (or had held) some deep magic and while it had stood intact for all those thousands of years, peace had held. But lately the Wall had started to crumble, to disintegrate from within. Whatever cunning magic had woven its structure, its power was failing and dark things were seen to cross the land once again.

    Ogres, trolls and goblins were seen on the wild moorlands of the far north and wolves once again plagued farms and villages, taking livestock and occasionally children to devour at leisure.

    Tall Riders in Black had been seen, men of menace and mystery seated on mighty amour clad horses and shrouded in deeply hooded cloaks. Had they a leader these men, and what did they plan, where had they come from? They stormed the land sewing dissension amongst the kingdoms, stirring intrigue and jealousy, setting king against king, son against father, mother against daughter. A madness had gripped the towns and villages and where peace and trust had once prevailed, bitter quarrels now grew for no apparent reason. Power and greed seemed to grip the realm. Where once the watchword had been co-operation for the common good, the norm had now become competition – ruthless at that.

    Pitched battles were fought (such as the one Polly and Eustace witnessed courtesy of the Book of Ways). Sword and mace had replaced hoe and plough in the Northern Lands and Polly and Eustace had bravely offered to find out why.

    Rosalie and Aliénor made good hosts and passed round cakes and good things, pouring fragrant coffee and cream topped chocolate as they mingled with the gathering. They were famed at home for their cuisine and keen both on making and eating fine pastries, all the time remaining wafer thin. They ran a café and bookshop down an ancient cobbled alley in Dunhelm – called, appropriately enough, “Books and Cakes”. Both held tenured positions at the ancient University of Dunhelm. Rosalie as a lecturer and deeply respected expert on ancient Norse language, literature and religion. Aliénor headed the faculties of magic and metaphysical philosophy.

    The Mage was very jolly now and chatted amiably to each and every one of the assembly in turn. He rather reminded Polly of Father Christmas in his glorious green robes and fur trimmed hood. Perhaps he was.

    “You have taken on a mighty task and your valor will long be spoken of! Troubadours will sing of your bravery, lutists will pick sad minor chords mirroring the darkness you encounter. Beautiful cadences and triumphant notes will hail your great victories. Your generosity will never be forgotten” boomed the Mage between mouthfuls of sugar-iced current bun and slurps of frothy chocolate.

    “This is as much about you as about evil and magic in distant lands. It is a test, if you like, certainly of your resolve. What do you believe in, what do you care about? How should we behave towards each other, how should we lead our lives? My belief is that there is some deeper magic hidden somewhere, that even I have not yet discovered. Perhaps you will find it where I have so far looked in vain. All “makes sense”, of that I am sure. There is purpose and meaning in life, and goodness and decency are at the heart of all. You will return much changed and may even awaken to some ultimate reality.”

    “I hope we won’t disappoint you” said Eustace. “Somehow, I think I was waiting. Your call was not so unexpected. Difficult to explain really, I can’t put my feelings properly into words”.

    “Yes, I too felt an inkling of something strange these past few months ” added Polly. “Both of us smelled change and adventure in the air. I need to know, I can only put it that way. I seek and I have always sought. Why – I want to know why. And how and where and when and all manner of other questions, hidden from we mortals since the beginning of time.”

    “I understand your intuition well” returned the Mage “and that is why you were chosen, both of you. You have good in your hearts and a deep thirst to know. You will learn, you will grow, you will flourish even if at the end, this task remains beyond you. Even should you perish in the attempt, good will come from your bravery and resolve. For there is no true death in the Many Worlds, your spirits, your essence will be honed and tuned, hammered and tempered, refined and renewed. But above all it will survive. Listen to the wind, to the silence for clues. Hear the speech of the raging seas, the call of the birds, the whispering of the animals, talking and otherwise. Clues will abound, some hidden in plain sight, some dressed in more serpentine garb.

    You will find help along the way, wise guides to offer sustenance and succor, comfort during the hard times you will face. Listen for the voice of the universe, hear the quiet from the very center of all. It is there, somewhere, that I feel in my very bones. Who knows, it may find you or you it.

    Imagine! The two of you taken from your quiet village in rural England to heal a foreign world and to find all manner of wonders as you journey. The meaning of all perhaps, the philosopher’s stone, the very center of existence which thus far has eluded even we Elders.”

    “Enough Mage!” exclaimed Rosalie “Stop frightening them! Aliénor and I will do all we can to help. Polly and Eustace should meet us at “Cakes and Books” and we will make a concrete plan for their trip to the Wall. That is where they should start out from.”

    “How do we get there Rosalie?” asked Polly. “Oh, its simple enough” Aliénor offered. “Open any door you see around you in the wall of the Chancel and step through it with the firm intention of ending up in Dunholm. That usually does it, although I have occasionally been a little absent minded and ended up in some quite different world and had a devil of a job trying to find my way back. But you should be fine if you concentrate – picture us in your head as you step through the door. Imagine a quaint little city on a rocky hill in a cold northern land, surrounded by a dark and swiftly flowing river. Hold in your mind our warm little café in its cobbled alley, see the brightly colored sign swing above the door in the howling wind – “Books and Cakes” its says, quite unmistakable. That should get you there. I’m afraid we can’t travel together through a door, it doesn’t really work that way and heaven knows what would happen if we tried.”

