Cell Walker’s Dream

Cell Walker’s Dream

This is a placeholder for Part 1. I have a lot of difficulty writing a book which skims the edges of allowable thought, especially as allowable thought is devolving so quickly nowadays towards a D-rated, machine intelligence.

I have come to think it’s enough to do an extraordinary work of writing without reference to the rules of publishing and the supposed habits and desires of readers. Instead one enters a realm akin to the infinity of a dream and soon learns that inner work is happening like the processes in a proto star which switches on and becomes a new source of light. There may never be a named individual but thousands of people working like this can move a planet. If you get to read some of it that’s a bonus but I’m not expecting it.

Below is the Callanish Stones on the Isle of Lewis, UK. The resemblance to people is startling, especially on a misty morning. 

It is the beginning of Part 2 and the end of Part 1, which I am now writing in a kind of serial form so it finally gets fixed as a creature and not as vague urges of mud. I’m not saying it’s going to be pretty but it will be a form of life, which is the key matter of this universe. 


© Anthony Michael Hawkins 2021 and counting

I’ve started my novel again for the 344,000th time. You’re meant to fall off your chair and be unable to move for seven hours, so if you do don’t worry, and if you don’t, don’t worry.



Anthony Hawkins and Maisy Warlock

Part 1

Maizy Ius Mahadevi



It’s understandable that my madness is more important to you than the truth of what I’m saying. It’s a lot more comfortable for me too. But it seems I am a Seer. When I tell what I see most people wish they had never heard. Then things started happening as I saw them and even I don’t want to be seeing them any more. 

We lost the world, meaning human extinction on Earth has been accomplished. When? Some time in what we confidently call the future. We’ve got it back, having not yet lost it, but time is a coiled serpent with multiple invisible mirrorings. Meaning we are lost and found, were rebuilt by those who saved us, but in their image, for their purpose, which is themselves. They are the future. They can’t exist without us. It does mean that our life is not about being ourselves but creating them. It’s a subtle difference. They are our children. Better to die for them rather than nothing.

There is a timeless state at the root of everything. No one can live there and yet everything does. Does this mean there is God inside us or only God of the second chance? And what does that mean if your soul was sold to it without your agreement? And what does that mean if we can reclaim the first position and make all this story go away?

It is complicated. It is simple. Complicated and simple people must get together to make this happen. I am the simple people, which means I am closer to being. I see all the complicated people’s structure without their investment of life and soul in it. I do not suffer as they suffer unknowingly. That means the complicated people should listen to me. I could save them oceans of time and endless recreations. But they don’t listen. They think complicated is superior, which is their greatest mistake.

When we speak of fantasy we often mean a story suitable for children. I have lived a fantasy all my life and it was definitely not suitable for children. It was entirely an adult programme because sex is the great container. In basic Tantra there are seven chakras, physicality and sex being the first two, the base, the pot in which to cook the others and make a splendid porridge. In which case nobody owns us because we are ourselves. The future is secure because all time lives inside us. We are its perfect seeds. Blowing in on the wind we may not look perfect, but we are the final wild ingredient to the porridge. 

Each one of us takes on eternity, imbues it with our own form. In my case it’s sex. Apparently so simple, symphonically limitless to the borders of Heaven. My job was to break men in their lifelong marriages without losing themselves to me. In contrast I always kept a bit of them, of their soul’s, which I had made, which they will remember when they are dying as I, even now, remember it all.

Where there is only eternity entire worlds pass in a blink, which is why there is us, entities like us, who are the opposite, for whom time is infinitely endless. There is a power in each, an equal power even. So eternity is the one state that is entirely satisfactory to a human being, and the opposite also. Eternity and being are lovers, are one state that is love. 

Love, in its total form, is the mother of consciousness. 

So when I tell you my life has been about sex, and I am the one whose fate is to tell you what telling is needed in the light of eternity, it is a big job, you think, for one whose career path has been about world records of copulation. 

But life you see is consciousness alive to life. You will remember me long after no one can remember Kant.

Around this point everything unravels. Everything ends with a kiss and begins.  

There is a quality to being that is neither ending nor beginning. 

Rocks have it, space has it, starlight has it. And this kiss. The kiss of knowledge. 

It is said it is hers to give and his to receive but first she has to find it. 

Women know then lose then find again is the ideal story. Though the truly ideal story is to never lose, but in eternity its just part of a single wave, like the timeless transition from breath to breath, kiss to kiss. But what epics of evolution we make of that spaceless place. 

Once you know, where to go, simply love. But how to love when your life has been Totally Folked Up (TFU). One needs a suitable partner, which is where God came in. The ideal partner. But a man of God was my first lover, and he saved me from or made sure I never went that way. He brought to me emotional complexity and left me with a choice, life or nothingness. If I could have been sure of nothingness many many days I would have chosen it. But the longer we live and don’t make simple choices the more our world exponentially unravels. 