    “Oh, well we do know what would happen Aliénor , because last time we tried to lead a tour group back for a lecture series in Dunhelm, we shepherded all of them through the same door together. If you remember, half of them ended up in an unnamed desert world on the far side of an undiscovered galaxy in some bizarrely parallel universe. Even the Mage had trouble helping us to find them and get them safely to “Cakes and Books” where their afternoon tea grew cold.”

    “Ah! Sister, I had forgotten that little mishap” said Rosalie. “It’s safe enough for the two of you to enter the same door but a crowd and all their conflicting thoughts seems to confuse the system, so Aliénor and I will be cautious and travel separately. Safe passage for two is offered but any more seems to cause a bit of a problem, so best not put it to the test.”

    Aliénor and Rosalie said their goodbyes to the assembly of elders with many hugs and kisses and pocketed a few almond croissant for their tea back in Dunhelm. Just in case the Café had run out or the girls who helped them run it had closed up early for the day. They held hands with Polly and Eustace fondly for a few moments and expressed their gratitude for what the two of them had agreed to take on.

    “Fare well, Gothic Elves” said the Mage as he lead them over to one of the Chapter House doors. Flavio gave the sisters a hug and a fond farewell as did Pluribus and a host of other elders. A winged horse, a centaur, and a large hedgehog came to add their goodbyes, along with a couple of owls which looked just as wise as owls are supposed to. “Good luck sisters” they cried, or hooted. “Be sure to return in time for the Midsummer’s Night Feast!”

    And with that, the twinkling Gothic Elves darted through the open the door the Mage had escorted them to, and disappeared into swirling snow. Dunhelm Cathedral was just visible through the murk (gently lit by gas street lanterns) and The Mage closed the door hastily to shut out the cold and damp that was such a feature of that little northern city.

    “Your turn my children” said the Mage in a kindly voice as he pointed them in the direction of a door in the Chapter House wall. “Any door will do. So long as you set your intentions on where you want to go, the portal will do the rest. Return soon but call me if you have need. The sisters will look after you well, but you have only to turn your mind to me in dark times and I too will come to your side.”

    Polly and Eustace bade an emotional adieu to the Mage and their newfound friends among the elders. Pluribus and Flavio stood by and smiled in encouragement, honored by the bravery and resolve of this young couple with so little knowledge of the real world.

    “You too must return for the feast on Midsummer’s Night. As our honored guests” said Flavio. “If you are not here, we will take it as an ill omen and send out such help as we are able to muster to secure your rescue. Not, I am sure, that you will need it. But know that we are all here for you should the necessity arise.”

    And with that, Polly and Eustace held hands and disappeared through the door held open for them by the Mage. To say that they were nervous would be something of an understatement, but as they stepped through the strange portal, they tried to keep an image of ancient Dunhelm in their minds. And they imagined the warm interior of the sisters’ café which awaited them on their arrival.

    That all was not going entirely to plan was obvious to the Mage as he peered through the door after the couple, before quietly closing it at their backs. He had expected to see the familiar Cathedral in all its winter gloom, but was surprised instead to see a tunnel of bright light which disappeared into an infinite distance. At this stage the Mage was not too concerned. Such errors happened from time to time and the odd glitch in their esoteric mode of transport between the worlds usually bode no ill. Often as not the door would sort out the mess before the travelers were even aware of it and managed somehow (usually!) to deposit them at their intended destination. Anyhow, the tunnel of light looked far from ominous and the Mage would soon enough call the Elves and check on their guests’ safe arrival.

    Polly and Eustace felt no discomfort or fear but were nonetheless surprised to find themselves floating in light, with no solid ground beneath their feet.

    Neither had any sense of “self” or place or time. They knew that they “were” but they did not know what they were. They were conscious but absorbed in a whole, not separate individuals anymore. They were neither Polly, nor Eustace, nor apparently part of any physical universe.

    The sensation was wonderful. Freedom, complete freedom and an overwhelming sense of peace and understanding. They knew that they were “home” even if they knew not where that might be.

    By and by, after what seemed like an eternity, a voice spoke. Gently. Male, mature, magnificent but at the same time kind and comforting. It seemed to come from all around in the kaleidoscope of warm light in which they were bathed. No up, no down. No left nor right. Just isness, being.

    “I am Omega”, said the voice “I have been expecting you. I waylaid you at the Chapter House Door. And here you are, at the center of eternity, the end point of all. You must be confused but do not be afraid. You are out of the physical realm here, all is pure thought. Think and it shall come into being. Put yourselves into some setting you are more comfortable with and you will slowly come back into yourselves”.

    “An island” muttered Polly dreamily, ” A beautiful island in an emerald sea with the most wonderful country house and gardens at its center. And hedges and topiary and gardeners and mowed lawns. And butlers and chauffeurs and all manner of old fashioned staff, smiling and kindly just like my old childhood nanny.”

    “And a white painted wrought iron table with lemonade” muttered Eustace groggily “by a white canvas pavilion, on a sloping lawn just in front of the house. Leading down to a sandy beach. A Tudor house, big and irregular of mellow red brick. And a maze, a big beautiful maze. A glorious warm day full of sunshine and birds and small puffy clouds. And rabbits everywhere nibbling at the grass.”

    Pop. Both felt a gentle movement and then there they were in just such a place as they had imagined, sitting in warm spring sunshine by a tent at a table with a jug of fresh lemonade and three cut glasses. And cucumber sandwiches. And buttered scones and cream and jam. Looking out over the most wonderful country house either of them had ever seen.

    There was a gentle whirring and the two saw an old gardener pushing a mower over the lawns, who waved in greeting. Assistants in traditional overalls and dungarees were calmly snipping at the hedges with old fashioned hand sheers and others gently hoed weeds from the flower beds, or picked roses and wild flowers and laid them in wicker baskets to take indoors to decorate the tables. An open Bentley from the 1930s stood on the graveled drive of the lovely old house, polished by a young man in racing goggles. A smart gentleman in striped trousers and a morning coat waited at the front door with a welcoming smile.

    Another gentle popping sound. Omega appeared alongside the young couple and sat down at the table. He sipped at a glass of lemonade and smiled. “Sorry to startle you but I wanted to have a little talk before you go on your adventure” he said.

    The previously disembodied voice of Omega now had physical form and the young couple were delighted to see that he had taken the guise of an elderly professor with gold rimmed spectacles, neatly cut thinning white hair and a shabby old tweed jacket. Complemented by a frayed pair of golden corduroy trousers.

    Omega smiled in his kindly way. He was so like the Mage the two could almost believe they were back in that clearing in the woods, with the old church and the Chapter House.

    “You see, there’s a bit more about all this you need to know” he started, smiling brightly and raising his glass to his lips. “We all end up here eventually but it can be a bit of a long haul for some of us. I’m sorry to say the physical universe was a bit of a mistake – it all just happened, leaked out. You know, big bangs and expansions and black holes and all that sort of stuff. Someone at this end got a bit over imaginative in his thinking and physics just popped up. Moof! Its all been a bit of a nuisance to be honest.”

    “So who are you?” And how did you get here?” perked up Polly “If you don’t think I sound too rude in asking.”

    “Oh, not at all, not at all” said the old professor. “In a sense we are all one, you, me, the evil at the center of the Northern Lands. We are all spirits, mind, consciousness if you will. All together, unified and yet separate. Its evolution really – but of the non physical kind. The material universe split off by accident and some minds got trapped over there and then it all started going wrong I’m afraid. They forgot where they came from eventually and got swallowed up in all the physical worlds seem to offer. Gradually they forgot this place and me and all the countless billions who live here in an eternity of peace and harmony.”

    “They lost their minds and were re-born in primeval slime on countless worlds and planets throughout a whole host of multiverses. And then material evolution took over – endless branching and weaving and sewing and sticking and gluing. Gradually consciousness started to re-emerge, but sadly by then most had forgotten their peaceful origins or where they had come from. They didn’t need to strive and struggle and fight and kill but by that time they had grown all sorts of nasty stuff like teeth and claws and digestive systems. Some grew into wise old oak trees of course and some into flowers and shrubs and all sorts of flora. Those were the nice guys. The animal kingdom was a different kettle of fish. So to speak!

    It was the Garden of Eden to begin with but sadly only a few ever saw that. A few wise men and women woke to their true natures and tried to warn the rest of the exiles. A young carpenter on one rocky little planet started preaching decency and kindness and talked of a better place. The ruling evil empire strung him up and killed him in the brutal fashion of the times. Nice young fellow – and he ended up back here of course where he belongs. So no real harm done. Trouble is, his followers made a right mess of it. Took a simple story of a good man’s awakening to the true reality of his roots, and cluttered it with all sorts of mumbo jumbo, tomfoolery and funny outfits. Then the evil empires got hold of the story and we were back to the usual savagery – wars, conflict, torture and money. People selling (fake) shavings of the tree the young man was strung up on, flogging bits of old bone they claimed were his earthly remains and so on. He was most upset but of course nothing he could do about it once he was back here.

    Oh and lots of other good people woke to the truth down there but none of it did a great deal of good. One nice old fellow with a bald head in a loincloth sat under a tree until the penny dropped and eventually of course he found himself back here where he belonged. His lot were rather better behaved after he went but sadly they never got far either – same old stuff went on and on. People killing for greed, unable to see there was plenty for all if only they could share. Sigh.

    Anyway, The Mage and his lot are truly good people doing an excellent job. They are a mere hair’s breadth from finding their way back here. I must go and visit them shortly to give them a few pointers.”