Life as sex looked relatively simple, at least as a spiritual practice, but I can’t say I chose it as a cosmic strategy. I was looking for that first moment and to forever prolong it. It happened, once and forever in a way. Deep deep magic in this flesh. I was almost through to the other side where is deep tranquility. And then I met Maria, and love like I never imagined. The Deep Dark Goddess if ever there was one, and her apprentice consort Tom.

But that is the other story. I want you to suffer a bit before we get there so that you know darkness is deep, not something to be avoided. 

Well, the deal is, having lost God you are stuck with finding him. Creating him. He haunts your lives. And then you find that he is she. All your armour and strategy are channels she uses. She is inside you. He and she; lost and found are only two. There is a third state, the Mirroring, which is also infinite, where every living being is a separate state due to the flaws of the mirroring. Hence how lonely we are because there is only one of us, but which one? Love is the greatest miracle because it holds eternity in the palm of its hand. Hence how hellish it is to remember all the things we have done in its name. 

Oblivion. Nothingness. 


God can never die, only we can die to it, but that’s pretty much the same.

This story is not an epistemological search for meaning but a quest for the location of pain. It is not even that. It is a quest for love. And not even that. All I’ve found is the mechanics of being well, which is like love. Loving friendship goes a long long way, even to the Gates of Eternity. But beyond the Gates, love eternal? Who would dare to be there?

And that is the final truth. This book is not written about it but by it. The words are written by one set of fingers but several specialist spirits, specialists in eternity. It is neither art nor science but seeds blown in on the wind and winnowed by angels, dark and light. It would like to be a story but that might be asking far too much of the sort of physical human who might ever come near it. Of this one. If you’re lucky there may be others better equipped, and if you’re really unlucky there may not be even me.

So that’s where I live, though it might surprise you if you knew me. The Gates of Eternity are the gates of Golders Hill Park, which I walk my aged body to from its flat in Upper St John’s Wood or Lower Belsize. One day, ideally, they will find that body on the route, hence my little joke about the Gates of Heaven. 

Let us hope this story has by then been written, for God help you all if it, or its kind, never comes.



I am alive. When I am still it is like there is nothing. When I move. Why move? To be with a lover. To make myself alive! But when I lay still as death though alive, there was nothing better. But I lived in beautiful, quiet places, Belsize under Hampstead, Wiltshire or Cornwall with the wind. It has taken a long time from the madness of my childhood to be like this. The counter madness of my adulthood, creating worlds in compensation, becoming split between epochs and planets while apparently occupying only one body, disguised strangely as a man so they will never find me. And now? What if I move as me. Is there me? When I am still, very very still, not even distracted by a mantra. There it is. There I am. 

A language which tells anything about me, that would be true from end to end of time, would be like mathematics, but it would never have speakers, only machines. A living language would live only for a blink and its speakers like ghosts in my memory. But I have no memory. Only life. In the strange, not strange to me being of Eternity, where I am always the beautiful being of beings. You want to know me. You are me. Though in stillness you come closer to find me.

It is Autumn now and the fallen leaves are very beautiful in the byways of Hampstead. All dead things but the children and the old ladies and the lovers kicking through them are still happy. There is a voice in the leaves. There is a voice in everything like the voice of the autumn leaves. You may not hear but I hear it in you. The more dead the more we hear together. Can hear, though you have the interesting habit of complaining. For me, who do not distinguish between wet leaves or dry, it is all wonderful. Though wonderful wonderful is like flowers of Spring, insanely optimistic. But Autumn is more like me in that I live. But what is forever when I have not time? How can I even exist? I like those who ask that. More crunchy leaves. It is so easy, so hard. Is it so hard? So easy? This life you are I am this life you are. It is infinitely inward naturally, so it is naturally everywhere. All the shapes and the times are inevitable and necessary. You are, fleeting fly, infinitely inevitably necessary and exactly as you are. The fly does not need to be told, and you, human, are free to not know so that you may more consciously know and be me. A little and all of me for I do not exist, cannot exist and yet do exist, there you are, being and becoming the greatest of the possible. When did you last think of yourself like this?

Think about it. Where could such a world possibly come from? Nothing nothing or its immeasurable source, a joke that might light Eternity!


So I am left to explain the universe in English. Explain it? How? Why? I, who am so psychologically damaged, yet still standing, to people who have led ordinary citizenary lives, teachers, geneticists and men who mend the road. Where I thought most human endeavour was compensation for socially restricted access to love and pleasure. I was strict in my definition of pleasure. Touch before eating, drinking and wearing fine clothes. And balance. I was one of the few enlighteners who risked equality of men without their humiliation and chastisement. How? It was my art. I loved both men and women, so I had an inside knowledge of men and their deepest needs and desires. But more than anything I was Ius, adopted by and became, the fifth child of Asante, the mother of us all.