    “So how do we fit into all this?” said Eustace “and what is required of us?”

    “Yes, how can we help” said Polly, looking a little puzzled in the face of the all powerful Omega.

    “Well it’s like this really” said Omega thoughtfully, “it has to come from them, or they will never “wake”. The lost souls in the physical worlds. Never find their way back to peace and plenty. Harmony and the eternal. Go and find the source of evil in the Northern lands and reason with him or it, or her or them. Get them to see how foolish and unpleasant it is to stir up war and pit kin against kin. You’ll have to force their hand of course and that’s part of the reason I brought you here. Physical things really do count back down there – everything in the Northern Lands was nicely held in place by a crystal brick at the center of the Great Wall of Time but its gone missing. I won’t bore you with the technical details but it sort of held things in check down there. Held back some of the nastier impulses of the local thugs and made life a bit more tolerable for the locals. The sort of thing that’s very helpful in curbing the worst excesses of evolutionary bestiality. Anyway it emitted beneficial fields and held the balance nicely for a few hundreds of thousands of years. If you can find it and put it back into place, the locals can get on with their lives again, and hopefully some will even wake and find their way home. Eventually.”

    “Enough business!” said Omega, “Come and walk with me a while. See a bit of the place you have created while you are here.” And with that they headed down to the golden sands of a long, long beach and strolled along calling out to the birds and playing ducks and drakes with rounded flat stones.

    They waved a merry greeting to a dryad or two (or that’s how they cared to clothe themselves) and a strange gentleman in the garb of a sea god. The inspiration for the earthly Neptune perhaps. Jolly and pleasant people and all chatted in a kindly and interested fashion to their amazed and stunned visitors.

    Eustace began to feel a little troubled suddenly. He felt small and vulnerable in the face of the enormous task he had been entrusted with and his fear began to show. Imperceptibly the wind began to rise and clouds darkened and covered the clear blue sky as they walked. Suddenly, the waves rose alarmingly and to his horror, Eustace saw a tall black wall of water a mile or so offshore, moving towards them at an ever increasing pace, with wild foam blown by the now howling gale. The wave looked to be several hundred feet high and birds wildly scattered down its menacing curve and huge sea creatures were bourn before it, tossed helplessly by its enormous power . Eustace felt the ground quake beneath his feet and heard a terrible roar as the wall of death approached the pretty little island, which would surely be swamped and destroyed. He shouted at the others and ran as fast as he was able up the sandy shore and back towards the house which stood at a somewhat greater height above sea level. 100 feet perhaps, but little enough protection against the terrifying tsunami approaching.

    Strangely, the others took no notice but continued along the beach, laughing and chatting as if nothing was wrong with the world and the sun still shone. They didn’t seem to have seen the approaching danger, hadn’t noticed the abrupt change in the weather.

    The truth was that Polly felt no fear and so projected none around her. As Eustace ran she turned and called him but his panic was too great for him to hear. She turned to Omega and saw the old professor was unabashed and still had a beatific smile on his face.

    “The mind” he said. “All here is mind, made by mind and unmade by mind. There is no fear once you get used to it but you have to learn to curb your imagination a bit or you might get carried away by your own dreams and that wouldn’t do at all, now would it.”

    He appeared at Eustace’s side and gently touched his arm, speaking soft and comforting words. The terror on Eustace’s face slowly faded and the tsunami faded with it. The sun reappeared and the birds tweeted. Calm was restored to the little island and the beautiful old house stood firm. Eustace felt a little abashed at the fuss he had caused but the old professor just nodded gently.

    “Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it? Dream it up and there it is. But it is a dream, a fantasy if you like. You can create a beautiful island in an emerald sea and then again a terrible storm and fearsome creatures. But the fear goes and so do the monsters. All here is safety and goodness and the phantom storm would have done you no real harm – it would have passed over like the dream it was. Back to the house for rest and dinner I think, for tomorrow you must resume your journey and rejoin the Gothic Elves at their little café in Dunhelm. People to meet and quests to embark on!”

    With that the little group found themselves back at the front door of the beautiful old house and the butler was handing out thick towels and robes and sweetly scented bath soaps. It may have been in the mind but it was very welcome for all that. Especially for Edmund who really had suffered a terrible shock.

    Baths were drawn and had, a little nap was taken and then a splendid dinner was laid on in the lovely old library. A fine suit of amour stood in one corner and every wall was covered in rare leather bound books, telling tales of derring do in the many world. And spell books, they were everywhere, although they were not called such in this august context. Suggestion books perhaps, recipes to conjure up what you desired and what would give this unworldly realm ever more beauty and joy.

    Polly and Eustace laughed and joked and feasted with the professor and his guests. The young carpenter was there, and a very merry soul he was. The beastliness of a couple of millennia ago was quite forgotten and he and Omega wondered whether a rematch was due – a second chance to see the warring tribes of earth kiss and make up. Hmm, a little too soon perhaps. Not enough lessons had been learnt from the last visit, which had turned out to be largely a waste of time.