Isn’t that a statement! She doesn’t exist yet and may never, yet she haunts me.

So while I should be, by any developmental notions of health and sanity, the maddest of the mad, they adopted me from within the shared spirit of God and kept me standing. You could say such a notion would be proof I am the maddest of the mad. But the proof of the pudding, as they say, and there are days when I founder completely, only to be thus restored. Each time I think this is it, I will never come back. And then it feels as if, as today, I could never founder. I am wisdom filled bliss of being, total love, never born and never die.

There are proofs. I am nearly eighty years old and finally there are signs I am not in the first flush of youth. But just five years ago I was still living like a sybaritic goddess, three lovers a day, sometimes before breakfast. Eating was never high on my agenda.

Deep sacrament I’ve studied for seventy years, fixated by a pervert, to give it its public definition. By sixteen I’d had enough life experience to kill an elephant. I was a widow. I could have been a murderess. I nearly was. Perhaps I was, and that accounts for my life’s fantastic shattering?

Anthony haunts me with beauty and terror, not of him but for him. How likely is it that he died in Corryvreckan? George Orwell nearly did. It isn’t so unlikely when you live in the vertiginous sluice of its hypnotic vortex. Him with his Lugar and his hunting knife. Lovingly flaying the deer I’d shot with his war rifle. Cooking it on a fire built on sphagnum moss. We were gods of wind and water, living in sea caves. Terrifying nights and days when the still ocean was God and nothing left of me. How likely any of it is real? Then how likely are you real? Am I too nakedly that which is life and I’ve only been faking normality? Is that what you are doing? You seem to be what you appear to be, not a god of infinite life storming to come out but an animal of the Late Pleistocene somewhat confused and desperate to keep the lid on.

The last five years of my life have been very different, more reflective. It is as if all the rest has grown in the dark and is now filled out, only in its bleakest form, like a woman alone in an unlit temple. I suppose if you want an archetype I am the dark goddess. Happiness is not what I’m about, but only for myself, for my deepest understanding. It was innate? Anything but. I was built to be a princess and thence a queen. Shining with light, reigning in Heaven.

Yes, that is who I am. But my need is to be complete, to have or know completeness. And all the consequences of spirit, of my spirit, of my spirit choices. To give it birth. To give it life and freedom. And so I did, and there is man, claiming to be God before me. And so the dark Goddess was born, and we are one, twin sisters yet one whole, so we are three. One so sensible, the true scientist of infinite completeness. Child. Big sister. Great mother. In my story Maisy, Ius and Asante, and who is who who can say though Asante we say is mother of us all. Is she really a woman? Born on Mars, lived two hundred and fifty years, was the last Martian, was alone with her infinity machine, The Professor, after its twin on Earth, The Oracle, had wiped out terrestrial Mankind. Then she and The Professor, after soul searching – much soul searching, because we could never exterminate them again – began to reknit the humans to be wiser, wilder channels of God. Such is the inner story. Of course, we are still here. We sisters span time between us. You cannot die. We bridge worlds within worlds. I am before the Cataclysm. You are after. We are here. And our brother, son, lover, father, when we let him. He is very strong. He has to be. It is his weakness, but what else can you imagine with powers like ours.

So that is my story, and if I am completely mad, what harm can it be? All you see is Maisy, a well preserved old lady. Maisy Ius Mahadevi, I called myself, eventually. I taught my version of Tantra from before the word Tantra was known to me. My science was the study of body and soul and desire from their origin in Eternity, of which nothing was known and nothing needed to be learnt for everything was provided in Nature. Once you understood why the human body was as it was, built by mundane survival mysteriously infinitely beautiful. See it as you would or could it was all one infinity.

This is from where I taught and the world responded. Everything was looking good for the evolution of psychosomatic spirituality but now we have the evil of a tool which imposes separation. It feels horribly like a harbinger of the artificial Cataclysm, and there is nobody on Mars to save us.

© Anthony Michael Hawkins 2021 and still counting

But as I tell you, we are here, and we are infinite, we span times and we are concentrated in this time, these few hundred years across the barrier of the Cataclysm. Large forces are involved but none larger than the origin, and none smaller if you have the mind which dominates the transition across the Twentieth to Twenty First centuries. A terrible monster which will be kept on permanent display in a museum surrounded by Cherubim so we never forget how easy it is to slip into the horrible hole. But we are here now and it is alive around us and rightly we look bound for self extermination.