    “Never mind” said the young man, “they will learn. Evolution will slowly have its way.” The elderly gentleman in a loin cloth to the right of Eustace agreed. “All in good time” he said “and others seem to be slowly leading the way down there”.

    And so to bed, after a day of wonder and excitement. A day of revelation and awakening for this innocent young couple from a sleepy village somewhere in rural England.

    Polly and Eustace walked sleepily up the grand staircase and found their way to a luxurious bedroom with rich drapes at the windows and a huge and comfortable four poster bed.

    “It can’t ever have been this comfortable in Elizabethan England” Polly giggled and turned over sleepily while Eustace switched out the light on a long and eventful day.

  • The Chapter House

    The Chapter House

    Some weeks after their adventures with the Book of Ways, Polly and Eustace sat enjoying a breakfast of boiled eggs and generously buttered toast in their little sitting room, which looked out over the front garden and down the lane to the stream. An insistent tapping began somewhere in the garden, which at first they put down to a woodpecker, although the noise was a little louder than even the heartiest of the local birds normally produced.

    Winter had set in and outside the day was overcast, with light drizzle. The temperature had dropped and so had most of the leaves but it was a season which nonetheless had its own pleasures. Kicking through the now composting leaves along the woodland paths, putting on warm jerseys and carrying homemade soup in their rucksacks for picnics along the way. And large cups of hot chocolate by a crackling open fire in their little sitting home when they returned. Red faced and well exercised, they would settle down for an evening of reading, or even just quiet contemplation, staring into the hypnotic flames in the grate.

    The cottage had a newly thatched roof, set to last some 30 years, and three small but comfortable bedrooms upstairs. A tiny water closet housed a deep hip bath, which added to the eccentric charm of the place. Their home was everything this contented couple could wish for – not so big that it was a struggle to maintain, nor so small that it was uncomfortable to live in. Life was untroubled: a small but successful business which combined skilled craftsmanship with intellectual satisfaction, beautiful if sometimes mysterious countryside, and few cares to disturb their peace of mind.

    There was no big town near by, no busy road. No light pollution to blot out the dance of the stars overhead or the magnificent wash of light from the Milky Way. The village seemed set in a lost world of idyllic bliss, an Arcadia, an Eden almost. “Et in Arcadia ego” it was said, and some held that there was a serpent in every Eden. And yet recently Eustace had begun to wonder whether death itself was a myth, and evil an option rather than a mandatory requirement of life on earth. He had been much affected by his recent adventures and both he and Polly began to realize that reality was altogether stranger and perhaps more benevolent than either of them had ever imagined.

    The determined tapping continued, now on the diamond paned leaded glass of the sitting room window. Opening the front door onto the garden, Eustace was surprised to see that a large snowy egret was the culprit. Perhaps the very same bird from that green hill in an enchanted valley which now seemed but a distant memory. Its long brown conical beak was still tapping at the window. When it saw Eustace had at last answered its call, it fluttered over to the front door.

    “About time, if I may say so” said the bird, flapping its large yellow-green feet on the front path and shaking the beaded rain from its elegant, snow white wings. “I am Pluribus and I have travelled long and far. I would greatly appreciate a moment or two of your time by a warm fire with a bowl of hot milk.”

    Pluribus settled himself happily down on the floor, close enough to the fireplace to warm its chilled body but not so close as to endanger its beautiful white plumage. When he had finished lapping the warm milk, he pecked contentedly on an oatcake Polly had found him in the kitchen, and no longer seemed in such a hurry. Perhaps after all, he had just been impatient to come in from the cold.

    Eustace and Polly sat patiently and eventually Pluribus sighed contentedly, and raised his head towards the couple. “We saw you at the gates at the top of the green hill” said Polly, “but we were whisked away before we had a chance to come and say hello”. “Ah, well then, Mages and their toys work in mysterious ways. Perhaps the Book had shown you enough for one day, or perhaps it thought you were late for choir practice. But it’s time we talked. I bring you a message and come with a request. You are both summoned, if you will, to the Council of Elders at the Chapter House. In the far corner of reality I come from, it’s a sort of parliament. A meeting place where we guardians of the timeless dimensions chew the fat and wonder how we can best encourage those still wandering the lower paths.”

    “I’m not at all sure I understand” admitted Eustace. “We live a quiet life here in our own little world and I can’t imagine how we could help out in matters so far beyond our limited experience”.

    “It’s like this” said Pluribus. “We guardians like to prompt and guide, to suggest. To use force can only ever be a last resort, and sometimes we need a little help from you mortals, if I can put it that way.”

    Polly and Eustace looked none the wiser. “Where or what or who are you all? ” asked Polly, “The Mage, the book, the Green Hill. It all seems so mysterious. One moment we are living our quiet lives here in our hidden valley, and the next we are whisked away to see lands and people and things we never dreamt existed.”

    “Now you are asking!” said Pluribus “What questions you have and all the right ones, if I may say so. But others at the Council may give you the answers you seek. Now we must hurry – it doesn’t do to keep The Mage waiting and the Council is assembling as we speak. I suggest you go and pack your things, you never know how long one of these adventures is going to last or quite where it might lead. Take the largest back packs you have and fill them with your warmest clothes. A toothbrush and a sleeping bag wouldn’t go amiss either. And put on stout hiking boots and your thickest woolen socks. Some food would be a good idea too – you never quite know where your next meal is coming from on these quests.”

    None the wiser as to what was afoot, Polly and Eustace did as Pluribus had suggested. Locking the cottage door behind them, all three set off up the hill and into the woods. The little village lay below them and Eustace glanced round and sighed at the comforting sight of their little cottage, set amidst the familiar surroundings they both so loved. The stream meandering along the bottom of the valley, the church with its tall tower and gently swinging weather vane, the villagers beginning to go about their day this cold and overcast winter’s morning. Both he and Polly were at the same time apprehensive at this disruption to their comfortable lives and yet intrigued by the puzzles and enigmas of a world so much wider and stranger than it had seemed a few short weeks ago. Soon enough they were in unfamiliar territory. Gone were the paths and woodland clearings they had so often wandered, as Pluribus led the way deeper and deeper into an altogether stranger forest.

    The big white bird hopped along, confident of his path, helped along his way by the occasional flapping of his wings. Sometimes he stretched his wings and soared upwards above the forest canopy. As they looked up, Eustace and Polly saw a sky that was now clear and blue and noticed that the season seemed a little kinder than the winter gloom they had started out in.

    By and by they came to the seemingly ecclesiastical building in its wide clearing in the woods, familiar to Eustace from his last visit. The Chapter House was to be found on its far side, a fine octagonal structure supported by flying buttresses. Of honey hued stone, each side (other than that connected by cloister to the church) had two tall arched windows between each of the buttresses, paned in brightly coloured glass and the conical roof looked to be made of weathered green copper. Between the arched windows on each side, a door was to be found. Stout structures of heavy oak, studded with iron bolts and a large circular handle. No locks, oddly enough, so apparently open to any who sought entrance.

    “Can’t get in through those outer doors” said Pluribus. “Or rather we would be unwise to try – no idea where we would end up, but we would be very unlikely to find ourselves inside the Chapter House.”

    Leaving any further explanations aside, Pluribus lead them to the great oak door of the church itself, and thereafter through to the cloisters leading on to the Chapter House.

    A single richly carved central stone pillar reached to the magnificent vaulted ceiling within the chapter house itself. A vast octagonal table took up much of the flagstone floor and surrounded the central pillar. On richly upholstered carver chairs surrounding the table, the Council members were in full debate as Pluribus and the two guests arrived. Eustace and Polly were placed on chairs either side of the Mage’s throne, and Pluribus perched awkwardly on a cushion on his own chair. It seemed the Snow Egret was a member of this august body but he looked by no means out of place since the Council was no mere human gathering. Flavio was there, his lute placed on the table in front of him, as were many of those Eustace had met on his evening of Sylvan feasting.

    The Council was quorate it seemed and yet two plush red chairs still stood empty at the great oak table.

    “Welcome humans” boomed the Mage “And my thanks for agreeing to attend our conference. We are here at the behest of the Gothic Elves of the North who face troubles in their far flung realm. We hope their tardiness signifies no concern for their safety, but these are troubled times.”

    At that moment one of the oak doors set in the octagonal outer walls opened and a howling wind roared into the chamber, accompanied by driven snow. Polly gasped with surprise – the door had opened onto some place far removed from the sunny forest clearing they had walked through with Pluribus only a few minutes earlier. Through the open door, a dark and wintry scene presented itself. A Romanesque cathedral could be seen atop a steep and rocky outcrop, around the base of which wound a swiftly flowing river.

    Two young women stepped into the Chapter House, closing the door behind them with difficulty, and bowed to the assembled company of elders. The two Gothic Elves turned out to be sisters and no explanation was given for their curious handle – whether they originated from some 6th century Gothic tribe was never made clear. Or perhaps the name came from their curious mode of dress and did not speak as to their tribal origins.

    “I am Aliénor” said one, introducing herself to Polly and Eustace and bowing deeply. “My sister and I hail from Dunholm in the Northern Lands, not so far removed from the Great Wall of Time which still stands to hold the darkness at bay which threatens us from the frozen lands beyond.”

    It would be accurate to describe Aliénor’s attire as Gothic, in the sense not so much of those ancient tribes from the east as of a certain fashion which grew in European countries in the 19th century and beyond. A Gothic revival which expressed itself in art and architecture and literature and usually entailed much flourish and colour. In Aliénor’s case, her attire struck an even more modern tone and was fashionable among the young throughout 21st Century Europe. Black was the colour (or should one say absence of colour?) favoured by the modern Goth.

    Aliénor was dressed entirely in black, from the platform builders’ boots on her feet to the conical, wide brimmed hat on the top of her head. A long and elegant dress of black silk was covered with a fine black woolen cloak for warmth. To complete the study in fashion, Aliénor sported black painted finger nails. She cut an altogether fine figure.

    “And I am Rozálie” said the other sister, bowing politely to the young couple she hoped had come to help her. Rozálie was of a somewhat different makeup, if looks could tell. Her garb was altogether more relaxed, from the blue rubber clogs on her feet to the warm multi coloured coat she wore against the chill winds of her homeland. She wore owl-like tortoise shell spectacles and had long blowy fair hair, not unkempt certainly, but fashionably boho and casual.

    Despite differences, they were very obviously sisters and devoted ones at that. Neither uttered a word without looking at the other, not so much seeking approval but with a tacit understanding that such approval would nevertheless be granted if sought. Whether the two of them ever quarreled no-one seemed to know, but the suspicion was that few harsh words if any ever passed their lips.

    “The Gothic Elf sisters bear the usual magical powers common among their kin” said the Mage, as the two sisters took their seats at the table “but the darkness from the north seems to require powers of an altogether different nature. Deep sorcery may not be enough and legend has it that only humans hold the key to finally ridding their land of the evil that is overcoming it.”

    “We sit here at the hub of the known universe” said Aliénor solemnly. “As far as we can tell, we live in an infinity of infinities. Universe within universe in both directions, up and down, in and out. Even we Elders have no idea of the full extent of what surrounds us, even we have hardly begun to explore the mysteries we are surrounded by. What we do, each in our own separate domains, is to try to maintain the balance. There is good and there is evil. People and beings who wish goodness and happiness and plenty for all and others who would seek dominion over the rest. Who would conquer and pillage and plunder to satisfy some primal urge which even they do not understand, and can certainly not control. We aim to allow quiet and honest folk to get on with their mortal lives free from the cruelties and injustices so often found throughout the Many Worlds”.

    “Even I” said the Mage “Can not claim to know all that is or ever will be. Even I can not claim to have fully fathomed the deep and entangled infinities of which we are but a part. But I am the eye of peace within a storm. I am the ruler of a land of calm and tranquility and plenty and many find their way here to my realm when their time in the purely physical realms has come to an end. And I am surrounded by my Council of Elders who have gone out into the physical realms to bring such peace and comfort as they are able to a fractured and fearful multiverse.”

    “We have transcended, if you will” added Flavio. “We belong to a realm beyond the physical plane but can return there if or when needs must. Is there a god, some ask us. What is the ultimate nature of reality some wonder. Was there a beginning and will there be an end. To be truthful, much as our wisdom and knowledge have grown over countless eons, even we can not fully answer such questions. We are at deep peace, we have achieved a state of bliss and have escaped the base desires and miseries of the physical worlds. We have powers you could only dream of and yet even we sometimes wonder whether there is yet some higher power, some higher transcendence. Yet some deeper or higher realm where all is even more glorious than here and where all questions have been answered.”

    “But what we have is perfection enough” offered Aliénor. “More than that, I should say. Here is a realm of plenty, a place where time does not flow nor entropy weave its destructive path. A place of happiness and beauty and contentment. Where boredom does not exist and where cruelty has no place. And if there is more, then let it come if it will. Let him or it or her find us in its own good time. And if there is not, if we ourselves are at the very peak of creation or are the creators ourselves, then so be it. We continue to grow and flourish, we continue to garden the many worlds as well as this our ethereal plane. Perhaps we after all are the gods men seek. And perhaps those men may join us and become as we.”

    “Speculation enough!” ventured Rozálie in her soft and slightly squeaky voice, brushing a few wisps of golden hair out of her eyes. “To the problem at hand and time to ask of your help.

    And with that, the talk continued long into the night.

  • Doubt and Daemons

    Doubt and Daemons

    While some may appear to lead a life unperturbed by fear and doubt, many are driven by forces less benign.

    Who knows the answers to questions I have spent my life asking. Some believe, fervently even, that they have found terra firma in an ever shifting universe. Others see only an uncaring cosmos which, wondrous as it undoubtedly is, leaves us to make our own meaning, since none is provided out of the box.

    With ever increasing conviction, I believe that the ancient philosophies of the east have the answers. At heart, the infinity we see around us just “is”. And always has been. Live with that, says the Tao. Do not battle the forces which surround you, row your boat gently down the stream.

    Buddhism seems to go a step further. Recognize, it says, your own non-existence. Accept that your “self” is a mere illusion and abandon all attachments that your senses crave. Much like Susan Blackmore or Daniel Dennett might tell us, consciousness is not what it seems.

    I do not believe that this absolves us of responsibilities, nor that it necessarily precludes enjoyment of the material world. Hard as enjoyment is for some of us to find. Nothing obliges us to act in any particular way (“good or “bad”), and I find it increasingly hard to concede that moral absolutes exist in objective reality. And yet we can proclaim our own rights and wrongs, our own morality. We can and must create our own meaning.

    If we do not exist, then in a very real sense we have created a seeming existence out of nothing. For there is indeed “something that it is like” to be human.

    Perhaps we too are creators then. Spawned by inert matter and blind mathematical evolution , we seem to have “emerged”. In a phrase used and abused by science and philosophy alike, we appear to be more than the sum of our parts.

    And in that, a certain beauty may be found, hope even.

    My hedonic set point is below average and yet I see how, as creators, that might be changed. For me, for all. If we arose from nothing, then we became quite something.

    We became beings able to alter our own circumstances. To better ourselves. To develop societies and morals, fire and farmed food.

    And yet, it is said, we do not exist. Perhaps clarification is called for. We exist to the extent that we feel emotions, we have senses. Pain and pleasure perhaps being the most obvious. Anger, greed and lust belonging to the least desirable of those qualia.

    We exist to the extent we have memory, necessary no doubt to be able to navigate our way around a complex physical environment. We exist to the extent that we are aware of ourselves and our world, even if we do not grasp its true nature.

    Now there is duality, if ever that word had meaning. A duality of existence and non-existence.

    We are like a flowing river perhaps, or a candle flame, little more. A physical process which just happens to have evolved a way of being aware of itself and its surroundings. A material interaction commonly known as “life” which on its own, means little else other than biological self re-production.

    None of that is to say that we can not become more. The birth of life from inert matter is a miracle which may be bettered. Bettered by ourselves, bootstrapping ourselves from the level of the beast to a technological prowess undreamt of even decades ago.

    There, then, lies my optimism in bleaker moments.

    In the power of the mind to elevate and improve ourselves. To paint glorious works of art, to build structures of exquisite beauty. To think wondrous thoughts, to write great novels and ethereal music.

    To cure all ills, to provide a world where scarcity becomes a dim memory. Where money becomes an arcane memory.

    Those then are my dreams, my better moments. Where beauty and hope is to be found.

    In the patter of gentle rain, in the pounding of waves on a beach. In the gentle Norman chapel, and the light of stained glass. In the trance of Tchaikovsky, Handle and William Byrd.

    We may not exist in the way we might suppose we do. But we have created something out of nothing. Black horror as well as paradisiacal beauty.

    I dream of more of the latter and less of the former.

  • Equanimity

    Equanimity

    In the end, there will be nothing left to do besides let go. Equanimity. Accepting unity, recognizing duality as an imposter.

    Good and bad, darkness and light, sickness and health. Yin and Yang. Trump and Biden. Imposters, all.

    Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert…..Nothing beside remains.

    Peace, seeing existence as it is. Our purpose, to be; for a while. Moments in the sun, others in darkness. In and out, up and down, round and round. Then back to where we came from, dissolution into the elements from which all is made.

    If we seek meaning, we may invent it for ourselves as man has always done but you will not find it writ in the particles of physics. Or anywhere else.

    Meaning, if it is to be found at all, is in the beauty and continuity of the eternal cycles of which we are a part. Meaning is the coming together of particles and their eventual dissolution. A universe springs into existence from some primal black hole and great wonders are the result.

    Stars and galaxies and eventually clumps of matter which are aware of their own existence. Wondrous indeed.

    And then they go, as do we. Do not cling to life as the wise have said over so many generations, for to do so will lead to disappointment. Accept our ephemeral nature and rejoice in it while we may.

    Wealth and power, land and possessions, happiness and joy. Suffering and pain, poverty and ill health. Kindness and bestiality. Bigotry, ignorance and prejudice. All pass.

    “The present life of man upon earth, O King, seems to me in comparison with that time which is unknown to us like the swift flight of a sparrow through the mead-hall where you sit at supper in winter, with your Ealdormen and thanes, while the fire blazes in the midst and the hall is warmed, but the wintry storms of rain or snow are raging abroad. The sparrow, flying in at one door and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry tempest, but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, passing from winter to winter again. So this life of man appears for a little while, but of what is to follow or what went before we know nothing at all.”

    A bleak message for some, to others such reality has a stark attraction. Clinging to the gossamer of human life makes little sense. And yet while we live, we should embrace it. Accept that existence “is” and that it has beauty. Lay no claim to others nor yet to our non existent selves.

    We are. There is little else to be said.

    Following the base desires foisted upon us by evolution may help our selfish genes, but will bring our awareness, our consciousness little joy.

    And so what is reality and what is my part in it? It is an infinity of energy, a bubbling cauldron of primal forces endlessly creating and destroying.

    Live a while and witness reality for yourself. There is great comfort in seeing the comings and goings for what they are. Drop greed, ambition, violence and live as the lily of the field.

    And then a beauty and comfort and joy seems to emerge from the unity and chaos of the ten thousand things.

    Drop pretense and foolish posturing.

    Despise nothing, accept everything. Serenity will be the result.